Cliff's Edge (2 page)

“This is my own private space…no cameras. I have the office and this sitting area…” He pressed another button on the remote and a small whir sounded from the bookshelf that lined the opposite wall. The shelves divided down the center, rolling away to reveal another room, shrouded in darkness. With a dramatic flourish and a wicked grin, Draco pushed the remote once more, and lights in the secret room flickered like a dozen candles had been lit.

Cliff laughed. “Just what every man needs…a bed in his office. I suppose it’s your version of a casting couch—oh, shit. That sounded wrong.”

“No offense taken,” Draco said with a little chuckle. “Sometimes that’s exactly what it is. When I hire staff members for certain positions, I need to test the limits of their control. Besides, someone’s gotta test the toys before we equip the private rooms.”

“Too bad
Dirty Jobs
went off the air—that would be an episode to remember.”

“Speaking of remembering—I do, you know. You came here with Rhino two years ago. And you’d been here with him three or four times before that.” Draco frowned. “I’m surprised you didn’t bring him along if you have questions about the lifestyle. Most couples usually come together. So to speak.”

“Me and Rhino?” Cliff shook his head. “We play for different teams.”

“Ahh…yes. I have seen him here a time or two with different women. My mistake.” Draco stared at him until Cliff wanted to rub his face to check for dirt.

“Do I…do I
know
you? Beyond those meetings, I mean?”

Draco smiled. “No, as I said, I remember you…but maybe it’s more important that I
know
about you. Or at least I know why you might enjoy some of the entertainment options available at Hard Labour…” Reaching into his pocket, Draco withdrew something small enough to hide in his hand. He held it tightly for a long moment. “I asked Rhino never to mention how we met—it was only briefly and before I opened this club.” He side-armed the item across to Cliff, who snatched it then stared, a smile hovering over his lips.

“Well, I’ll be a sonofabitch,” he said as he stared at the gold trident. Draco Kincaid had been a Navy SEAL.

“It’s why I agreed to answer your questions rather than have you attend a couple of our introductory meetings. BDSM is different for people like us.”

“Like us? Because of our training?”

“Exactly. Tell me. What part of BDSM have you tried? Or is it all just fantasy to you at this point? Sorry to be so blunt, but you wanted to know about the lifestyle—and I need to know where you’re coming from.”

Cliff cleared his throat. “Nothing formal—if there is such a thing. A few swats here and there. Uh…holding someone down, restraints. I’ve watched some, been to a couple of clubs, and here, of course. I’ve done my homework—a shitload of research. Now I want more… I want to try the cross and a sling. I couldn’t give a shit about the cages or public display. I’m not into degradation or humiliation. Pain only if that’s what my sub wants.”

“Oh…you already have a sub?”

“No…I’m speaking in general terms.”

“Come here. I want to show you something,” Draco said. He stood and walked across the thick carpet toward the hidden alcove. Cliff followed, genuinely curious how this former Navy SEAL had come to own a BDSM club.

Draco opened an armoire then stepped back to give Cliff a good look. Many of the items he’d seen in porn, some here at the club and at the two gay clubs he’d visited. “Take a quick look.”

Cliff scanned the shelves, before Draco closed the cabinet and turned to face him. “Tell me what you saw.”

“Handcuffs—steel, leather, scarves, ropes. Blindfolds, cock rings, dildos, a spreader.” Picture-perfect recall was something he’d trained for, but with only a few distracting seconds to look, his memory wasn’t perfect. He closed his eyes to visualize the interior of the cabinet. “A feather, a skin mitt, nip rings, cock rings.”

“And I assume you’re aware there were other items, but those were the ones you easily identified in the limited amount of time I gave you.” Draco opened the cabinet again and removed the cuffs and a blindfold. “I’m going to ask you to trust me as I take you through a small exercise.”

“What do you have in mind?”

“I want you to strip, then stretch out on the bed.”

“I’m—”

“Not for sex—at least not now,” Draco said, his voice low. “Think of it as a training exercise, all right? You’ve survived plenty of those and there is nothing whatsoever you have to fear here…except perhaps a little self-knowledge.”

Fear wasn’t an issue for Cliff and neither was getting naked in front of another man. He kicked off his shoes, then unfastened his slacks before pushing them and his briefs to the floor. Without hesitation, he raised his shirt over his head, not bothering to unbutton it all the way. With a half-grin, he looked at Draco. “Like what you see?”

Ignoring the question, Draco gestured to the bed. “Stretch out. Give me your right wrist, but keep your left one free for now.”

The man had done nothing overtly sexual, yet Cliff’s heart rate elevated and his cock went from mildly interested to oh-fuck-yeah. Following the quiet command, Cliff lay back and extended his right arm, which was efficiently cuffed to the wrought iron headboard.

Rather than join him on the bed, however, Draco pulled a spindle-back chair over and sat. “This is a situation that excites you,” he said, with a pointed glance at Cliff’s hard-as-nails cock.

“Ya think?”

“I do. Now fair warning, bad pop psychology ahead—but I’ve had a lot of years to observe people, and I’ve learned a thing or two. SEALs spend a lot of our training in BUDs learning to fight through situations over which we have no control, which is why the training focuses on learning to control our emotions, control our fear. Everything about our jobs is about that control. Sit on the goddamn powder keg full of adrenaline until the last possible second—take the kill, then bug out. There isn’t anything we don’t want to control. I’ll bet even in bed you usually top, right?”

Cliff nodded, but said nothing. Honestly, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d bottomed. He didn’t hate it, but with the men he’d bedded it hadn’t ever been an issue. Wasn’t that why he was here? To learn to be a Dom, find a sub?

“It sounds as if you have some vague notion BDSM is something you’d like to try, but when I show you a variety of toys, the first thing your mind latches on to are those involving restraint…another form of control.

“No matter what anyone says, there’s no rule book for BDSM. Hell, practitioners can’t even all agree on what the letters stand for. In just a few minutes of talking, knowing your background, plus my little pop quiz—completely unscientific, I admit—I think you may find what you’re interested in is Dominance and submission. At least starting out.

“The question will be whether you want to maintain that control all the way into the bedroom. Or maybe what you really want is to give up that control for just a little while. A consensual exchange of power that allows you to let someone you trust completely take control of your pleasure. Give me your other hand.”

Draco’s voice was hypnotic, his words reaching deep inside. Cliff raised his hand, felt the cold circle of steel as the cuff ratcheted around his wrist.

“A good Dom should try everything he plans to do to a sub at least once…but maybe you’ll find the temporary role of some relief from the ever-present need for control.” Draco stood. “I’m going to leave you here, in the dark for twenty minutes. No one will disturb you, but neither will you be released until I return. Unless of course you want to ring the bell,” Draco said, a reference to those in BUDs training who DOR—dropped on request—prior to completion. This little test of Draco’s was nothing—twenty minutes of restraint didn’t even scratch the surface of how long a SEAL might stay in position waiting for target acquisition. They both knew using a safe word wasn’t going to happen—especially not now that the challenge was issued.

Cliff raised his chin in a quick nod and a cocky grin.

Draco chuckled. “And that my friend is why I personally train all the special warfare personnel.”

Before Cliff could ask about other SEALs belonging to the club, there was a distant shout that seemed to carry up the stairs over the steady beat of background music.

“Hey, what are you doing?” Cliff recognized Gentry’s voice. The hair raised on the back of his neck.

“Let me up,” he hissed urgently to Draco. He jerked at the restraints, his need to move having nothing to do with a scene and everything to do with a sense of danger.

“No time. Closing the partition,” Draco spoke over him, already moving, one hand going to his pocket and emerging with the remote, the other reaching for his shoulder holster and coming out with a P226 SIG. The bookshelf slid most of the way closed before whirring to a stop after catching on Draco’s heel as he stepped out into the office.

Wood splintered as the door to the office was apparently kicked open, and Cliff caught a glimpse of Draco diving for cover as two shots from the Sig were fired in quick succession.

“What the fuck are you doing? Draco, wa—” Gentry’s words were cut off in a hail of automatic gunfire. The sound of wet meat hitting the floor was audible even through the ringing in his ears from the shots. Or maybe it was just his imagination filling in the blanks.

Then the shouting started—the voices rough, the language Spanish.

“Get back, get back.”

“Hands in the air. Open the safe, or we wipe out everyone downstairs.”

“All right,” Draco agreed. “Tell the two assholes with the AK-47s to back the fuck off. Goddamn gangbangers. What the fuck do you think you’re going to find—”

“Shut up. Gato, Raul, move back—now. Open the fucking safe, asshole.”

“Okay, okay. Nobody else gets hurt…” Something about his tone told Cliff there was probably a weapon inside the safe that Draco believed he could reach before the gunmen fired. There was a brief moment of silence, presumably while Draco worked the lock, then gunfire erupted. A .45 caliber versus automatic weapons. Never a good match.

Straining to see through the narrow opening, Cliff cursed whatever god deemed it amusing to leave him naked and handcuffed to a goddamn bed while three armed gunman attacked less than twenty feet away. Keeping his arms still so the slide of metal against metal didn’t draw their attention, Cliff stretched his shoulders and neck to the breaking point, trying to see what he could.

“Goddamn fucker—Raul’s down.”

“Leave him. Vasquez was right about the fuckin’ weapons. Time’s up. Grab the money and the backup disc. Get the other 47 and let’s go.”

For what seemed like an eternity, the silence built and Cliff spent the time cataloging everything he’d seen and heard in the three minutes it had taken for the world to go to hell. When he was certain the shooters were gone, he jerked his wrists hard, testing the strength of the metal and the sturdiness of the bed frame. “Draco? Draco, can you hear me?” Nothing. Not even the sound of labored breathing. Nothing but the ringing in his ears until he finally caught the sound of sirens warbling in the distance, drawing ever closer. Help would come far too late for the men in the other room, but someone with a handcuff key would be here to release him soon. He closed his eyes on a sigh.

Fuck. The only easy day was yesterday. The SEAL motto bounced around in his head before going up in smoke—just like his career.

Rhino remained frozen in place, his nostrils barely clearing the slimy surface of the swamp that marked the northern boundary of the former Vietnamese concentration camp. The fetid water soaked through to his skin, bringing along a few uninvited guests—probably of the leech variety. Every so often one of them would move, like a cold glob of snot crawling on his leg. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but remaining in position, out of sight until he had a clear shot.

A shadow passed by the glassless window of the decrepit cinder block building. This might have been a state of the art prisoner holding area in the sixties, but the place had been long abandoned by any official branch of the government. Vines had overgrown most of the structures, reducing them to rubble or shrouding them in a creepy living cloak. A few fence posts had survived the decades, but not with the barbwire attached. The single remaining building was fifteen by eight, with plywood serving as doors, windows, and most of the roof. The three “patriots” who were his targets were holding former Army Ranger Wilton Rufus for the crime of crossing into Viet Nam illegally—which was true—and accusing him of spying for America—which was not true. According to the official government spokesman located in Ho Chi Minh, neither the local police nor the Peoples Army had any knowledge of the American’s whereabouts, but if he was discovered, he would be prosecuted for spying.

A second shadow joined the first, and angry voices hung heavy in the air.
Come on, you bastards…step outside. All fucking three of you…step outside
…
step outside…

Ordering his mind to go still, Rhino checked his angle once more. Given the layout of the building, the four-by-four-foot bamboo cage housing Sergeant Rufus, and the encroaching jungle, it was the best he could get. His fire team partner Marco Adams—aka Mad Max—was twenty feet to his right, up to his balls in the same swampy shit, but with a less clear shot. He would take anyone Rhino missed.
As if
.

After three days of recon, they’d selected their approach and moved in. Now it was only a matter of minutes…or maybe hours…but either way, the sergeant was going to be heading for home today. All Rhino needed was for the three guards to step through the door—to come clear, so no one took a death shot at Rufus.

As if summoned, guard number three came into view, an automatic rifle slung over one shoulder. He was carrying a metal pie tin of whatever slop they were passing off as food to their prisoner. As he approached the cage, he shouted to the others inside. Rhino didn’t have a lot of the language, but enough to catch that the man was calling the others to join him. Something about Rufus’s condition made him unhappy, and he wanted an explanation.