Power Play (Center Ice Book 2) (8 page)

I swallow hard and await her command.”

“Ah.” I can hear the smile in her voice. “I know just the thing. Turn away from me and sit back on your heels.”

I face away from the door and curl back down.

“I believe you are in need of a good beating to remind you of your place. Don’t you agree, slug?”

“Yes, Mistress,” I murmur into my knees.

“Louder. I can’t hear you.”

“Yes, Mistress!”

She laughs again, then seizes one of my wrists. A rough, incredibly scratchy rope slides around it, and after a few twists and groans of rope, she locks it around my other hand. Oh, my god, this rope is so rough and painful. I relish each prickle of thorny fibers.

Images flash through my mind. All my needs to atone. I see a clear, sunny day at Jefferson & Adams, the stoic brick buildings gleaming in the spring sunlight. Just a month now until the pro league’s draft. My body is bursting with excitement, with all my hopes and dreams.

Rajani squeezes my hand and pulls me close. “You’re in a good mood,” she purrs at me.

“The best mood. A pretty day, a beautiful girl on my arm . . .”

“Oh, please. It’s not because of me.”

“Well, not
just
because of you.” I press a quick kiss to her cheek, then lower, to her jaw, just above the discreet collar she wears. “Coach thinks I really have a shot.”

Mistress Victoria jerks the rope tight, yanking me back to the present. I hold perfectly still while she finishes the loop. Now I couldn’t get away even if I wanted to. Any movement of my limbs will only pull the bindings tighter, make them dig even further into my skin.

Her vinyl boots creak as she stands up once more.

Click. Click. She paces around me again, heels sharp against the terra cotta tiles. It’s all magnificently clean, a faint smell of bleach rising off the sealed flooring, but I can’t help but think of all the things that have happened on this floor. To me, and to others. I deserve to be pressed down here, in the filth. I deserve whatever punishment she’s about to dish out next.

“You must be punished. I will be intensifying the punishment with each lash,” she says. “Confirm that you are able to speak, you filthy rat.”

“I can speak.”

“Good.” She chuckles again. “If at any point the pain becomes too great, you will give me your safe word. ‘Eagle.’ Unless I hear that word and
only
that word from you, I will continue. Understood?”

I exhale slowly through my nostrils. I am beyond ready. “Understood, Mistress.”

“Good.”

The air around me feels like it’s quivering. Maybe it’s just me. I am a live wire, letting my worn-out, battered muscles ease and prepare for whatever brand of pain she’s about to administer.

Crack.

The cat-o’-nine-tails splays across my spine and drags its many fingers through my skin. Fire burns down my back. I suck in my breath, but refuse to tense up any longer than my initial flinch. I’ve learned a thing or two in the past few years. For instance, the submissive’s muscles should be limber and loose, to prevent long-lasting injury. Hot showers help. Meditation, too.

Well, I’ve got the best meditative focus I can imagine: my own regrets.

“Thank you, Mistress,” I whisper.

She lets the long tails make a sprinkling noise against the side of her boot. “I think you need more.”

I exhale, soften my limbs, and prepare for the next blow.

This one cris-crosses the first. A little weaker, coming from her non-dominant hand, but the sting is sweet as honey on my flesh. Heat rises off of my spine. If she hasn’t broken the skin yet, she will soon.

“You fucking pathetic slut,” Victoria chides me. “Look at you, lying there and taking it like a child.”

“I’m grateful for any pain you can offer me, Mistress.”

“You’re damned right you are.” She laughs again. “Shall we go a little harder still?”

Harder. Harder.
Another whisper of a memory caresses me. Rajani, blindfolded and spread-eagled. Her beautiful dark hair spilled around her like a black halo. Her lips a deep shade of plum; her voice splendidly raw and hungry.

“Yes,” I say. “Please, Mistress. I need more.”

The lashes slice straight down my back. Now I feel the first trickle of blood starting to well up.

With every drop that spills, I let my problems leave me with it. Coach Isaacs and my fear of getting kicked down to the farm team. Fiona and her abrupt departure. And Rajani. Always Rajani.

“Harder.”

Victoria hesitates. Weighing whether she should proceed. I know there’s a spreadsheet at work in her head, tallying up potential liabilities to Club Brimstone. Lawsuits.

I grit my teeth. “I said,
harder.
”

This time the lashes crack against the soles of my feet. I hiss and suck in my breath.

“Harder.”

She swallows audibly. “Marcus . . .”

“I need to pay.”

The tails of the lash swish back and forth against the floor.

And then, the final snap.

I rush into Bar None, face burning bright red, ears and nose chapped from the cold. Immediately start scanning the crowd, which is far thicker than I’d hoped it would be. David Gresham has wavy blond hair and the sort of tanned, subtly athletic physique I’d expect from a Georgetown Law student, based on his Facebook photo. Most of his profile data was locked down, but I picked up a few clues from the pictures he’d been tagged in with Marcus: he either was dating or is still dating a guy named Adam Frick, he regularly goes sailing on the Potomac, and he does pro bono work for some refugee and asylum non-profits around DC. An all-around sweet American trust fund boy.

I spot him at the bar, chatting easily with a slightly intoxicated-looking couple. As I hover behind them, I hear him describing the best times of the year to go kayaking upstream. “But really, nothing beats hiking the Shenandoah,” he says. “I went to college in the valley, and it’s unreal how gorgeous it is down there.”

I smile, my cold, detached reporter smile, and approach them. “David? I’m Fiona Callahan.”

“Fiona.” His easy smile dims by a hair, but he recovers, and twists toward the couple. “So sorry, I’ve got a business meeting. But it was a pleasure chatting with you.”

He signals to the bartender that he’s moving tables and slides off the stool, clutching his scotch. “So, Miss Cahallan, mind if we change locales? There are some comfortable booths toward the back.”

“Whatever’s going to put you most at ease.” I pull my phone from my purse. “I’m going to record audio, but it’s purely for my own note-taking purposes. I won’t use any audio sound bytes in any published material without obtaining your explicit permission.”

David rubs his jaw as we walk, considering, then nods. “All right. But I still want you to sign these agreements.”

“Standard?” I ask.

“More or less.”

He finds us a secluded booth in the back, dimly lit, with ultra-tall booth seats and only a narrow opening. Perfect. We slide into our seats around the curved table and I set my phone between us.

“Fiona Callahan. December eleventh, 2015. Interview with David Gresham, a former colleague of Marcus Wright’s.”

David shoves his agreements over toward me and I groan. Typical junior law student stuff—all kinds of indemnification clauses and dire threats in case of breach of contract. “The only thing worse than hostile witness is a lawyer witness,” Mum’s said on many occasions. But it’s nothing that’d hurt my piece. I know what I’m doing. I sign it and pass it over to him. After signing, he folds them up and slips them into his pocket.

“Great. Let’s begin,” he says.

“So. You attended the College of Jefferson & Adams in the Shenandoah Valley with Marcus Wright, correct? Tell me a little bit more about that.”

David laces his fingers together in front of him. “Yes, we had a loose group of friends. My boyfriend, Marcus’s girlfriend at the time, a few other couples, who I understand you contacted, as well.”

I bare my teeth. “And you were elected spokesman of the group, on account of your legal background, I take it.”

David returns the chilly smile. “That’s right.”

“Well? Tell me more about the group. About Marcus’s behavior.”

“He was pretty typical, really. Focused on his studies, obsessed with hockey. It was a small college—no football team—but hockey and soccer kind of served as our surrogate sports teams, you know? So Marc was something of a local celebrity.”

“But he was committed to this girlfriend,” I say. Mentally kicking myself—this isn’t about the girl. But I’m dying to know more about Marcus’s history. I’m hoping against hope that he’s more than the typical use-and-discard, single-serving girlfriend hockey jock.

“Extremely. They talked about getting married, after he’d found his home in the pro league.”

I arch one eyebrow. I’d found only a few pictures of who I assumed to be her—tall, Indian, gorgeous glossy black hair and a shy smile. “Can you tell me a little more about her? I couldn’t find a Facebook profile for her. All the places her name should have been tagged are missing.”

“Yes.” David nods. “They would be.”

I blink. “Okay. And why is that?”

“She’s pulled herself offline. After she and Marcus—well, after they had a bit of a falling out, I guess you could say—everyone felt it for the best.”

“For the best?” God dammit, he’s flippin’ stonewalling me. What’s he trying to hide?

“Yes, for her. It was—it was hard on both of them.”

He’s digging at his fingernail beds now, refusing to meet me in the eye. Whatever happened between Marcus and this girl, it’s obviously still bothering him. What the hell? Did Marcus beat her up? Did she beat Marcus up? My blood runs cold at the thought.

“Well, how is she doing now?” I ask.

I’m trying so hard not to let my angry, assertive side out, but god, it’s a struggle. It gets me results occasionally, but I can tell this David is the kind of guy to flee at the first sign of determination, especially from a woman. But I want to kick and scream and throw a fit. Convince him that sunlight is the best disinfectant for any dark truth.

But honestly? I’m terrified to learn what Marcus has done.

Because I want so badly for him to be good.

“About the same.”

I purse my lips. “And this girl—you know, a name might really help me here—”

“Well, I’m sorry, but that’s not my place to give it.”

David looks back up at me, a fiery protectiveness now burning in his gaze. He’s just begging me to lash out so he can end this right the flip now. Well, I won’t give him the satisfaction.

“All right. Fine. We can talk about something else.”

But mentally, I’m sorting through a catalogue of all the well-placed and powerful Indian women I know. Ambassadors, lawyers, diplomats, reporters, congressional aides . . . Why the hell are they trying to protect this woman so damned much? She must be trying to hide her past with Marcus. But to what end?

“How about you tell me something, Miss Callahan?” David keeps his gaze right on me. “And then I can decide just what it is you need to know about Marcus Wright.”

“Sure. Fine.” My upper lip curls back. “What is it?”

“I want to know what you hope to accomplish in all of this. This . . . article of yours, this investigation. What purpose do you hope to serve?”

Oh, god, I’d kill for a martini right now. I draw up my composure and meet his gaze. “I’m investigating corrupt practices and criminal ties in professional sports. I’m sure you’re aware of the recent incident involving Sergei Drakonov and his criminal brother.”

“Yes, I’m aware.” David’s eyes glimmer.

“And the countless players in the NFL, MLB, and many other professional leagues besides who have ties to organized crime, who’ve been implicated in many other crimes . . . Rape, domestic violence, child abuse, dog fighting . . . I mean, it’s endless. So I’m trying to do a deeper look at sports culture, and why we allow and even encourage these celebrities, these stars, to engage in abhorrent acts.”

David works his jaw from side to side, considering my words. “I see. And you think Marcus is a fucking thug, is that right?”

“I never said ‘thug.’”

“Nah, but you were thinking it. Black guy leaves school under mysterious circumstances, becomes a big sports star, he must be a thug. Is that it, Miss Callahan?”

I swallow. “I don’t think race is a factor at all. White lacrosse players are arraigned for sexual violence charges with alarming frequency. The Drakonovs are Russian. I’m looking at professional sports as the commonality here, not ethnicity.”

“But you think Marcus is guilty of something.”

“I don’t know if he is or not.” I smile again, nice and bitter. “That’s why I’m talking to you.”

David looks down at his hands. Considering whether he trusts me more or less now. I don’t move, don’t do anything that might interrupt his thoughts. The longer I’m silent, the more he’ll be willing to say.

“Okay. So you want to know the real reason Marcus left Jefferson & Adams.”

My breath hitches in my throat.

“Our group of friends . . . look, we were friends with each other for a reason, okay?”

“I would expect so.”

“No, you don’t understand. We all—well, we all had a common
interest
. A—a passion, as it were.”

I wait for him to continue.

“You’ve heard of Club Brimstone here in DC, right?”

“Can’t say I have.”

“It’s an S&M club—sadism and masochism. Bondage, dominance—a sexual fetish with controlling or being controlled.”

“Oh,” I say. “Right.”

An uninvited image of Marcus, pinned beneath me, ripples through my mind. I can feel my face heating at the memory of it.

“It’s not like they show in Fifty Shades, all right? Some people take it very seriously. For some, it’s the only way they can—you know . . . Get satisfied.” He pauses. “Sexually.”

“And your group of friends were all members of this scene.”

“Not a scene. A lifestyle. My boyfriend at the time, this guy named Adam . . . he was my slave, for all intents and purposes. My submissive. Sub. He got off on obeying my commands, on letting me hurt him. Never seriously, of course, but—well, I’m sure you get the idea.”

David’s voice has dropped very low; a hint of longing creeps into his words, twisting around them like a stubborn vine. I lean in closer to hear him.

“We all had this need inside of us. Okay? It wasn’t a sickness. Just—a need. Everyone has needs. And with each other, we could talk about it, not feel judged. I don’t know if I can explain to you how desperately each of us needed that. We’d all had a tough time in high school, so to be able to find a group of likeminded souls in college . . . For a while, it was amazing. It really was.”

So Marcus is a submissive. That must be it. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. Just my luck, that the only person willing to put up with my forceful personality should be someone who literally gets off on being dominated. I turn my head away, unable to look at David.

I guess I should be relieved. But I never thought about my personality as a sexual kink. Yes, Pierce and I had fooled around with it a few times, but we didn’t know what we were doing. I’m no dominatrix, all wrapped in leather. Is that what Marcus wants from me? Not a relationship—just a firm whip hand to get him off?

“So Marcus was this girl’s . . . slave.”

“
Don’t
call it a slave. Especially around Marcus.” David gives me a warning look, and too late, I realize exactly why Marcus might not care for that term. “It’s submissive. But no.”

“No?” I blink, confused.

“He was the dom.” A slow grin spreads across David’s face. “Maybe one of the best.”

What? That can’t possibly be right. The way Marcus behaved last night . . . “Are you sure?”

“Oh, damn sure. And his girl—god, were they a sight to behold together. Everyone loved to watch them at the annual fetish ball we’d attend at Club Brimstone, up here in DC.”

I make a mental note to investigate this Club Brimstone later. “All right. So you and your friends were all fetishists. Why the secrecy? What does this have to do with Marcus leaving?”