Broken Bonds Boxed Set 1-3 (15 page)

W
hat makes a great story
?

It’s a question I’ve asked of all my pets time and again, and all I get in return is pathetic, whimpering nonsense. It’s possible I’m asking the wrong question—that I’m not being specific enough. Or that I haven’t done my utmost when it comes to selection.

My standards are just too high, you see. I’ve set the bar to her, and no one else will suffice. Though my evaluation process is thorough—I only vet the best—it still seems with my pets, I always come up lacking, wanting.

Obsession is a tricky, little bitch.

I’ve started to consider the likelihood that I don’t spend enough time with my girls. In order for them to truly meet their potential, they need a firm teacher. A nurturer and lover that can mold and shape their minds, as well as their physical form.

Oh, they need so much attention, my little beauties. Why not give them a fair chance to bloom into their full potential? Slow it down, stretch out the hours, build the tension.

After all, isn’t that what transforms a good story into a
great
one?

Tension.

It’s the answer—the correct and only answer—they never offer.

But I’m doing my best to enlighten them.

I’m feeling that tension now as my gaze follows her crossing into the parking lot. Little, unsure steps. Dark tumble of hair blowing behind her. Looking down at her phone. Unaware of the dangers all around. She should know better.

Anger bites my chest. I grip the steering wheel, my knuckles white, scabbed over from the recent punishment I was forced to inflict. Your subject never suffers alone; any good teacher also bears their student’s punishment. Like a parent feels their child’s pain as they discipline. You have to be invested.

And I am invested.

Sadie, oh Sadie. You will soon understand that shared pain. Ignoring the obvious will not make it go away. Rather, it only prolongs the inevitable. But stretching it out does heighten the tension.

Anxiousness flutters to life in my stomach. I pull away from the curb.

Lesson one: acknowledge.

Time for the roles to reverse. Teacher becomes the student. It’s a constant trade out in the pursuit of knowledge.

T
he black car
pulls alongside me and brakes.

“Put that gun away. Do you want to get a sanction?” Detective Carson stares at me from across the passenger-seat, the window lowered enough for me to connect his voice with his scowling face. “Get in.”

My heart knocking hard against my chest walls, my breaths panting too quickly to slow, I grit my teeth and drop my hands. “Am I crazy? You’re following me! You about got yourself…dead.”

He rakes a hand through his auburn hair and blows out a breath. “Not my idea, but yeah. I’ve been instructed to follow you.”

Quinn. Dammit.

Holstering my SIG, I shake my head and say, “I have a car here. I’m not leaving it. And I’m not following Quinn’s passive aggressive bullshit. He could’ve called me himself and—”

“You left your phone at the department,” Carson interrupts, eyes widening in accusation.

I bite the inside corner of my lip. Shrug. “I cloned it. I wouldn’t fall off the grid like that, and Quinn knows it.”

“Just…” He motions between the passenger-seat and me. “Please, get in. I’m new here and really don’t want the wrath of Quinn coming down on me my first week. We can debate my instructions and yours later, all right?”

I don’t like it. Not one bit. I glance over at my car at the front of the lot—the poor little Honda I purchased right before I moved here—and back to his black unmarked vehicle. I should’ve recognized it for what it was. But when you’re being stalked by a serial killer, logic doesn’t always compute.

It’s the first time I’ve ever been in this position—the shoe on the other foot, if you will—and I need to get a handle on whatever this is before it consumes my whole life.

“I’m not leaving my car here,” I say, asserting authority into my voice. I can’t take the chance anyone following me—anyone
else
—will spot it and investigate why I come here.

After a moment of consideration, Carson concedes. “Fine. I’ll follow you to wherever, then we can get to work. Stubborn…” He mutters this last part under his breath.

I ignore it and walk quickly toward my car. We’ve made enough of a scene.

After I’m parked in front of the grocery store near my apartment, I lock my car and open the door to the Crown Vic.

“Nice house,” Carson says, halting me before I climb inside the car.

I raise an eyebrow. This guy already has a clue about my mother—something no one except for Wexler and Quinn in the department know. I’ll be damned if I give away my residence, too. It’s not hard to figure out for a detective, but I’m not just handing over my information to him.

I seat myself in the passenger-seat. “We on the same page?” I ask.

He pulls out of the parking lot and takes a right into downtown. “That depends,” he says, keeping his gaze ahead, driving more cautiously and slowly than even Quinn drives. “Are we talking about what gets reported back to Quinn, or about where we begin on this assignment?”

Against my will, my lips tip up into a slight smile. “Both.”

I see him shrug from my peripheral. “Whoever you were visiting back there isn’t any of my business,” he says, sending a quick glance my way. “Don’t see how it’s anyone else’s, either.”

I nod. “All right. Thanks.”

“And”—Carson flips the blinker to make a turn, and the car crawls onto a familiar street. My heart picks up its pace—“I thought we might take a stab at a new approach on the victimology. Seeing that the lead the M.E. spun our way didn’t necessarily dead-end.”

We park in front of The Lair.

A loud whirring fills my ears. I brace my hand against the dash as if I can back us out of the parking spot by sheer will. “Why are we here, Carson? That lead led nowhere. I investigated it myself.”

He cracks the door, looks over at me. “I read your report. Not bad for a profiler, I might add.” He winks, causing my gut to twist uncomfortably. “But you speculated that the Viennese rope could’ve been purchased online.”

Forcing my jaw to relax, I say, “I have it on good authority that Vienna makes high quality rope. It’s not a shot in the dark assumption that the UNSUB buys his supplies online rather than attends a bondage event in another country.”

“And I’m not knocking that theory—but that’s exactly what it is; a theory. A speculation. Even though I'm young, I still like to do things by the book. Investigate and exhaust all avenues before I start on a new course.”

Great. Looks like Quinn hired on a clone to fill his shoes. “And even though
I’m
young, I’ve clocked thousands of field hours. Profiling isn’t all guesswork. I pored hours of research and analysis into every line of that profile.”

It doesn’t need to be voiced that I spent two days developing my own timeline away from the task force. Little black lines depicting times of death crosschecked against the hours I was with Colton. Outlining the possible connections he had to the victims, the potential interactions. None of which pointed to the club.

All circumstantial. Enough for a lawyer to get any case the department makes against him thrown out, but not enough for me. I need hard evidence. Evidence that either proves his innocence or his guilt. I haven’t thought far enough ahead should I prove the latter.

“Are you coming?”

The reality of the situation hits; I’m about to walk into The Lair. Where I can be recognized. I hold Carson’s stare and mentally curse Quinn. “Let’s go.”

Although it’s hours away from opening, my hope that the club will be empty is quashed when Carson bangs on the blacked-out window and a pretty girl dressed in a pink and black corset unlocks the door. “Can I help you?”

Carson flashes his shield. “We need to speak with the owner. Is he or she around?”

The girl rolls her heavily kohl-lined eyes, as if she’s dealt with police harassment before. “No,
he’s
busy today. And no, I’m not contacting him for you.” She purses her red lips, then adds, “But his brother just got here. He might be able to answer whatever for you.”

Flipping his leather-covered badge closed, Carson gives the girl a bright, panty-dropping smile. I match the girl’s sentiment with an eye roll of my own. “That would be very helpful, miss,” he says. “Thank you.”

Carson does do some things differently than Quinn, I note. I prefer Quinn’s charmless approach to interrogation—less bullshit—unless it’s directed toward me. I return my gaze to the girl. I don’t recognize her. And since she’s investing her full attention on Carson, she appears not to recognize me, either.

Small blessings.

We follow her into the main entrance. Black walls of a narrow hallway that usually make my adrenaline pump with anticipation now have my nails digging half-moons into my palms. As we push through to the main level, low classical music greets me instead of the bass-filled boom I’m accustomed to. It only just blocks out the city noise from outside.

The atmosphere inside the club during the day is considerably different versus the night. I wonder who selected Beethoven as the musical backdrop. Maybe the brother. I only met the owner once, during my initial application to join the club. I left out all the key details that might have gotten me declined at the time. Already being a member of another association—the ACPD—for one, and the fact that crime scenes arouse me and is what drove me to explore this side of myself.

Shame was prominent, but more so, privacy. Those intimate details…I could never share with a stranger. Which makes the rapid rate at which Colton drew me out of my shell all the more alarming. Just too intense; too uncontrollable.

Back then, I hadn’t planned to ever return to The Lair. I was feeding a craving, trying to assuage my beast by a different means…and it worked. For a time. It may have continued to quell my demons had I never met Colton.

Now, I don’t know where I stand amid the chaos. I’ve been thrown right into the middle of the storm and I’m grasping at the slippery edges. The earth eroding beneath my feet.

“You wait here while I get him,” Corset Girl tells Carson with a wink. Apparently, he’s met his match.

“I could get used to working in this city,” he whispers to me.

“Nice.” I shake my head. But really, I have zero room to talk. The Lair was the second place I scoped out after I made permanent arrangements for my mother at Resting Pines. Along with the non-existent crime rate and a secure placement for my ailing mother, Arlington held all the right attractions for me to settle down on a more permanent basis.

While Carson takes a look around the club, gaze shifting over glass-encased, inlaid shelves showcasing everything from whips and chains to Dom outfits and masks, I stealthily sneak out my phone to send a warning text to Colton. No need for him to make a surprise appearance while I’m here.

Before I hit send, the girl returns. “These are the two.” I look up and my heart jolts. That eroding ground beneath me completely gives way, sucking me under and burying me faster than quicksand.

“Detectives, this is the owner’s brother, Colton Reed.” She smiles sweetly. “I’ll just leave you to it, then.”

I don’t even see her leave the room. I don’t hear anything that comes out of Carson’s mouth. The whole world dissolves into the background, leaving just Colton and me. I thought that if I gave myself enough time away, that my feelings for him would lesson. That the complete and utter thrall he has over me would decrease by some minute fraction. Just enough so I could think rationally when I next saw him.

This is not the case. He’s dressed for the club, wearing his signature black V-neck that highlights the leanly defined muscles of his arms and chest, and dark denim jeans. A serious scowl mars the normally smooth skin between his dark eyebrows, and his glacier blue gaze is focused hard on me.

Though it hasn’t been spoken, the word
betrayal
suffocates the small span of air between us.

“Mr. Reed,” Carson says, breaking his hypnotic connection over me as Colton finally acknowledges the detective. “I asked how long you’ve worked at The Lair. Should we do this in an office rather than here?”

Colton’s gaze flicks from Carson back to me. “No,” he says, his voice a thick boom. It travels straight through me, and every inch of me aches, raw and needy. “Here’s fine. I have nothing to hide.”

His words zing right to my gut. The unspoken insult: but
I
do.

Sinking his hands into his pockets, Colton lifts his chin and pins Carson with a severe glare. “I’ve worked here for about five months. My brother needed to find some help quickly, and after that, the gig just stuck.”

“I can see how that could happen. Much better working environment than at the department.” Carson sends me a smirk, but my attention is on the man before me, the one who I know so little about that I didn’t even realize he had a brother, let alone that his brother ran the club.

Julian. That’s his name, though last names were never exchanged. The cool brush of betrayal skitters up my spine. Did Colton keep this information from me on purpose? Ours was not a typical start to a relationship; we never divulged intimate specifics about each other’s lives…but I still feel this one detail was not an oversight.

“I know it looks like this business is all fun and games,” Colton says. “But I do have actual work to do before the club opens. Can we move this along—quickly?”

“Right. Of course.” Carson waves a hand through the air, dismissing his last comment. “We’re actually here about your merchandise, Mr. Reed.”

“Colton’s fine.”

With a smile, Carson continues. “I assume the club sells toys and…bondage equipment.”

Colton simply nods his confirmation.

“Would it be possible to take a look at some of the equipment?” Carson asks, his firm tone indicating that he’s not really seeking permission. “And the shipping details, more specifically. Who your suppliers are, where your merchandise is shipped from.”

Removing his hands from his pockets, Colton crosses his arms over his chest. “I believe you need a warrant for that, detective.”

This is true. What the hell is Carson doing? I know exactly where he’s going with this, I just don’t understand what connection he’s trying to link in the victimology, or
who
he’s targeting.

I open my mouth to interrupt, but Carson jumps ahead. “You’re right, and it will take a load of paperwork and begging judges and a lot of wasted time on my part to get that warrant. And in the end, I probably won’t succeed.” He cocks his head, eyeing Colton seriously. “So I was hoping you could do the department a favor and skip over the bureaucracy part. Maybe a favor might come in handy down the road for you, Colton.”

I can make a pretty accurate guess based on Colton’s demeanor that he’s not giving anything up to Carson. His jaw locks tight, his chest rises with a heavy inhale, and his features settle into a resolute hardness.

I step between them to deflect an oncoming confrontation when Colton says, “Fine. Lilly Anne—” he beckons the corset girl from across the room “—show Detective Carson the shipping labels and sales receipts for the ‘merchandise’.” At Carson’s pleased expression, Colton adds, “I trust that this information will be kept confidential within the department.”

“Absolutely. We appreciate your cooperation.”

Lilly Anne only hesitates a moment before nodding her head in the direction she takes off in. “Come on. My office is upstairs.”

Carson starts to follow after her, then stops to look back at me. “You coming?”

The look Colton is giving me says otherwise. Besides, I think I’ve taken enough orders from egotistical rookie detectives for one day. “You go ahead. I have some questions of my own for Mr. Reed.”

With a shrug that says Carson doesn’t mind being alone with Lilly Anne one bit, he leaves the ground level to pursue her up the spiraling staircase.

My body is suddenly very aware of Colton’s appraising gaze, and I touch the table behind me as I meet his eyes, keeping myself steady. The melodic swell of cellos and violins crescendos, thickening the already dense tension. “I didn’t know you were a classical music lover,” I say, deciding to be the first to break the silence.

He’s in no mood for trivial talk of music, however. He turns and starts down a darkened hallway, where I assume I’m to follow.