One For The Team Page 3

  He looked at Cable. “I thought I was done with the killing when I left the SEALs. I thought I was through with all that crap.”

  “We are warriors, Boss. That’s who we are. A puma can’t change his spots.”

  For once, Zach couldn’t find the strength to correct Cable’s mixed metaphor.

  “You want I call Avalon, get her down here?” Cable asked, changing the subject.

  “Hell, no,” Zach replied quickly. “I’ll tell her myself, break it to her gently. You know what’s she’s like.”

  Zach didn’t want to upset her, not when she’d been so touchy lately. Ever since she started seeing that shrink, she’d become irritable and aloof — he wasn’t convinced the doctor was doing her any good, though she swore he was. He’d done a cursory check on the man, but no red flags had popped up. What she needed, or they both did, was an uninterrupted day on the beach.

  Cable nodded. He knew Zach was in a no-win situation. Either way, Avalon would break his balls — twice — once for getting shot and the second for not telling her.

  “You don’t make love look all that easy,” Cable said. “Also kinda weird.”

  There was a knock on the door, and two men wearing gray suits and black leather shoes entered the room. One was tall, the other short, and both had close-cropped hair. The tall one scowled. The short guy at least tried to smile, but without much success.

  Cable and Zach exchanged a knowing glance.

  “I’ll be outside.” Cable stood up and turned to leave, but the tall one moved to block his way.

  “Whoa there, Cable Bears. Where do you think you’re going?” His voice was a nasal snarl that made him sound like an angry snake. He put the flat of his hand on Cable’s chest and tried to push him back a step.

  Zach sighed. Big mistake, buddy. Big, big mistake. Mildly amused, he watched Cable grab the man’s wrist, twist viciously, and slam him face first into the back of the door. The move came so fast that by the time the shorter man reached for the gun under his armpit, he already had the cold, sharp steel of Cable’s twelve-inch Bowie knife against his throat.

  “Move and I’ll have your scalp,” Cable said. The air in the room was instantly charged with the threat of violence.

  “Play nice, Cable. Put the man down,” Zach said, as if he were chiding an unruly child.

  “Not before I see some ID.” Cable stared into the short guy’s eyes.

  Shorty put a slow-motion hand in his pocket and pulled out a wallet with a local law enforcement badge.

  Cable removed the knife, and his mouth twitched with a smile that did not touch his eyes. “Well, why didn’t you say so, Detective?”

  Short guy breathed a sigh and swallowed heavily. “We figured you’d recognize cops. I’m Detective Brody, this is Detective Zander.” He indicated his colleague with a tilt of the head and broadened his smile to compensate for the apology in his voice. It made him look even more nervous than he already did.

  Cable slid his knife back into the leather sheath under his jacket and let go of the tall guy.

  Zander spun around, rubbing his wrist, ready to hurl a string of obscenities, but when he saw the killer coolness in Cable’s eyes, he decided it might be more prudent to simply keep his mouth shut.

  “Sure, we knew you were law enforcement,” Zach said. “Or insurance salesmen. My friend here, he likes to be sure.”

  The two detectives ignored the joke and edged around Cable’s bulk towards the bed. Cable watched like a hungry hawk watches a couple of mice scuttling through long grass. Zander scowled his way over to the window and stood with his back against the square of blue sky, creating a silhouette that reminded Zach of a mannequin he’d once seen in the window of a cheap suit store. Brody stood at the end of the bed. His hand shook when he took a notepad from his inside jacket pocket.

  “You’ll be okay here, Boss?” Cable asked.

  “Sure, buddy. It’s all good. These guys are just doing their jobs.” Zach gave Cable a weary thumbs up.

  “Then, as I said, I’ll be outside.” He opened the door to leave, giving the detectives one last look of death.

  Zach called after him, “Hey, Cable?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Thanks for the grape.”

  Chapter Five

  “How often do you masturbate?” Dr. Phillips sat back in his chair and scratched the top of his bald head with his thumb. He peered at his 12:30 appointment over the rim of his glasses. “You do, don’t you? Pleasure yourself?”

  On the other side of the desk, Avalon Rossi blinked and coughed, her face flushing pink. “Pardon me? What?” she asked, hesitant, unsure she had heard him correctly.

  The psychiatrist’s thumb traveled down his round face and stopped to scratch at his double chin. The unwavering stare of his calm, blue eyes offered Avalon no mercy.

  “Not really,” she said at last into the silence. “I have. But… I prefer the real thing. With a man, I mean.” Avalon shifted uneasily in her chair and wondered what the question had to do with her dreams. A tiny trickle of sweat crept down her armpit. She hoped it wouldn’t show through the thin cotton of her blouse.

  “Never? Are you quite certain?” Phillips’ voice remained flat and matter-of-fact.

  He was behaving exactly as Avalon would expect a highly trained and well-paid professional to behave. But his line of questioning still gave her the creeps. She shivered and took a deep breath.

  “Dr. Phillips.” She raised her head, sitting up straight in the chair. “I really don’t understand what any of this has to do with the therapy you’ve prescribed. There’s nothing sexual about my dreams, nothing at all. So you see, I’m a little confused.” She breathed out, feeling she had regained a smidgen of control.

  Dr. Phillips sighed and took a pen from the breast pocket of his white coat. He scribbled a note in Avalon’s case file.

  She immediately felt guilty, but was uncertain why.

  Phillips finished writing, returned the pen to his pocket, and stood up. He strolled across the room to the window and peeked through the blinds. His stumpy hands folded neatly behind his back, his white coat seemed to float in the blurry sunlight that filtered through the blinds.

  Without turning around, he said, “My dear Avalon, it is not my habit to discuss methodology with patients. Suffice to say, the great Sigmund Freud achieved overwhelming success using techniques that I myself have taken and honed to the utmost perfection. The question is, do you want me to help you or not?” He spun around and glared at Avalon.

  “Yes, of course,” she said, feeling like she had just been scolded. In self-defense, she added, “That’s what I’m paying you for.”

  “Then you have to trust me.” Phillips’ lips flickered into a brief smile, and he walked back to his desk and sat down.

  “I’m trying, Doctor. But I find your questions irrelevant and misleading.” Avalon sighed and pushed her fingers through her thick, golden-brown hair. Dr. Phillips was reaching for his pen again. Avalon pressed on regardless. “I don’t understand what my sex habits have to do with my bad dreams.” The dreams were always the same: her parents fighting, her mother leaving, and Avalon balled up in the corner. She just wanted them to stop. She was beginning to wish she’d canceled the appointment. Her desk back at the courthouse was piled high with paperwork, and the session with Dr. Phillips was obviously not going as well as either of them had planned.

  “Irrelevant and misleading?” Phillips said, jotting down more notes on the yellow sheet. “We’re not in a courtroom right now, Avalon. I need you to leave all that outside. Do you think you could just relax and answer my questions? As you say, you are paying for my time.”

  Avalon caught the hint of sarcasm in his voice but chose to ignore it. Let’s just get this over with, she thought. I need to get back to work.

  “I’m sorry, Dr. Phillips. I’ll try harder,” she said, feeling like she sounded way too whiny, far too apologetic. Jeez, Avalon, get on your knees and perform, why don’t you? She cr
inged. Where the hell had that thought come from?

  “Excellent.” Phillips beamed. “I think we should begin with the recollection process. Close your eyes, please, deep breaths, and start counting backwards from one hundred. Just like we practiced in the last session.”

  Avalon sighed; she hated this part. She closed her eyes and tried to make herself more comfortable in her chair. Quickly and quietly, Phillips got up from behind his desk, crossed over to the windows, and closed the blinds. Then he moved around the room, lighting heavily scented candles, and finally, he pressed the play button on his phone. The room filled with the soft, rhythmic murmur of gentle surf on a sandy beach.

  Avalon began the countdown. “100… 99… 98… 97…”

  Phillips took an ornamental case from his inside coat pocket and moved around to stand directly behind Avalon. “Just lean your head forwards for me, please,” he said in a soft, low whisper.

  “…88… 87… 86…”

  She did not feel the insertions. The tiny, ultra-sharp acupuncture needles pierced the skin at the back of her neck, finding the mystic pressure points and causing Avalon no pain or discomfort whatsoever. She continued to count down, feeling herself slowly begin to drift and float.

  “…35… 76… 42…” The needles, the scent of the candles, and the sound of the surf began to have an effect. Avalon’s heartbeat slowed, her breathing became deep and heavy, and her head fell forward onto her chest.

  Phillips returned to his chair behind the desk. “How do you feel, Avalon?” he asked, keeping his voice as neutral as possible.

  Avalon stirred. She raised her head, and with her eyes still closed, she smiled. “Good,” she answered. “The beach. It’s warm… nice.” Her voice had a dreamy, far away ring to it, and she sat with her hands in her lap, shoulders slumped, knees together, her posture making her look smaller than she really was.

  “Excellent. Tell me what you see.” Phillips checked the time on his watch and scribbled another note.

  “The sand is soft, yellow, golden, the surf bubbling, frothy, clean, white.”

  “Can you see the birds, Avalon? Can you see the gulls?” The psychiatrist’s tone of voice had taken on a cold edge. He began to fidget impatiently in his chair.

  “Yes. I can see them. Seagulls. They are lovely.”

  Phillips’ mouth twisted into a lewd and lecherous grin. Avalon was as ready as she’d ever be. “Stand up,” he ordered.

  Avalon did as she was told, lifting herself slowly out of the chair. For a moment, she swayed, unsteady on her feet, then found her balance and stood obediently before Phillips’ desk, like a soldier at attention, the smile still on her face, her expression relaxed and content.

  Phillips opened one of the drawers of his desk and pulled out a smartphone. He pressed a button and propped the phone up against the spine of a medical journal on his desk, then craned his neck to check that Avalon was center screen. The red recording light flashed. Phillips reached into another drawer and took out a box of tissues.

  Avalon stood in place, completely unaware of her surroundings.

  Phillips undid his belt and pulled down the zipper.

  “Show me your breasts,” he ordered and spat into the palm of his hand. One by one, Avalon undid the buttons of her blouse.

  Chapter Six

  “So, how are things at Stella’s on the Strand?” Slice asked as he slid onto the barstool next to the owner of the jewelry store.

  “Hello, Mr. Taylor. Would you like a drink?” She smiled and looked at him with eyes that shone.

  Slice smiled back. “I’m always up for mixing business with pleasure. How have you been, Stella?”

  “Good, good.” She waved a hand and a barman duly appeared. “Bourbon, please. Two.”

  The barman turned to get the order.

  “With ice,” Stella called after him.

  Slice frowned. “Actually, a beer would have been okay. It’s a bit early.”

  “Relax, Mr. Taylor. Live a little, why don’t you?” Stella raised an eyebrow and swiveled on her stool until her thigh pressed against Slice’s leg. “I’ve been thinking a lot about you, Mr. Taylor.”

  Slice cleared his throat with a small cough into his fist. “Really? Our office manager told me you phoned about setting up an appointment regarding security arrangements and that you had additional questions.” He leaned in closer and dropped his voice to a whisper. “And please, Stella, we’ve been intimate, so call me Slice, okay?”

  “Yes, I know,” Stella said with a wry grin. “I lied. I want to spank you. But I’d prefer, Mr. Taylor, if you don’t mind. And you can address me as Madam Smith.”

  Slice sat in a stunned silence while the barman placed two glasses of bourbon on the bar in front of them. “Pardon me? You want to what?” he stammered when the barman had gone. He shifted uncomfortably on his stool.

  Stella laughed, sipped her drink, and licked her lips. “I want to spank you. I was thinking about that time you fucked me in the store and—”

  “Could you speak a little louder? I don’t think the barman quite heard you.”

  Stella dropped her voice and leaned closer, her hand firmly on his thigh. “You see?” she whispered. “That’s exactly what I’m talking about. You’re sexually inhibited, Mr. Taylor. I could tell when you took me from behind that afternoon. I want to help you. I want to liberate you.”

  Slice took a large swallow of bourbon. “I’m sorry, Stella. But I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Madam Smith.”

  “What?”

  “Call me Madam Smith, and I’ll call you Mr. Taylor. It’s quite fitting, don’t you think?” She reached for her purse and rummaged inside. “Perhaps this will help to explain?” She handed Slice a gilded business card. He took it and held it close to read the fine print –– MADAM SMITH, DOMINATRIX EXTRAORDINAIRE.

  There was a phone number and an email address in the bottom right corner. Slice looked at Stella with surprise all over his face. “What the hell is this? You’re a dominatrix?”

  “A hobby of mine, but I’m thinking of going full time. It brings in more money than my Venice store. So, would you like me to liberate you, Mr. Taylor?” Her hand was on his thigh again, stroking him, rubbing up his thigh.

  Despite his confusion, Slice became aroused. “Look, Stell — Madam Smith, I really like you, physically. And I enjoyed our little session in your office. But you’ve got it wrong. I have no problems with sex. None at all.” Slice looked around to see if anyone could overhear their conversation, but the bar was empty, aside from him, Stella, and the barman.

  “Let me show you something.” Stella unbuttoned two buttons of her blouse to reveal the full curves of her ample breasts. “Watch this. Excuse me?” she called, waving at the barman again.

  The barman looked up from the glass he was polishing and looked at Stella with an expression that wasn’t quite an irritated frown but came damn close. He put the glass and cloth down and sauntered up the bar.

  “Help you?” he said.

  “Yes, I wanted to know: what year is this bourbon we’re drinking?” Stella smiled and leaned forwards with her elbows on the bar.

  Slice watched the young man’s gaze slide down Stella’s front and fix on her breasts. The bartender’s eyes widened and he launched into a full history of the drink, babbling on at length like a lecturer at a university, all the while sneaking glances at Stella’s cleavage.

  Eventually, Stella cut him off by ordering another two glasses of bourbon.

  “Yes, ma’am; at once, ma’am. No trouble at all.” He turned hurriedly to pour the drinks.

  “Not so monosyllabic that time, was he?” Stella smiled a sly little smile and arched an eyebrow at Slice.

  “So, he likes your breasts. What’s your point?” Slice said, not knowing how to feel about having sex with a woman who was technically trying to hire his company. It was too late to tell her it was against company rules to have sex with the clients.

  “
The point is that you men are all so predictable. And to be frank, most of you have the most basic of instincts. I can make you more than that, Mr. Taylor. If you allow me, I can take you to a higher plane of sexuality.”

  “By slapping my ass?” Slice asked, making no attempt to hide his incredulity.

  “Well, that’s where we’ll begin, yes.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.” Slice laughed.

  The barman returned and placed another two glasses of bourbon with ice on the bar, giving a long, lingering stare at the front of Stella’s blouse.

  “Try me,” Stella said, her head high and her chin jutting forwards in challenge. “Or are you afraid, Mr. Taylor?”

  “I’m not afraid of anything,” Slice mumbled and took another swallow from his glass.

  “Then come with me. I have a hotel room across the street. First session is free.” Her eyes sparkled with a steady and confident gaze.

  Slice felt himself weakening, but he wasn’t sure why. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

  “Absolutely.” Stella leaned in again, and this time, her hand slid straight up Slice’s thigh. She gripped him through his pants and squeezed. “First, you must learn to submit. Only then can you can rise to become a Master.”

  Slice jumped at her touch, tears rushing to his eyes. “All right already!”

  Stella kissed him full on the mouth, then let go of him and stood up to leave. “Follow me.” She gathered her purse and started for the door.

  “Guess I’m paying the bill.” Slice slapped a couple of twenties down on the bar.

  Chapter Seven

  Stella came just as Slice was reaching eight hundred push-ups. His skin shone with a fine layer of sweat, and when he heard her reach the end of her loud, moaning climax, he stopped and jumped easily to his feet. Stella lay on the couch, eyes closed, legs spread wide, wallowing in the glow of her aftermath.