Safeword (22 page)

“Uh oh. What kind of trouble does that put you in?”

“Lieutenant Bachman is a friend of Dad’s, so he went light on me. Plus, he heard the bullshit Trent was spewing, so he knew I was provoked. Verbal reprimand, and he called Kittridge, who said absolutely nothing about it.”

“But you don’t remember it?”

I shrugged as best I could, turning to look up at him. “Not exactly, but it’s no big deal. I’m more surprised Bachman was able to hold me back without inducing a panic attack. I didn’t feel any fear.”

“Maybe it was adrenaline, and by the time you came back to yourself, the danger was over,” Ben said, setting his glasses on his nightstand and turning off the lamp.

“Really?” I asked. “Because that’s not how it’s gone down in the past. Any kind of restraint would make me spiral out of control. This was the opposite.”

Ben regarded me for a long moment, his lips delectably pursed. Suddenly, the events of the day weren’t tiring, they were liberating. I’d stood up for myself, as well as faced down my hatred of the spotlight and come out only marginally banged up. My body sang with the rush of blood, the flush of excitement in my cheeks. My heart was strong and steady, and I felt alive. And horny.

Throwing my legs over Ben’s, I pushed my hips into his flank, my penis coming to attention. I flicked his earlobe with my tongue, my voice husky.

“It made me think you could tie me up again. If it’s about trust, there’s no problem.”

Ben shook his head, gripping my wandering hand and holding it. “Gavin, you’ve got that as a hard limit. I won’t go there.”

“But limits can change over time. You said it yourself, negotiation and communication can change what a sub feels they can handle if they trust their Dom. There’s no one I’d trust in the world besides you.” I moved my lips along his jaw to his neck, and while he didn’t respond, he didn’t push me away, either.

“You think you could handle being unable to get away?” he asked. “Held off by someone in a fight is a lot different than being totally immobilized. You could pull out of that person’s grip. There’s no escaping my knots.”

He rolled me to my back, covering me with his body and making no move to hold his own weight. My breath changed, but only with the heft of him. No fear, no spike of chemicals to my blood demanding I get free. Slowly, he gripped my arms and pushed them above my head, his fingers encircling my wrists in an iron grip. I smiled benignly up at him.

He kissed me, his tongue delving into my mouth, controlling the need and heat level. His cock, plumping with blood, surged against mine, making me moan. My heart rate galloped along, nowhere near the panicked gazelle-beat I was attuned to for anxiety spikes. It was more an awakening of long dormant memories, a primitive reaction I’d once craved instead of a reminder of danger and mortality and pain. I wanted to be held down and taken, made pliant and willing.

His grip slackened, and it was only then that wrongness reared its ugly head. I didn’t want him to relax or pull away. I struggled, hoping it would entice him to keep up the force, but he pulled back, releasing me. I whimpered completely without shame.

“Don’t go,” I whispered.

“Gavin,” he murmured, kissing the corner of my mouth. “I’m not doing something unplanned tonight. If I try this with you, and that’s a big if, I want to make sure it’s set up right.”

I scowled, irritated at his caution. He’d let go at the Millennium, overpowered me to take what he wanted, to show me who held the control. I wanted that again, but the very idea of pushing his buttons to get what I wanted—what I
needed
—shouldn’t have been necessary. If he didn’t want to try, I’d let it go for the moment.

“Don’t think I’m going to forget about this.”

He lowered his mouth to my ear, breathing hotly across the lobe. “I want to tie you up, Gavin. But when I do, I want you immobile. I want you at my mercy. I want the sound of my voice to turn you on so much, you come without a hand on you.” He pulled away to look at me, taking in my shallow breathing, my eyes, the black of my pupils likely swallowing up the blue of my irises, and my flushed skin. “I can’t do that on a whim. And I love you too much to try.”

“Okay,” I rasped, bringing my arms down to encircle his shoulders. “Don’t tie me up right now. But don’t stop, either.”

He grinned his gap-toothed widest and forcefully kissed me, smashing our lips together as his weight settled on me once more. “I have no intention of stopping.”

SPRING IN St. Louis could wildly fluctuate between cold and hot. Some years, there was snow on the ground through the end of March, and some years, school children were in shorts and light jackets while they stood on street corners waiting for the fleet of yellow buses to pick them up. The morning the age progression aired was somewhere in the middle, chilly and damp, the pre-dawn sky clouded over. The windows on my car were covered with condensation, but not frosted, for which I was grateful. I hated scraping ice, especially when I wanted to swing through Bread Company before getting to the office for phone duty beginning at seven.

I hurriedly pulled on my overcoat, the clack of my shoes on the cobbles echoing eerily in the dimness, the streetlights not reaching that far back on our property. Wisps of fog curled between the trees, and while visibility was decent, it left an unsettled feeling over the neighborhood, as if I were the only person in the world.

Briefly, I imagined getting in my car and driving to work, the only traveler on the road. I’d arrive at the station to find it dark and silent, something that would never happen unless there was an apocalypse. A shiver traversed my skin, raising goose bumps beneath my clothes. Thankfully, Ben followed me out the door, ruining my illusion of solitude. Briefcase in hand and a piece of toast in his mouth, he coded in the door lock sequence. A soft beep confirmed it was locked, and he briefly pulled me into him, offering me a bite of his toast.

“Have a good day. Call me if you need a break from the chaos.” With a quick peck to my lips, he unlocked his car and set his briefcase on the passenger seat. I rounded my own vehicle, thinking of the day ahead and how busy my life was about to get, but it was the only choice. Maybe a nugget of gold would turn up in the silt of anonymous tips.

I was in the driver’s seat, key shoved in the ignition, when it registered something was out of place. Ben, who usually waited to ensure my car would start—a wholly unnecessary practice I’d given up trying to dissuade him of—sat patiently in his vehicle. I opened my mouth to call to him, but no sound came out. My eyes were glued to the rearview mirror, or more specifically, what dangled from it.

A naked Ken doll, tied elaborately with black ropes, swayed minutely from its binding, the plastic smile mocking and heinous. Most disturbing was the bouquet of needles blooming from its chest.

My voice wouldn’t work. I could only stare, shocked and shaking.

He’s been in my car.

The rap of knuckles on my window startled me so badly, I shouted. Ben pulled open the door and bent to look at me.

“Gavin, everything all ri—?” He stopped abruptly, looking past me to the offensive addition to my interior. “Gavin, get out. No, leave the keys. Give me your hands.”

I complied woodenly, and he pulled me from the car and backed us away, eyes never leaving the newest gift from my crazy fan. He walked us across the courtyard to the sidewalk that wrapped around the house to the front yard. I stared into the woods as we went, wondering if anyone was lurking. My hand strayed to my gun automatically, unsnapping the holster, though I didn’t draw.

The unmarked car was parked on the street. Ben’s sharp rap on the passenger window caused both officers to look up, startled. They hadn’t noticed us approach. The whine of the window being rolled down was loud in the preternatural stillness of the foggy street.

“Have you been here all night?” Ben barked.

“Yes,” the officer nearest us said. “Why? What happened?”

“Someone broke into Gavin’s car and left something. You see anything?”

“No one approached the house.” He sounded sure of himself, defiant.

“But from here, you can’t see if someone snuck up from the back, by the trees.”

“No, we were told to watch the house and be an obvious presence in front. We don’t have you staked out from every angle,” the guy in the driver’s seat said, leaning way down to see us past his partner.

“Well, it didn’t work. Get someone here. Now,” Ben ordered, moving me back to the house. I followed puppet-like, his marionette.

“Gavin, look at me,” he said, framing my cheeks with his palms. He searched my face, concerned. “You have to talk to them when they get here, but after that, we’re leaving. We’re not staying here anymore.”

“Ben, I—”

“Don’t think that’s necessary,” he finished for me. “I knew you’d say that.”

“I don’t want to be run out of my own house!” I all but shouted. “I am not about to bow to some sicko with a crazy fixation and go running scared every time someone mails me something or sends me weird trinkets. If I did that, all the letters we got after Lane would have driven me into seclusion months ago. I’m not running anymore.” The rush of anger at yet another violation gave me strength, and I pulled away, the unsettled feeling subsiding. No one was going to take anything more away from me, including my house. “Ben, I may be your sub, but I am not your slave. You don’t get to dictate everything about my life. I submit to you in the bedroom only. Remember that.”

His eyes flashed with sudden anger, but it was gone before I could register it completely. Ben blew out a frustrated breath. “Okay.”

The fight went out of me, and I grabbed his hands, holding them tightly. “I need to keep some control somewhere, Ben. If I’ve learned anything during the last couple years, it’s that I have to speak up when I need something. I need our home, and you in it with me. Please.”

He clenched his jaw and gave a reluctant nod, followed by a small but sincere smile. “Let’s wait inside until they get here. I don’t like not knowing if this guy can see us.”

“I have to call Myah, let her know what’s going on.”

We tromped back into the house, Ben resetting the alarm for stay mode. On the phone with my partner, I couldn’t dissuade her from coming with the cavalry, so in the fifteen or so minutes we had alone, I paced, trying in vain to come up with a way to get this guy.

§§§

I HURRIED into the station a few minutes before seven and didn’t bother to remove my suit jacket, instead making a beeline to the conference room with the TV, Myah hot on my heels. Kittridge was already there, with a few others who were peripheral to the case and had been helping us with pawn shops. Still no luck on that front either.

With a raised brow, Kittridge pointed to his watch. “Cutting it close, DeGrassi.”

“Sorry. I had some... trouble at home. But I’m not late.”

“Trouble I should know about?”

“Yeah, there was—”

“St. Louis County Police need your help in locating this man,” the anchor announced, and I didn’t finish my sentence while I watched the Alex Dennan’s age progression flash on the screen. “He is believed to have information concerning two, and possibly three, murder cases KSMV News Eight has just learned might be connected, including the death of Detective Arnold Stevenson in January of this year.” I went cold. I hadn’t told them that. “Police are asking the public to contact them at this number if you have any information on the whereabouts of the man in this photo.” The number for the hotline flashed on the screen. I waited to hear the ringing begin from the room down the hall set up as phone bank, but it didn’t immediately happen. Disappointment fought with relief. I was about to flip the TV off when the anchor caught my attention.

“Our field reporter, Jan Aldrich, has further information.”

The camera panned to the front of Stevenson’s house, now well known to the public due to the publicity surrounding his death, and The Walking Mouth standing in the floodlights and wearing entirely too smug an expression.

“Thank you, Suzanne. Sources close to the St. Louis County Police tell us the man they’re searching for has been identified as twenty-year-old Alex Dennan, who, as a young Texas boy, made national news when he was abducted seven years ago.”

“What the fuck!” Kittridge yelled, turning on me with fury in his eyes.

“I did not tell them that, I swear! Jesus, Sarge, I fucking know better!”

“...ennan had never been found and authorities, after more than two years of searching, presumed the boy dead. Dennan’s parents continued to search for him through the foundation they started in young Alex’s name, until Patrice Dennan’s untimely death in late 2008 of a heart attack. Michael Dennan was killed in a car accident just a few months later. Nothing was known about what happened to their boy... until now.

“Alex Dennan has been unquestionably linked to the deaths of Detective Arnold Stevenson and Officer Douglas Halloran, though authorities refuse to speculate on a motive. Our sources say the composite given to the media is actually an age progression of this photo.”

The photo I’d given Sugar to build Alex through seven more years of life popped up side by side with the age progression. The resemblance was obvious. “Motherfucker,” I cursed.

“This is one of the many photos of Alex Dennan from the investigation surrounding his abduction, and it was widely circulated throughout the country during the search for the missing teen. With no leads in the murders of two of St. Louis County’s own, police are now asking for your help in finding this man, Alex Dennan, suddenly believed alive and well and living in the St. Louis area after vanishing from his home more than seven years ago. For KSMV News Eight, I’m Jan Aldrich. Suzanne?”

The screen returned to the news studio, where the anchor shook her head with wide-eyed earnestness. “Thank you Jan, that’s quite the revelation. In other news....”

Kittridge hit the button on the remote to blacken the screen, and then threw the remote across the room, where it clattered onto a table, the batteries flying out. The few others who’d watched the broadcast either scurried back to their desks or stared with slack-jawed surprise at Kittridge’s outburst.

“How in the goddamned hell did they get that story?” Kittridge yelled, one finger pointing at me in sharp accusation. “You were the one I wanted talking to the media, the
only
one. So how in the blue fuck did The Walking Fucking Mouth get Dennan’s name and the photo we used to enhance his age?”

“I don’t know,” I said, backing up a step, uncomfortable with him in my face and shouting. “I told them exactly what you told me. Person of interest, please circulate, in connection with a homicide. I never mentioned Dennan. I didn’t even tell them it was more than one murder we were connecting him to, and certainly not Stevenson’s!”

“Sir!” Myah said, not quite shouting, but breaking in nevertheless. “I was with Gavin when he made the calls to the press. He didn’t tell them anything more than what he says he did. So someone close to the investigation did it. Someone who knows the results of the DNA tests and enough to connect Ditmar with the other two. This isn’t Gavin’s doing. There’s a leak.” I could have kissed her for stepping in.

“Well, plug it, goddammit!” Kittridge shouted at us. “From now on, this case is dark. Anything you need from Fourth, you ask me to request. Anything you need from one of our people here, you do it yourself, not the runners. Forensics goes through Cole DeGrassi only. Got it?”

“Yes, sir,” Myah and I chorused. The others nodded vigorously.

“I’ll call the crime lab and tell them to lock down evidence permissions. You get your asses to the phones. There’s no way this won’t be a giant clusterfuck, and I want you two on your hands and knees with a sponge helping clean it up.” He stormed out of the room, banging the door against the wall.

Belated rage heated my face to flaming, and I kicked one of the chairs out of my way with a growl.

“Who even knew we were going to the media?” Myah asked, confused and not a little angry herself.

“Kittridge’s office door was closed when we discussed it. Otherwise, you, me, Bachman, and anyone who overheard me talking with the media.”

“Bachman? Oh yeah, you said something vague about it before we left. You think he’s the guy?” She preceded me out the door and toward the hotline room, which I could already hear was a madhouse of ringing phones.

“No. He’s been a friend of my family’s for most of my life. Leaking information isn’t something I even think he’s capable of, let alone if it would make me look as bad as I just did to Kittridge.” I stopped in the break room to fill a large mug with as much caffeine as would fit. I was going to need it to get through this day.

“So someone who overheard us, then. That could be anybody.”

“Yeah.” I grimaced at the burn of coffee in my throat. “I’m not the most popular guy in the world either. It could be any of the homophobic assholes who’ve let me know their opinion over the five months since I got back to work.” For good measure, I glared at the dispatcher who came in to fill her mug. She backed out of the room, cup unfilled.

“Well, come on,” Myah said, pulling on my jacket sleeve. “Quit terrorizing everyone or it’s going to be an even longer day.”

§§§

I FOUND all of five minutes’ time to make a phone call, and the rest of the day was spent fielding everything from crackpots claiming to be Alex Dennan to national news outlets using the hotline to garner quotes for their stories. The St. Louis Post-Dispatch ran an online article that got picked up by Associated Press and went viral in the span of two hours. All day long, the reporters went from local to statewide to national with requests for interviews from MSNBC, CNN, and FOX News. These were peppered in among the reports coming in for sightings of Alex Dennan, each of which had to be checked out and none of which bore fruit. If they’d really seen Dennan, he was gone by the time patrol officers arrived.

Scowl firmly in place, I stomped from the hotline room to my desk to phone for a cab. The forensics team had kept my car that morning after the discovery of the voodoo doll, as I was beginning to think of it. Myah, rounding her desk, arched a brow at me as she heard my end of the exchange.

“Gavin, I’ll take you home.”

Eyeing her sideways, I canceled the cab and hung up, deciding Myah’s presence could be useful for this task. “Okay, but I’m not going home yet,” I said, shrugging into my jacket.

“Where are you going?”

“I have an appointment with the press.”