“I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived. I did not wish to live what was not life, living is so dear; nor did I wish to practise resignation, unless it was quite necessary. I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life.”

~Henry David Thoreau

Chapter 1

“You’re on restricted duty, pending medical clearance, Detective Vance,” Captain Mike Burkett said, his voice unusually formal as his gaze lifted from the file of paperwork. Probably because of the suit from internal affairs sitting beside him. Why the hell was that guy here for Vance’s evaluation to return to duty anyway?

Detective
Kyler Vance. That’s who he was. Who he’d always been. Who he needed to get back to being. He’d had enough time off and on his own to last for a lifetime.

Kyler eyeballed the IA investigator and his gut tightened with suspicion. But he boxed that shit up tight even as his hands fisted against his thighs under the beat-up wooden table in the meeting room at the Baltimore Police Department’s headquarters. “Cap, it’s been three months,” he said, working to keep his temper in check. Three months since he’d been shot in the shoulder in the line of duty. Three months since that GSW had left him with nerve damage that affected the strength and dexterity of his right arm and hand. “I’m fine. I can do the job.”

His captain gave him a pointed look full of truth and regret. “You still can’t meet the target-shooting qualifications. So you’re riding a desk. For now.”

For now
. Meaning, at some point, Kyler might be allowed to return to duty.
Or
he might not even be allowed behind that desk. Everyone wearing the uniform had to meet certain performance qualifications and standards, no matter what job they performed. Which was why Kyler had been one hundred percent committed to his physical therapy since a shooting spree erupted at a funeral attended by a bunch of his friends, killing a couple of bad guys and wounding more than a few good ones, himself included. But it had all been worth it to nail the scumbags responsible for murdering his godfather, Miguel Olivero, who had been his father’s partner on the force back in the day. “You know I’m working on it. I’m stronger every day.”

Burkett nodded and released a weary breath. All at once, the lines on the older man’s weathered face betrayed not just his age but the stress he was under. Serving and protecting was an honor, but it was also a job that inflicted all kinds of wear and tear. “I know. And if there was something I could do—”

“But there isn’t,” the IA guy said. Detective Niall Foster, his badge read. Kyler had seen him around from time to time, but he didn’t know him much more than that. Cops didn’t make friends with IA investigators. “I’ll tell you what Captain Burkett hasn’t yet said. You’re lucky to be on restricted duty and not administrative leave.”

“Why the hell would I be on administrative leave?” Anger rolled through Kyler at the other man’s monotone voice and blank face, as if he wasn’t fucking with the only career Kyler Vance had ever wanted. Career, hell. Being a cop was his whole damn life. Just like it’d been for his father, uncle, and grandfather before him.

Foster flipped open the file in front of him and skimmed his finger over the writing. “You’re no doubt aware that Commissioner Breslin has launched an investigation into corruption and conspiracy within the department, particularly as it relates to the city’s heroin trade. Your name has come to the attention of the investigation as a person of interest, and—”

“Wait a goddamned minute,” Kyler said, launching to his feet and driving his finger into the worn tabletop. He couldn’t deny that he’d bent some rules in the weeks before his injury, but he’d done it in the name of uncovering that corruption—and nailing those responsible for Miguel’s death, both inside and outside BPD. Kyler supported the new commissioner’s goals to restore the integrity of the department, even if the guy was a hardassed, stubborn, my-way-or-the-highway son of a bitch. At least, that’s the impression all the guys had of him—Kyler hadn’t yet had the pleasure. “I’m not dirty, and I’d like the person who accused me of being otherwise to say it to my fucking face.”

“Sit down, please, Detective Vance,” Foster said, gesturing to the chair behind him. Kyler sat reluctantly, but his muscles remained as tense as if he were expecting to be jumped. He certainly felt like he was being ambushed here. He glared at Burkett, who at least had the decency to look abashed. “No one has accused you. You’re not currently a suspect. But you are a person of interest in the investigation. Which, together with the fact that your physical limitations have placed you on restricted duty, is why you aren’t being put on administrative leave.”

The phrase “physical limitations” was like a punch to the gut. Yeah, his shoulder and arm hurt sometimes—when steel pierced flesh you expected that shit to happen. But he could handle it, and he’d been working his ass off and was capable of ninety-nine percent of daily life functioning again. What he hadn’t yet mastered was superfine motor skills, of the kind that made you a reliably deadly accurate shot, for example. What if those skills never returned?

“So what the hell does it mean then? What will it take for the investigation to be done being interested in me?” Kyler asked, his hackles still way up.

“Time,” Foster said on a sigh, as if he were bored.

Prick
.

“If you’re clean, the investigation will clear you and you have nothing to worry about.” As if that settled the matter, the man scooped up his paperwork and rose. “Commissioner Breslin wants to restore the department’s good name in this city and within the law enforcement community. Surely you can understand that. Support him in this mission, stay out of trouble and do your duty, and this will resolve itself in due course.” Foster looked to his side and nodded. “Captain Burkett.”

“Foster,” his captain said as the IA guy turned and walked out the door, the stick firmly planted up his ass.

Kyler’s gaze cut to Burkett. “This is bullshit.”

“It is,” Burkett said, sitting forward in his chair as if he were about to share a secret. “But it’s also reality. And the more you stay on Breslin’s good side, the easier this will go and the faster it will disappear. Understand me?”

Stay on the commissioner’s good side. A long moment, then Kyler gave a single, tight nod. Since he hadn’t done anything wrong, that shouldn’t be all that fucking hard.

“Roger that.” Kyler rose when his captain did.

“Take care of yourself,” Burkett said, extending his hand. They shook, and then Kyler found himself alone in the room.

Take care of himself. Fine. He could do that. What he needed after this shit show was to blow off some fucking steam. It had been months—well, before getting shot—since he’d last played. It was time.

Which meant that what he needed was Blasphemy.

* * * *

Standing in the middle of her gleaming, modern gallery, the new exhibit installed and ready for Friday night’s opening, Mia Breslin couldn’t help but feel proud of herself and excited for her life to be coming together exactly the way she’d always hoped. Fantastic job in a field that was her passion—art. That she got paid good money to work at something she loved was amazing. That her work allowed her to network with prominent artists, collectors, and buyers while still working on her own projects was an incredible privilege.

All of which amplified the one area of discontent and hollowness in Mia’s life—that she had no one to share it with. More than that, finding the
right
someone seemed like it just might be impossible.

Why’d you have to go and have such a difficult kink?
her best friend Daniella would say.

Because nothing else turned her on like being dominated. And nothing else got her off like submitting.

Problem was, finding a man who wasn’t just a Dominant but who wore that authority naturally, like a second skin, like it was the air he breathed, like it was in his blood and he knew no other way?
That
apparently was hard as hell. And her body seemed to know the difference—on sight—between someone playing at dominating and someone who was the real thing.

Sighing, Mia crossed the wide gallery located in a rehabbed warehouse space in an up-and-coming area of Baltimore, her heels clicking against the shining hardwoods. Sitting at her desk, she woke up her computer screen and logged into her private e-mail—the one out of which she ran all of her lifestyle communications. And then she opened the message she’d been sitting on for nearly two weeks—a coveted and rare invitation to Baltimore’s most exclusive BDSM club, Blasphemy.

Before she’d even moved to Baltimore four months before, Mia had already looked into the community in Baltimore, hoping she’d find more of one than there’d been in the smaller college towns where she’d done her graduate work and had her first job. When she’d learned about Blasphemy through message boards to which she belonged, she’d been ecstatic and immediately started the lengthy application and clearance process. But there was a difference between the idea of something and the reality. Before Baltimore, she’d only been to private play parties and one lame club that’d left a lot to be desired where cleanliness and safety were concerned.

But Blasphemy was different. That’s what everyone said.

“I need this,” she whispered to herself. She needed the incredible release of submission, and she needed someone strong enough to truly give it to her. Again and again and again.

Before she let herself overthink it, she printed out the ticket that would gain her admittance and a two-week, discounted probationary membership. And discounted was perfect, because as good as her job paid—especially for something in the art world—her student loans ate up a lot of her monthly income. And it wasn’t like she could ask her father for money to belong to a BDSM club. He’d probably have a heart attack, right after he sent in a SWAT team to close the place down.

An hour later, she was home, showered, and had gone through all the play clothes she kept in a trunk at the back of her closet. Going to her knees with a wad of latex in her lap, Mia took a deep breath and sent out an SOS in the form of a text to her best friend, Daniella, who’d recently landed a new job in DC—not as close as Mia would’ve liked but close enough to still see one another and stay in each other’s lives.

Kinda want to check out that club I told you about but I’m freaking out.

Mia’s phone rang within twenty seconds. Laughing, she answered. “Hi.”

“Stop freaking out,” Daniella said by way of greeting.

“Why, thank you for that excellent advice,” Mia said, already feeling better just hearing Dani’s voice.

“Come on, you know you messaged me to get the tough love,” Dani said, humor plain in her tone. “Why are you freaking out?”

“I can’t figure out what to wear.” Mia sorted through the pile on the floor. “And I’m afraid I won’t find anyone.
And
I’m also afraid I might find someone and he won’t want me.” Or, rather, he won’t want a cop’s daughter. In her experience, more than a few Doms got freaked out at the idea of tying up and spanking a police officer’s daughter. And now her dad wasn’t just
any
policeman, either. As of two months ago, he was the city’s new commissioner of police.

“Okay, I got this,” Dani said. “On clothes, go with the sheer white lace top over that sheer black bra you have, and wear it with that little latex skirt with the asymmetrical hem and those black ankle boots. Put your hair in a ponytail. Boom. Done.”

Mia found the pieces Dani suggested. “That is a good outfit,” she admitted. Even though it really showed off how big her boobs and hips were. Her body was the shape of an hourglass on steroids—wide on the top and bottom and narrow in the middle.

“I know, right? I’m, like, the submissive whisperer,” she said, making herself laugh. “And on the bigger, existential fears, fuck ’em. We might all die tomorrow. You gotta suck all the marrow out of life. That’s what Walt Whitman said.”

Chuckling, Mia nodded to herself. “I think that was Thoreau.”

“Same difference,” Dani said.

“We might all die tomorrow, huh?” Mia mused, her mind spinning on the Thoreau quote. She definitely didn’t want to die without really having lived. And, for her, that meant finding a long-term Dom and having a fulfilling BDSM relationship. Anything else would be resignation, and even though she was only twenty-seven, the idea of that terrified her. The last thing she wanted was to end up like her parents—divorced and full of regrets over the time they’d spent together. “That’s super cheerful, you know.”

“Heh. Exactly,” Dani said. “I excel at putting things into perspective.”

Dani’s words and snarky attitude had done exactly what Mia had hoped—they’d bolstered her resolve. She rose to her feet, the outfit Dani recommended in hand. “You also excel at being my friend.”

“I really am quite awesome.”

Mia barked out a laugh. “You are. Okay, thank you. I’m doing this.”

“Of course you are. I want a full report tomorrow,” Dani said, her voice stern.

BOOK: Hard to Serve: A Hard Ink Novella

9.39Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub

Read Book Download Book

ads