Safeword (12 page)

“I would have thought his cooperation in the eyes of the penal system would be worth something to him, Keith,” Myah said sweetly. “I mean, hasn’t he already sought a transfer to another penitentiary and an identity change for protection from the other inmates?” People behind bars for harming children were the bottom of the totem pole in prison hierarchy. A transfer for David Strange, if his allegations of threats against him from other prisoners were true—and he’d made many very vocal allegations—could mean the difference between life and death.

“Evidence,” Johnson said slowly. “You find an actual link between Strange and Alex Dennan’s case, then we have something to talk about, cooperation to discuss. Otherwise, you’re just harassing a man who’s already dealing with enough.”

He should have thought about that before committing the most heinous crimes against minors imaginable,
I thought bitterly, all pretense of hiding my disgust gone.

“We’ll be in touch,” I promised darkly, then killed the feed on our end.

Myah turned to me, rhythmically flexing her fingers. The skin was white with loss of blood flow. “Well? Any impressions?”

“I don’t know. Could be Strange’s defensiveness is him protesting too much. I thought I saw a hint of longing in his face at this last shot.” I pulled the progression with the longish hair closer, studying it. “Or his attitude could be irritation that every abduction in the country has been blamed on him at one point or another. Difficult to say.”

“I do know one thing.”

I raised my brow, waiting.

“We didn’t get enough of anything from him to avoid discussing Sugar’s shots with the boys.”

I scrubbed a palm down my face. “Then we’ll have to get serious about finding Schofield. Send the local police to their house to check on them. Maybe get the names of a relative or close friend who might have contact information.” I shrugged. “It’s the best we can do for now. If one of those boys identifies Alex Dennan from these photos, we’ll know Strange lied about knowing him.”

“Next time, we’ll let Trent interrogate him. They’re both despicable enough they just might get along.”

“Trent’s not a pedophi—”

Myah raised her eyebrows.

“No, he’s not. Stupid and completely out of line, yes. But he didn’t kidnap or force that poor girl.”

“No, he didn’t,” she agreed wearily, letting out a deep breath. “I hate having to work with him.”

“Me, too. But we might as well get used to it. Flip a coin to see who has to call him and make the update?”

“Deal,” Myah said, scurrying to her desk for a quarter. She lost.

§§§

THE MUSICAL chime of the doorbell echoed through the large house as Myah and I stood beneath the arched roof of an expansive porch framed on each side by columns and accessed by a sweeping staircase. The Trexalls lived in a multi-million dollar home in the central part of the city, and even in the dead of winter, their lot was impressive, though I was surprised to see a gardener at the edge of their property and out in the cold, raking leaves into a pile. He was suitably dressed at least, with a cap and flaps over his ears, a thoroughly wrapped scarf that hid the lower half of his face, and heavy duty coveralls over flannel. He spared us a brief glance but otherwise ignored our presence. My attention returned to the ornate front door as it opened to reveal a woman in a uniform of khaki pants and a polo shirt, her name, Von, stitched on a pocket over her left breast.

“Detectives,” she greeted, having dealt with us once or twice during the investigation of Jeremy’s kidnapping. “What can I do for you?”

“We’d like to speak with Mr. or Mrs. Trexall, and Jeremy if he’s available,” Myah answered politely.

“Certainly. Come in.” We stepped into the warmth of the large foyer, and Von took our coats. “Please, follow me to the sitting room. May I get you anything to drink?”

Declining the offer, Myah and I made ourselves as comfortable as possible on the heavy Victorian furniture to wait in the imposing silence of the house. After a few minutes, both Jason and Marlene Trexall appeared, their faces carrying twin looks of restrained concern. They didn’t bother with pleasantries, simply sat down and got right to it.

“What can we do for you?” Jason asked.

“Some additional information has surfaced concerning an individual who may or may not have had contact with David Strange, and by extension, with Jeremy. If you agree, we’d like to show him a few composite photos to see if he recognizes the man in them.” I removed them from the folder I’d brought along, laying them neatly across the shiny surface of the coffee table so they could see how innocuous they were.

“That man,” Marlene breathed, her voice shaking and poisonous. “That man is in prison. What he did to our son is over. Jeremy’s doing well in therapy, and we’re getting on with our lives, detectives.” She pinned us with a cold stare. “I see no good coming from dragging him through it all again with your questions. He’s told you everything he knows. He is only twelve.”

Myah held up a placating hand, scooting to the edge of her seat. “Mrs. Trexall,” she said earnestly. “It isn’t our intention to upset Jeremy, and you can be present the entire time. We only want him to look at the composites, and if he doesn’t recognize him, we will be on our way. But if this man,” she stopped, holding up the one of Dennan with long hair. “If Jeremy knows something about him, we need to know.”

“I see no reason for Jeremy to be reminded of any of this,” Jason stated flatly, his arm curling around his wife’s tense shoulders. “He deals with it every day as it is. Can’t you people leave us alone?”

Myah’s posture slumped at my side. She was not the type to pressure anyone concerning children, and had little experience dealing with riled parents defending their own. I knew if I didn’t say something, we’d be ushered out quickly and never given another chance.

“Mr. and Mrs. Trexall, believe me, I understand what your son’s endured. The media dogging your every step, unable to run simple errands without someone asking for details of the most traumatic thing you’ve ever been through. And the fear. The constant looking over your shoulder for whatever monster has grown in place of the one that was slain. Changing your phone number only to have the vultures find it and call, day or night, hoping to catch you off guard enough to get some juicy quote for the next broadcast or printing. I get it.” Their faces remained worried, but the hardness around Marlene’s mouth eased, and the furrows in Jason’s brow relaxed.

“That’s why we’re here. To keep people like Strange from taking another kid. If Jeremy can help us find this guy,” I gestured to the composites, “so we can ask him some questions, then maybe we’ll make the city that much safer. Maybe we can concentrate on the next person who needs to be taken off the streets, and the one after that.”

“I don’t know.” Marlene hesitated, warily eyeing the photos as though they’d personally wronged her. “Jeremy’s been through so much.”

“I understand. We only need a few minutes,” I assured them. “It was a tip someone else gave us that led to finding Strange’s vehicle. Someone talked to us when they didn’t have to, and we recovered your son. I know not every question we ask gets that kind of response, but if asking the right one at the right time works, isn’t it worth it?”

Myah nudged me, probably for laying it on so thick. But Alex Dennan could have answers for us about the death of one good man, possibly two. I was taking no chances.

“Excuse me a moment,” Marlene said, disentangling herself from her husband. The sound of her pumps on the marble floor echoed through the foyer and up the stairs.

“If I don’t like Jeremy’s reaction to this, it all stops. You understand?” Jason said, not unkindly.

“Of course, Mr. Trexall.”

A few minutes of awkward silence later, Jeremy appeared in the sitting room archway, his mother’s hand on his shoulder. He regarded us sullenly, blond hair flopping artfully over one eye. He flipped his head to glare at us, the full effect of his reluctance screaming from the tense line of his shoulders. Marlene guided him into the room and onto the seat beside his father. She bookended him, placing one proprietary hand on his forearm.

“Hi, Jeremy,” Myah smiled. “How are you?”

“Tired of seeing you people, that’s for goddamned sure,” he smarted off, earning a sharp reprimand from his dad.

Myah chuckled, not fazed in the least. “I don’t blame you at all. In fact, if I never have to see you again, I’ll be thrilled to pieces.”

That garnered her a genuine grin from the boy, and he relaxed. “What do you want to ask me?”

“Do you recognize the person in any of these sketches? They’re age progressions of the same boy, so we don’t exactly know what his hair or build is like today, but we hope there’s a chance one of them gets close to the mark. The man would be close to twenty now, and possibly someone who had contact with Strange.”

He leaned forward, taking each sheet in hand to study it closely. Beside him, his parents watched hawk-eyed, ready to interject if he had a bad reaction to any of them. He squinted at the one with long hair. I held my breath, waiting for his face to change, realization to dawn.

“I don’t recognize any of them. Not really.” He shoved the photos back to us, unconcerned and unmoved. My insides deflated while Mr. and Mrs. Trexall breathed audible sighs of relief.

“Are you sure?” I pressed.

“Yeah. If he was around that dickhead, I don’t remember him. The only other person I know of in the house was that Carter guy. But I told you I only saw him a couple times, and not very well, since it was dark in my room and all he did was drop off food. I don’t even know if he knew why I was there, and I wasn’t about to tell him. Not that I was interested in talking to anyone but Marshall. And Marshall treated me like dirt.” Head bowed, Jeremy let his hair obscure his face once more.

It was in the case notes; the contact between the two boys had been minimal, with Jeremy locked in a room in the finished basement, his meals brought to him, most often by Marshall, but sometimes by Strange or Carter Black, whom we hadn’t located for questioning. Jeremy and Marshall had said Black hadn’t laid a hand on them, that he was an occasional visitor. Marshall said he thought Strange covered their presence in his house by saying they were the sons of his late sister, and he’d been their guardian since her death.

Marshall had the run of the rest of the basement, but wasn’t allowed upstairs. He was occasionally taken outside the house as a reward, but Strange kept him in sight at all times. Many in the media questioned why he hadn’t fled in a crowded supermarket or told someone who he was and he needed help. It was all part of victim psychology, and while I understood why Marshall had been too scared to risk escape, it wasn’t Jeremy’s place to explain. But it did remind me of another question.

“Jeremy, have you kept in touch with Marshall?”

He shrugged. “He called me a couple times to see how I was doing. It was weird, how nice to me he was. I thought he hated me. My therapist said it was because he was afraid I would replace him and Strange would kill him out of boredom.” It was the first time he’d said his captor’s name. “I guess I could see why he’d be freaked, man. But it woulda been nice to have a friend those three weeks, ya know? Now that we’re both home, I really don’t wanna talk to him, so it’s probably better he was a jerk. I don’t wanna remember if I don’t have to, and it’s not like we got to be buddies.”

“So you wouldn’t know if he and his family have gone somewhere?”

Jeremy shook his head. “Kinda wish we could. Get away from here so those jackass reporters would leave me alone.” His mother cuffed him in the back of the head as a warning about his language. “Jeez, Mom! Jackass is a nice word for what they really are.”

“I’m not raising my son to use gutter-talk.”

“I just wish we could leave so they’d forget about me.” He glared at his father. “But Dad’s gotta work and won’t let me and Mom go by ourselves.”

“Can you blame me, son, for wanting to be close to my family after everything?” Jason asked, clearly weary of what was likely a tired argument.

Jeremy hid behind his hair. But he didn’t pull away when Jason put his arm across the boy’s shoulders. Whether the comfort was for father or son, I didn’t think it mattered. I was glad to see they still had each other after their ordeal.

“So you don’t know where the Schofields went or have a way to reach them?”

Jeremy looked at his hands, his discomfort plain.

“Marshall gave me his cell phone number. Said if I did ever want to talk, I could call him.”

Myah straightened. “May we have that number?”

“I don’t know if I should,” he hedged.

“We won’t tell him where we got it,” she assured him. “And we won’t put any undue stress on him. We only need to ask him about these same photos, see if he recognizes this man. Nothing we haven’t asked you. Promise.”

Reluctantly, Jeremy nodded. “Lemme get my phone.”

He scuttled from the room and bounded up the stairs two at a time, leaving us alone with his parents. A minute later, he returned, thumbing through an iPhone. Myah wrote down the number he recited, and then stood.

“We really appreciate your time. Hopefully, it won’t be necessary to bother you again,” I said, getting to my feet and gathering the papers from the table.

“Sorry I wasn’t much help,” Jeremy mumbled, hiding once more behind the fall of his bangs.

“Hey,” I said quietly, willing him to look up. He didn’t. “If it makes you feel better, I know where you’re coming from.” That got his attention. “So if you ever want someone to talk to, someone who understands but isn’t exactly a reminder of your situation or being paid to listen to you, you can call me.” I pulled a card from my wallet and passed it to him, just like I had Marshall Schofield before he’d left for home however many months before. “I mean it. Any time, okay?”

He nodded, studying the card. Flipping his hair out of his eyes, he smiled shyly at me. “Thanks, man.”

“GAVIN.” MY name warbled in my ears, reaching into the depths of sleep and drawing me out. “Gavin,” the voice repeated. I snuffled, rolling onto my back, not opening my eyes, quickly drifting again, sinking back into a dream involving boating on a tiny lake in a giant yacht captained by a rabbit that looked harmless but spoke with the gravelly voice of a chronic smoker and kept steering toward rocky embankments. Every time I saw him, he’d gotten a new piercing, until the sides of his pointed ears were edged in bling.

At the moment, he was rubbing his scratchy whiskers on my belly. I laughed, pushing him away.

“Tickles,” I mumbled.

“Good, you need to get up.”

The rabbit’s voice had changed, becoming smooth and slightly tinged with a southern lilt.

“Been up for hours,” I said. “We’ve been looking for a way off the lake forever, and you keep trying to kill us, Bunny Boy.”

He laughed. “What? I’m not trying to kill you. I’m trying to get you up, but I’ve only partly succeeded.” He descended on my cock, lapping his bunny tongue around the stiffened head. I jerked away.

“Whoa there, captain. I draw the line at rabbit blow jobs,” I chided, bending in half to dislodge his mouth.

“Gavin,” the voice said in my ear, turning my head. “Wake up.”

“Mmmf.” My eyelids struggled to move, and finally, reality seeped in. Ben’s face peered down at me, his eyes dancing merrily in the early morning glow trickling through the window.

“Some dream. You all there yet?”

I groaned. “Did I just call you ‘Bunny Boy?’”

“That you did.”

“Now I think I want you to kill me.” I rolled over, burying my flaming face in the pillows.

“No can do,” he said, resting his chin on my shoulder, his bare chest warm against my back. “If I don’t deliver you to your parents for brunch in an hour and a half, they’ll send a search party. I like being able to do things like breathe and spank you, so I think I’ll stick around a little longer, if it’s all the same to you.”

“Oh god, we have brunch.”

“Yes, and Cole’s already called to make sure we’ll be there.”

I peered at him with one eye. “Cole’s awake already? It’s before nine on a weekend.”

“I thought the same thing, but he said you’re not allowed to, quote, puss out. He also told me, if I don’t have you there, he will tell your mother you’re not too old for spankings and demand I prove it.”

I raised my head, goggling at him. He gave me a closed mouth kiss, and then pushed off the bed, a towel around his waist from his shower. “That dirty bastard,” I said with awe, sitting up, the sheets puddled around my middle. “He probably just wants us to be there so Ma will fuss over me and leave him alone.”

“I don’t know,” Ben called from the walk-in closet, emerging to throw a pile of clothes for us both on the bed. Since that night in the rain, he’d taken to choosing what I would wear in the mornings. I liked the reminder throughout the day that I was dressed how he liked, looked how he preferred me to look. “But I have something that might help with that.”

He knelt beside the bed and drew out a flat, square box.

“A TV to drown out the motherly concern?”

“Har har. No. Something I’ve given a lot of thought to in the last couple weeks.”

I raised a brow and got up, rounding the bed to stand beside him. The box was classy, a calligraphy logo proclaiming Mistress Violetta’s in looping scroll across the front. I squinted, trying to make out the smaller print beneath the logo.

“‘Corsets, lingerie, and custom leathers?’” I read, my heart picking up speed. “What did you do?” A spoke of fear bolted up my spine. The first two weren’t applicable, and the third only made me think of restraints. Which... no. Just no. I backed away, breath whistling through my nose. I couldn’t look away from the box, and for a brief moment, I feared it would burst open of its own accord and a leather straight jacket would rise out of it, complete with the pony mask that haunted my dreams, albeit much less frequently lately.

Ben’s chest broke my line of vision as my back bumped the wall and I could retreat no farther. He held a hand out but didn’t touch me, waiting for me to decide if I wanted contact. I reached for him, lacing our fingers together, pleading with my eyes for him to do... something. Make it better. Explain. Tell me I could forget the whole thing.

Light dawned. I
could
forget the whole thing, if I really wanted to. Ben respected my limits, and more importantly, trusted me to know when they’d been reached. Hadn’t I spent the last few months promising him I was ready for submission again? It wasn’t just kink I’d been after; it was the free fall, knowing Ben would be there to see me through, and I could
let go.
This was him giving me a way to let go, trust that he wouldn’t ask anything of me he didn’t think me capable of. My breathing slowed and the vibration of my muscles subsided a bit. I took a great, shuddering breath, calming myself.

“Hang on,” I said as he opened his mouth to speak. He stayed silent, moving closer, coming within inches of me. I looped my arm around his waist, our hands clasped to my chest, still linked, as though we were about to dance. In a way, we were. A new rhythm between us that would help us find our beat. “Okay,” I breathed, resting my chin to his shoulder. He ran his hand up my arm and into my hair, and kissed my temple. “Tell me about the box,” I murmured into his skin.

“You sure?”

“Yes. It’s my imagination playing tricks on me, not the reality. What’s in it?”

“A corset,” he answered, cupping the nape of my neck to back me up so he could look at me for a reaction. “Not a lacy, frilly thing. I’m not much for cross-dressing, though if you wanted to explore that, we can discuss it. This is a man’s corset, tailored specifically to your measurements.”

“Where’d you get my measurements?”

His mouth hardened into a grim line. “From before. The sensory deprivation suit.” The one that had almost gotten us killed.

“Oh,” was all I could say. My thoughts were scattered, and I wasn’t sure what to think.

“Historically, men wore corsets frequently, particularly when riding horses or hunting. It helps with posture, which is better for long periods of exercise. It also builds confidence. Mistress Violetta serves quite a few of my friends, and she’s a genius with leather. I gave her your measurements a couple weeks ago, after talking with Laura about ways to restrain you without using traditional means.”

While unsure what to think, my body reacted. I’d grown pliant in his arms, and the trip-hammer of my heart had simmered down. A thin sheen of sweat broke across my upper lip and forehead, but otherwise, I was calm. Except for a stirring in my groin, that was. Restrained while still being free to move, to run if necessary, to maintain control of my body. I’d thought being immobilized in any way was totally off the table, but it seemed my imagination simply hadn’t been creative enough to circumnavigate that limit. The thought of wearing a restricting garment beneath my clothes, which no one could see, was tantalizing, and my dick took notice. So did Ben.

“You’re intrigued,” he whispered, searching my face for signs of panic.

“Yes, Sir.” It was automatic, the transition into his sub. “But I have a question.”

“I’d imagine you have several.”

“How does wearing a corset help me with my mother’s fussing?”

He paused, then laughed, a full-out guffaw, throwing his head back. I wanted to lick his throat. When his mirth subsided, he pressed his nose into my cheek, smiling against my skin. “Because you’ll be calm despite the usual family chaos. You’ll be restrained by my gift, though no one will know it. You’ll be focused, confident, and centered. And they’ll marvel at the change instead of worrying you’re not holding together. You
will
be held together—by me, and in one of your most stressful situations. Nothing sexual about it,” he murmured, though his hand slipped between us and encircled my cock. “But if you think it will be necessary, I can put a ring on your dick. There will be children there, after all.”

“Or you could let me come, Sir.”

“We’ll see,” he intoned, patting my cheek. “Go shower. No touching yourself except to wash. When you’re done, I’ll help you get dressed.”

I groaned but obeyed, only running the water lukewarm. When I emerged, Ben was at the sink shaving. As I passed him, I kissed his shoulder and yanked the towel from his waist. He gave me a mock growl.

“Wait for me by the bed.”

Presenting beside the box, which he’d opened while I showered, I studied the garment lying in a cloud of tissue paper. It wasn’t leather like I’d expected, nor did it have any color. He was right about it being utilitarian instead of frilly. It had straight lines, not the hourglass shape people generally associate with corsets. It was innocuous, the color of pale skin. The urge to touch it was strong, but I resisted. I hadn’t been given permission.

“What do you think?” he asked, standing beside me.

“It’s different than I expected. Not girly at all, like you said.”

“I didn’t figure you’d go for that, given a corset in general is considered these days to be a lady’s undergarment. But this one is specifically made for a man’s longer torso and lower waistline, so it won’t cinch your ribs. It’s slimming, but won’t give you curves. It’ll give you that superhero V shape, make your shoulders seem broader. You up for it?” I nodded, biting my lip as he lifted it from the wrappings. “Put your hands on your chest,” he instructed.

“Do you need me to turn, Sir?” I asked, settling my palms over my thundering heart.

“Not yet.” He looped his arms behind me, wrapping me in surprisingly soft fabric, despite its rigid construction. The front had hook and eye closures the entire length, which he did up expertly, leaving the bottom hook for last. I watched, enthralled with his long fingers’ swift movements.

“It’s not tight at all.”

“No, I haven’t done the lacing. Now turn around. You can put your arms down. Stand as straight as you can.”

“Are the knots going to be big enough to see through my shirt?” I asked, hearing the whisper of sturdy laces as he untangled the ends. He pulled at the top of the ties, and instantly my spine went rigid. It took my breath for a moment, though more in surprise at the strength of the thing as it molded to me than any constriction.

“Your shirts are pretty loose fitting, but we’ll tuck the laces into the top of your pants, beneath your belt. It might take you some getting used to, but no one but me will know. Breathe normally and don’t suck in. I don’t want to go too tight the first few times. It takes some adjustment before you’ll be able to wear it as snug as I want you to.” He yanked at the laces, compressing my torso as surely and completely as possible. Immediately, I felt balanced, strong, confident, as my shoulders shifted and squared. Internally, nothing hurt. I could expand my lungs fully, and each time I did so, it was as if I were given a warm, velvety hug. I rested my hands against the front hooks, feeling the rods within the garment as the fabric stretched over them.

“Comfortable?” he asked, and I jerked at the final pull at my hips. “Last chance, so speak up.”

“Surprisingly, yes,” I answered. “Feels good, Sir. Sturdy, but somehow relaxing, like it’s not up to me to keep straight, and I can trust it to hold me up.”

He made his knot to hold it in place, and then settled his hands on my hips, kissing my shoulder. “Think of it like me holding you up, keeping you steady and true. I know you’re nervous about being affectionate with me in front of your family, and truthfully, no matter how used to your orientation they’ve gotten, they may never be comfortable with more than seeing us seated side by side at their dinner table. This is one way to remind you that, regardless of where we are, you belong to me. When you’re feeling pressured, I’ll be there with you, even if I’m not in the same room or can’t touch you how I want.”

I turned in his arms, hooking my hands at the small of his back. “Thank you, Sir. That sounds perfect.”

“Maybe a little too perfect,” he quipped, shifting against me. His words had woven their sinuous way to my cock, which was standing at half-hearted attention and had definite interest in what would happen next. “Hands behind your back. I need to put a ring on you.”

“Yes, Sir.” I didn’t want the ring, but it wasn’t my choice, and truthfully, it would likely help. Every time I thought of the corset, it would be inconvenient to spring wood, and we didn’t have time for any relief.

I suffered the indignity of the cock ring in silence, and then finished dressing. In front of the mirror, I turned from one side to the other, trying to see if the corset was visible in any way. Other than an improved physique and squared shoulders, the answer was no.

“Quit preening,” Ben teased from the doorway, holding my coat up to help me into it. “We’re going to be late, and all the pretty posture in the world won’t help us then.”

The ride to my parents’ in South County was nice, though I had difficulty getting comfortable in the passenger seat. I finally had to raise the seat back so it was much less reclined.

“I never realized how much I slouch.”

Ben said nothing, a smile creeping at the corner of his mouth.

“So how submissive are you expecting me to be in front of my family? I need some boundaries here, because I have no idea what this will be like.”

He shrugged, exiting the interstate and smoothly navigating the stop lights on Lindbergh. “Nothing much different than what you’re usually like when we visit your family. I don’t want you on your knees for me at their house.”

“Okay,” I breathed in relief. “Because that could just be awkward.”

“The corset is a reminder of me, and a way for me to hold you in place without triggering your limits. The bonus is, I don’t have to physically touch you to do it, so you’re submitting to me in public, without anyone realizing. That’s all. Maybe we’ll incorporate it into a scene, but I want you used to wearing it before that happens. Maybe we can try gloves, too. Mistress Violetta could make some with mitts to cover your fingers so your arms are free but your hands are still pretty much useless, and you’d have to rely on me as surely as if you were cuffed to the headboard.”