The Spanked Wives Club (12 page)

Her gaze grew cold, those blue eyes glittering with all the warmth of morning frost. “Ford, if women are being hurt here, you have to stop it. Tell me you would, if you knew about it.”

“I already answered that one.” Ford stood, hooking thumbs in his leather belt. Falon’s gaze dropped for a heartbeat down to the Beretta, a fraction of an inch from the heel of his hand. “Here’s another fact you can put in your report. A little color, we’ll call it. Take a look up the hill behind you.”

Falon arched a brow for a moment, then turned. “What am I supposed to be looking at?”

“You see that trail? How it disappears into the trees up there?”

“Sure.”

“Since the founding of this town, sixty three hikers and hunters have started up that trail — and never come back.”

Falon spun, her face suddenly pale in the afternoon sun. “Jesus Christ…”

“You never hear of that down in Portland, I imagine.” Ford slipped past her, resting a heel against a well-worn stone at the edge of the trail, then looked back at Falon. “I go on a Search and Rescue run at least three times a year. Most of the time we find them. Lost hunters, injuries, stupid kids sneaking up into the woods to fuck. But the ones we don’t? We almost never find a thing. Not a shred. Vanished. But the few times we do? When we get really lucky? It’s usually… part of a person.”

Falon lifted a fist to her lips, clearing her throat. “As horrible as that is, Sheriff… what’s that got to do with anything?”

“Here’s the point, Ms. Moore. That trail, and the souls who take it and fall off the face of the earth? That’s a
real
problem, a
real
danger.” He kicked a jagged rock from the trail, watching it bounce down the hill for a moment. “Whatever it is that you think you have here? It’s not this — it’s not the problem. You’re being strung along. Whoever your
source
is? What they’re telling you fits into the story you think you want to tell, what you think you need for that big scoop. But it’s a mirage, Ms. Moore. The sooner you realize that, the better off you’ll be.”

“I… see your point.” Falon looked down, crossing her arms over her breasts. Then she met his gaze again, and he could see it in her eyes. He’d hit home. Finally. Gone was the cool professional. Now, it was simply the young woman. “I’m just trying to do my job, Sheriff. And I know you’re trying to do yours.”

“I guess that’s at least one thing we can both agree on.” He pointed at her, giving her a wry grin. “You never answered my question though. What’s real reason you’re not gone already?”

Falon looked away, staring back up the hill, toward the trail that swallowed humans whole with disturbing frequency.

“I… like it here.”

“You like it here even knowing what you know? What you
think
you know?”

She nodded, wiping a hand slowly across her lips. “It’s… I’d be lying if I said I don’t wonder.”

“Wonder what?” Ford let his voice gentle, no longer angry with the woman. For the first time, since he’d seen her on that sidewalk outside that shit hole electronics store, she was telling the truth. Being honest — something he wasn’t sure most reporters actually knew
how
to be.

“What you’d say if I ever came back. But not as a reporter.”

“I’d have to show you around. But not as a cop.”

She blushed then, like a young girl with a crush, and Ford’s heart skipped a beat at the pure beauty of her bashfulness.

Looking at her watch, Falon finally looked up at him. “I have to go. Daylight’s wasting, and I don’t think you’d want me jogging the streets at night, Sheriff.”

“Come on, I’ll give you a lift—”

Falon held up a hand. “No — I can find my way out, I think.” She flashed him another million-watt smile, his cock twitching at the pure sex appeal of it. “Thanks for the bite to eat. And the company.”

He watched her negotiate her way down the hill, the movement of her buttocks in her yoga pants trying its best to distract him from the disquiet he felt at seeing her go. Was he afraid of what she might do? Or was he afraid of what
he
might have to do if she decided to stay after all?

I think you’re afraid you’d enjoy it too much, Mr. Lawman.

Falon stopped at the massive trunk of one of the Douglas firs, reaching out and smoothing a hand over the bark. She looked back at him.

“Sheriff, let me ask you one last thing.”

Ford sighed. “Boxer briefs. If any.”

Rolling her eyes, Falon nevertheless bit her lower lip, not quite suppressing a smile. Then she sobered, meeting his gaze — and when Ford saw the look in her eyes, he was immediately sorry he’d chosen that moment for the sophomoric innuendo.

“You love this place, don’t you? This town?”

“Of course. I grew up here. I sure as hell don’t stick around for the lucrative compensation package.”

Then, he thought he saw something new in her pretty blue eyes.

Sadness.

“What would you do if it came down to choosing between your love of this place, and doing what was right?”

“I’ve never been forced to make that choice, Ms. Moore.”

Her lips quirked at that, and she gave the tree a gentle pat. “I’ll see you Friday, Ford Mathis.”

Chapter Nine

F
riday morning dawned gray and cool, a rare summer rain rolling in overnight. A mist hung over most of the town, the moisture sheltering from the wind in the lee of the Cascades. Hunter suspected he knew now how White Valley might have gained its name.

Troy pulled his truck onto Columbia, heading for the center of town. Of course, Hunter
had
wondered where the Sessions might take place, but this was something he didn’t factor as one of the likely spots. He half expected Troy to drive them out to Keenan’s isolated forest idyll. Wouldn’t that have made a perfect place for such an event?

A thumb cocked toward the driver’s side window, Troy looked over at Hunter. “We need to go for a hike one of these days — at least once before you have to head back.”

Hunter leaned forward, looking around Troy as they drove. Crowded with its mist-shrouded giant conifers, Preserve Park sprawled up into the foothills right out of the heart of downtown. It was a remarkable place, as if the wilderness had decided to leave a toehold directly in the center of civilization — and leaving itself a highway straight out to some of the most rugged, remote and untouched terrain in the lower forty eight states.

“I’m not much of a hiker, but I’d like to see that place. I’m game.”

Troy slapped the back of his hand against Hunter’s shoulder. “Trust me, we wouldn’t be doing much hiking.”

“No?”

“There’s a lot more to that pile of sticks than meets the eye, my friend.” Troy’s hand wrapped around the top of the steering wheel, and he returned his attention to the street ahead. He cleared his throat, his voice softer, quieter. “You remember how this goes, right?”

“How the fuck could I forget it?”

He’d sat at Troy’s kitchen table that morning, the sun not yet peeking above the horizon, Lacey upstairs still dead to the world. Troy had laid out for Hunter exactly what was going to happen this morning, Hunter’s cock coming immediately to life, despite the increasingly over the top, even outlandish aspects of the ritual Troy related to him. Yes, it was out of every spanko’s darkest fantasy — but Hunter never dreamed such a thing could ever be anything
but
a dream.

Here in White Valley, apparently dreams could come true — no matter how dark they might be.

You’re a total perv, Hunt.

It looked like he was in very good company in that regard.

“No matter what you see or hear, it’s how things are supposed to go. It
will
seem crazy, maybe even too much at times, but it’s the way this has been done for decades. It’s part of what this place is, so just relax, soak it in — and enjoy yourself.”

“Oh, that shouldn’t be a problem.”

“I didn’t think so. One of your many gentlemanly qualities, Hunt.”

“Dickhead.”

Troy stifled a laugh against a fist, coughing. “Man, I’m glad you decided to come out. We… weren’t sure you had it in you.”

“We?” Hunter glanced back at the third occupant of the truck that morning. Lacy was perched at the center of the bench back seat, a skirt way too short for such a cool morning, revealing a mouthwatering amount of her smooth, pale legs. Folded hands perched on her knees, she smiled at Hunter, but didn’t say a word. The trepidation, excitement, and yes, fear, were clear in her gaze.

“Here we are,” Troy said, pulling the truck to the curb, outside the Selkirk Theater. It was still early so neither the theater nor the restaurants along Columbia were open yet, the only storefront that showed any life being the Starbucks way down at the northeastern corner of the park, where Columbia met Denali Ave.

“A theater?”

“Trust me, it’ll make sense.” Troy leaned an arm over the top of his seat toward his wife. “Ready?”

Lacey’s lovely throat worked, and she gave him a tense nod, the quirk of her lips rendered more a tic borne of nerves than any conscious expression.

The brief white tank — all Troy allowed her on Session days— revealed a scandalous amount of her generous endowments, the thin cotton not so much hiding as highlighting her hard nipples. No bra had been allowed her, of course, as was apparently customary on such outings, whether or not Lacey was slated to be an active participant or not.

Inside, the theater appeared no different from any other multiplex, the concession stand an explosion of sound, neon, and flashing video screens. There was something missing though — that mouth-watering smell of popcorn. Nobody had started the machine up yet, Hunter experiencing a momentary — and absurd — pang of regret at that.

Sure, that’ll go over real well, idiot. You stuffing your cakehole with popcorn while you watch the festivities.

They followed the long corridor that extended to either direction behind the concession area, passing the entrances that opened to several theaters on either side of them, the red painted doors a stark contrast to the dull black of the walls. A set of double-doors at the end of the corridor led them down a flight of carpeted stairs, then another flight down to the right, the dimmed recessed track lighting along the tops of each wall reminding him of a museum hallway. At the bottom of the stairs, another set of double doors faced them, two rather large men in black suits stood guard, flanking the entrance on either side.

“Kelly, Jason,” Troy said, his arm around Lacey’s shoulder. He tilted his head toward Hunter. “He’s just observing today. Von should’ve put the paperwork in already.”

One of the men, a hulking figure of easily 6’ 5” with a thick, dark brown goatee and shaved head extended a hand toward Hunter. “Just need to see your ID, sir.”

Hunter sheepishly fished his wallet from his pocket, dropping his license in a palm that looked about the size of a dinner plate.

“Looks good,” the man said, handing Hunter’s license back to him, nodding to his partner, who opened one of the doors, swinging it outward and stepping aside.

“Thanks, Jason. Say hi to Jenny for me.” Troy clapped him on the shoulder. “How is she, anyway? Fit to pop, I’ll bet.”

Jason’s grin shone bright against the dark of his goatee. “Eight months, now. Almost there.”

“Lucky bastard,” Troy said, giving the man a wave as he led the wide-eyed Lacey into the room beyond. Hunter followed, the door closing with a muffled thud behind them.

The space they found themselves in reminded Hunter of a cross between the new stadium-style movie theaters and an observation gallery like those one might see in a medical school for watching surgical procedures. The walls were a carpeted, inky black as were the sumptuous upholstered chairs. The seating wrapped in a gentle arc around a brightly lit, central stage, raised several feet above the first row of seats. Hunter, squinting, trying to get his eyes to adjust to the different light level, could make out several couples, seated here and there, but many of the seats were empty.

He tapped Troy on the arm, giving him a questioning look.

“Still waiting on a few.” Troy pointed off to their right. “Let’s sit over there. Great view from up here.”

They took their seats, Troy making a point of installing Lacey between the two of them.

The stage was smaller than those found in a theater or concert hall, more a platform of sorts, the floorboards a smooth varnished wood, like one would expect from the floor of a ballet studio. Several mirrors at different angles flanked the stage to either side, lending both an impression of a larger space and amplifying the sense that any occupants of the platform were indeed being watched. Intently.

Jesus, is this for real?

The stage was far from empty. A tall cross, shaped in a sloped X dominated the right side, angled slightly back. The cross faced toward the center of the gallery. Several stout leather-wrapped benches of various configurations were scattered about, one whose slope toward the back of the stage gave its purpose away as an obvious spanking bench. Straps were folded neatly atop each apparatus, the burnished nickel of the buckles and latches catching the light. Several sets of chains hung from the darkness of the rafters above, some with manacles and some without. A steel frame resembling a squat rack from a gym could be seen in one corner. Next to that was a bank of freestanding shelving containing folded white towels, numerous dark bottles and cases, and even what looked like plastic bottles of water. A broad pegboard stand was mounted off to one side of the cross, from which every implement of corporal punishment Hunter could think of hung on neat little hooks. Brilliant, intense lighting flooded the platform with illumination, ideal for the audience, but no doubt disconcerting for anyone caught under the glare. A tall lectern stood at the left edge of the stage, near a set of stairs that led down to the floor at the foot of the first row of seats.