In Control (2 page)

Ninety days later

The blazing red lipstick looked fabulous against her makeup-lightened complexion. Quite the contrast, she noted, and returned the tube to the nightstand. Annabel Lawrence stood back from the mirror and sent a critical gaze at the image reflected. The leather corset was a bit loose, but that couldn't be helped. She'd barely gotten out of bed those first three months since what she'd termed the Violation.

"So I've lost a little weight," she commented to the girl in the mirror. "Big effing deal. Skinny chicks are in."

She pulled the corset's rawhide laces through the grommets, making the boned leather so tight it squeaked when she moved. Then she took up her brush and yanked it through her ink-black hair, not bothering to nurse the tangles. Clumps stuck out from the brush bristles when she was done. And her scalp hurt.

"It'd serve those cruel fucks right if I died."

The truth was that neither Jeremy nor Mr. I'm-Just-So-Manly Seth would care. No, an operatic, dramatic death wasn't the answer. The better settling of scores would be to get into their faces with her fabulous new life.

"The best revenge is living well," she reminded herself.

Annabel looped a large, faux-silver cross around her neck and spent a moment struggling with the clasp. Doing so revealed small patch of copper had broken through the mass of black strands on the crown of her head. Root growth, she realized, showing the true color of her hair.

"Damn it!"

Bereft of money and home when Jeremy had kicked her out, Annabel had landed at her best friend's house. Bruised and hysterical, she'd barely managed to sob out her story before JoBeth had pulled her from the floor and tucked her in her own bed. There she'd stayed for three months. Well, not in the bed, no; she'd moved to the couch within days.

Nursed and embraced by JoBeth's kindness, her only task was to, "Get better."

That hadn't left much time to get her roots done at the salon. But she had taken an afternoon to panhandle enough money to buy the color and solution at the local beauty supply...when? A month-and-a-half ago?

It seemed she needed to go begging for hair supplies again, since her royalty check for her comic book art had yet to arrive. She'd spent the last check on a new wardrobe. But no more slave silks for her, damn it.

But, of all nights, her roots had to make an appearance tonight? "Just perfect."

She would not go to the quarterly Dungeon Romp looking like a rag. They would see a brand new, ultra-fabulous Annabel, not some washed-out waif reduced by male cruelty.
No, damn it, no!
"In your
face,
Jeremy," she snarled.

Too bad it was late summer in the northwest. The rain was done until Halloween, killing any opportunity to hide her hair beneath a hat or hoodie. Besides, hiding wasn't a part of her new life, right?

The tube of mascara beckoned. She snatched it up, then spent long moments applying the lash color to her roots. Finished, she tugged her hair into a severe knot atop her head, affixing it in place with long enameled sticks, then stepped back to examine her reflection again. Not perfect, but doable.

"Remember to stay in the shadows, chick," she said to herself. "No one needs to see your roots." A quick touchup of black liquid eyeliner around her eyes and she was armed and ready.

"Bring it on," she whispered, gave her reflected self a wink, and headed out of the room. Her five-inch heels cracked against the tiles as she strode for the door.

She envisioned using those boots to crush the heads of her enemies with each bruising step. Those who laughed at her troubles; those who became invisible after her break-up; those who nodded and muttered, "About time," regarding the Violation; Seth and that damned weasel Jeremy.

Oh, she knew them, one and all, and they were about to face a reckoning because Annabel was back.

"How do you like me now, fuckers?"

She made sure to slam closed the apartment door and speed down the street.

Just because.

"I really appreciate you coming," said Jeremy from the driver's seat.

"You've said that seven times in the last half hour," Zach commented, as he checked his watch. Yep, they'd been stopped for just over thirty minutes. The Burnside Bridge was finally closing its bascules, having opened them to let a large barge pass beneath.

What the barge was doing traveling the Willamette River in daylight, thereby stopping traffic, was beyond him but, in truth, it wasn't his problem. Late summer on a busy, industrial river, he reflected. Business as usual, no doubt.

He had the urge to hum "London Bridge" as the drawbridge lowered back into place.

Well, okay," his brother continued, "but I really am grateful. It's been hard these past months, with the whispering and the giggling from the kennel and the bullshit from the men. As if they've never had trouble with a slave..." His voice trailed off as he put the car into gear and accelerated onto the now open bridge.

"I understand," said Zach. And he did. Jeremy had been bitching about the slave-gone-bad business since he'd landed. He'd heard the complete story more than once.

"I'm a laughingstock."

Zach flipped down the sun visor in an attempt to block the lowering sun's glare, but it didn't help all that much. Summer in the Pacific Northwest meant sunlight until almost nine o'clock at night. "That'll pass."

"It would've passed a long time ago if some spineless men would've muzzled their beasts."

Don't slam others for a weakness you also wear.
"You'll be fine," Zack said instead.

"I'm humiliated." The Jag's turn signal clicked as Jeremy guided the car down the bridge exit and turned a nearby corner. "And broke."

"You'll recover." Zach knew that to be true. If there was one thing Jeremy knew, it was how to use the stock market to make money. How the slave had gone through that much money still blew his mind. What had she bought? Had she taken it all with her? His brother's home wasn't all that lavish for all its prime location. Where had all his money gone?

They drove along downtown's streets until turning into the warehouse district. Zach caught sight of train tracks near the river--heavy rail this time, not the light rail. The presence of the load-bearing tracks indicated their entrance into the industrial zone.

The Quarterly Dungeon Romp location wasn't far away.

His stomach rumbled. "There gonna be food at this gig?"

"Plenty," said Jeremy, as he pulled into a parking spot and killed the engine. He flashed a grin. "And slaves to serve. You do remember protocol, right?"

Zach rolled his eyes. Yeah, he'd been forced to shelve his sexual preferences when he'd signed his name on the enlistment form. "I remember protocol."

They exited the car, he with a bit of trouble maneuvering his gimpy foot from the floorboard, through the door, and onto the ground. His new, non-military trousers rasped over the still-tender scars that decorated his knee and thigh. Once he was standing, though, he looked and moved adequately, not too much of a limp thanks to the PT three times a week, but he wouldn't be square-dancing anytime soon.

The doors opened as they approached, two girls exiting into the darkening light. The little girl outfits, including pigtails and over-sized lollipops, looked incongruous against the cigarettes they lit as he and Jeremy moved inside. He turned from the sight. Some folks liked age play. He didn't. The thought of that special someone who sucked his cock calling him "Daddy" turned his stomach and in a seriously unpleasant way. But these were consenting adults and it wasn't his place to call them on what they did with their own bodies.

Around them, the warehouse opened up. The mouthwatering smell from the buffet of potluck items filled the air, as did the quiet throb of the music. He followed the sound of laughter and located the BDSM players. Fetish gear and clothing spilled like a rainbow across the warehouse's interior. Men dressed as French maids moved among the revelers, serving chips and dip, as well as drinks. He stifled the urge to roll his eyes. Sissy maids were a kink he didn't understand. Nor did he want to.

Flashbulbs snapped.

His gaze followed the flicking lights and located what looked like people wrapped in giant spider cocoons hanging from the ceiling.
Kinbaku--
Japanese erotic rope art. Some folks called it lovely. He called it annoying. There was nothing more frustrating than spending an hour unwrapping a slave before he could use her. Usually, by the time she'd been freed, he was tired, grumpy, and the thrill was long gone.

"We're over here," said Jeremy.

Zach followed, catching sight of the silk-clad slaves of their particular kink. A bolt of lust kicked him in the stomach. He swallowed the spit that pooled in his mouth. It had been a long six years without the services of a tender and willing beast of pleasure. Fucking a girl was one thing--and a pleasurable thing it was, to be sure--but the inner knowledge he could never be wholly satisfied unless he had a willing and adoring slave at his feet had been reinforced with each liaison.

If a slave today happened to be available and willing, then bang away, he told himself. But don't get attached or let her get attached. You'll be redeployed as soon as the fucking leg is certified fit for duty. Be forthright about that with whoever catches your interest. Honor always.
Semper Fi.

"Oh, come with me." Jeremy made an abrupt directional change. "Let me introduce you to the First Knight."

Again, Zach followed. May as well greet the local community leader, he thought. The food could wait.

They approached a table. Two men sat there flanked by two girls, one wearing a collar of steel and another wearing one with a buckle. One slave in training and one owned.

The men stood as they approached. The girls came to their feet as well, which was accepted practice for the arrival of a visitor of his gender. Zach saw everyone's considering gazes sweep his body and zero in on his limp.
Damn it!

Jeremy stopped beside the table. "Mike and Seth"--he gestured--"this is my brother Zachary, back from Afghanistan. Zach, this is Mike"--they exchanged nods--"and Seth, our former slave master."

"Welcome home," said the one called Mike. "How'd you make out?"

"A little worse for the wear, but I'm alive," Zach answered, as they shook hands.

"Then well done."

The man called Seth stepped forward and offered his hand. "Seth. Marine. Operation Victory."

Zach knew the Corps's history. Operation Victory had been a brutal campaign in Iraq about ten years before his time. He took Seth's hand in his own and shook it. "Zach. Marine," he also offered up the name of his most recent assignment. "J.S.S. Falcon."

"Heard Falcon took some artillery a while ago," said Seth, as their hands disengaged.

"Yeah, we had some rain, but we handled it."

Seth smiled, although the glint in his eyes was ice cold. "Ooh-rah, devil dog."

Zach grinned back, his expression doubtlessly equally cold. "Ooh-rah."

Mike laughed, commented on the
esprit de corps
filling the air, and excused himself from the conversation as someone else called his name. Zach glanced around and discovered his brother had deserted him for the line at the buffet.

He and Seth were alone, but for the slaves quietly standing.

"They can sit," said Zach. "I don't mind."

Seth nodded to the property, and they slid back into the chairs. Their voices blended into a very low murmur with him as the subject, if he was any judge of the covert glances sent his way. Jeremy's abandonment was obvious to everyone at the table. Expressions of embarrassment colored the girls' cheeks, and Seth flicked a narrow-eyed glance toward Jeremy's back. Instead of saying anything, however, Seth offered him a seat, which he took, and picked up the conversation.

"How are you finding Portland?"

It took a minute to translate and realize the man wasn't originally from the USA. "Where you from?"

"Scotland. Dual citizenship."

Zach nodded. "Portland is nice, especially considering the housing in 'Stan."

"Raccoons instead of camel spiders?"

His laughter filled the area. "Those fuckers are bad ass."

Seth nodded and a half-smile lifted one side of his mouth. "

"But to answer your question," Zach continued, "it's fine, except I can't find an affordable place to stay."

"No?"

"And bunking with my brother is getting stale."

"No doubt," said Seth. "And an older brother at that."

The comment was a direct hit, and Zach bit off the resultant growl. "Don't get me wrong. I'm appreciative of the bed and bread--"

"Aye."

"But I'm a grown-ass man. I need my own place. Apparently, I'm stuck here for a while."

"How so?"

"Still waiting for the PEB to certify me combat ready."

"I saw the limp." Seth nodded toward his leg.

"It's getting better, but not fast enough. I should be with my unit, not..." He stalled out in frustration. "They've got me driving a desk at a recruitment center downtown."

Seth hummed, a sound of understanding and support. "That's a hit to the wallet."

"With incendiary ammo," agreed Zach, annoyed.

Seth laughed, the full-throated, belly-laugh kind. When he caught his breath, he turned to the slaves. "Girl," he ordered, "get me a drink."

"Yes, Master," said the one in the leather collar. She set off toward the open bar.

Zach watched the play of lights over her auburn hair and across the length of leg displayed by the silken garb. The ass that swayed in the tiny skirt looked quite fuckable. "Nice."

"She's tolerable," said Seth.

Despite the lukewarm words, the possessive gleam in Seth's eye warned Zach away from asking further about the slave-in-training. She was off-limits. He nodded his respect for the unspoken boundary and turned from the sweetness in blue. The blonde remaining at the table didn't look available either, since she watched Mike, awaiting instructions like any well-trained slave would do.