Mastered By The Mavericks (30 page)

Focus, you wanker.

Beyond the erotic fantasy value, the picture was a revelation. Though Brynn and Enya
stood on opposite sides of their friend, their resemblance was too striking to be
ignored. Duplicate kitten eyes. The same high, defined cheeks. Their chins tapering
to matching heart-shaped points.

“Beautiful girl.” Rebel stated it as if rattling off mission intel, peering analytically
at the monitor. “Looks happy, healthy, fulfilled. Lived about ten minutes from Brynna,
and had friends as well as an active social life. According to her tax records, worked
a good job as a special events manager at The Wynn—”

Rhett interjected with a low whistle. “Niiiice.”

“But apparently, she was lying to a lot of people.”

Rhett took that as his cue to click open another window. A page from a new social
media site appeared, which incorporated element of the popular standard social sites,
but with kinkier twists. Photos of Enya Monet also filled the screen—only it wasn’t
her name at the top of the page.
Hestia Hyacinth
was a different creature entirely: a woman who wore latex minis, training corsets,
and leather accessories with D-rings for bondage hooks. Her blonde hair was hidden
beneath wigs of various colors and styles. Her face was coated in glittering makeup
and swirled decals that turned her into everything from a half-naked butterfly to
an erotic zombie to a naughty schoolgirl, and everything in between.

“At the risk of being redundant,” Rhett inserted, “no shit.”

Rebel scooted in, a fascinated stare taking over his face. “Check out the dates. Her
posts to Facebook faded as her entries on this kink site ramped up.”

“Definitely fits.” Rhett clicked another tab, opening up a detailed credit card purchase
history. “Check out the other records I was able to yank.”

Rebel leaned in again. “She went to a lot of the lighter D/s play clubs in town…”

“Until she didn’t.”

The guy’s gaze flared. “Wait a second. Brick and Bondage Corp. Isn’t that—”

“Max Brickham’s company.” Rhett offered the name of the Seattle-based Dom who owned
Bastille, the kink club they frequented when they were back at base. Last year, Max
had opened a second location in a subterranean bunker beneath the Nevada desert, halfway
between Vegas and Henderson. Catacomb wasn’t advertised or promoted anywhere in town—partly
because it was successful without the fuss; mostly because it was known for the most
hardcore BDSM play in the valley.

Rebel scooped up the pencil again. Tapped it on the desk in a fervent staccato. Rhett
tried not to stare but failed. It was almost as fascinating to watch the guy think
as it was to watch him fuck. “So she heard about Catacomb. And got in.”

“Looks like it.” Rhett scowled. “But we can only go by the receipt trail. Max is,
as we both know, paranoid about security. His firewalls can be cracked, but it would
take me three days minimum to do it.”

“Don’t bother.” Rebel started scrolling deeper into the pages of “Hestia’s” kink account.
“I think we’ll find what we need right here.”

Scroll. Scroll. Scroll.

Rebel kept going, though some of the shots made him stop and zoom in before shaking
his head, looking as stumped as a
Jeopardy
contestant who had no clue how to answer the Daily Double. Rhett had to admit, his
friend’s confusion was oddly reassuring. Rhett had seen a lot of the world, and that
included BDSM dungeons from the tame to the bizarre, but even to a jaded guy like
himself, the pictorial chronicle of Hestia’s submissive journey was intense. The images
depicted the woman in increasingly extreme D/s situations, including fire cupping,
public whippings, and even a needle and thread session where the sides of her spine
were pierced with eyelets then “laced up” like a corset.

The captions on the photos declared it was all for her Master Peter, a guy who looked
like the love child of Billy Corgan and a Harajuku Girl, and did his part for the
Vegas BDSM community by ensuring the camera loved him in all the right ways. From
his rock star pout and shit-kicker boots to his kohl-lined eyes and multi-pierced
ears, Peter baby was all about projecting the brooding rebel guy mystique. He apparently
played that way, too. Rhett lost track of how many red flags he set off, all of them
overlaid with one resonating word.

User
.

His instinct wasn’t soothed as Rebel continued scrolling. The pictures of Enya and
her Dom were clearly all captioned by her, in language that made more alarms go off.

He is my sun, my moon, my stars.

I am his to rule forever.

His happiness is mine.

Next to him Rebel grunted. “His happiness?” he scoffed. “Does that guy understand
what happiness is, beyond a popular Instagram account?”

The answer came with hardly any notice. Between one mouse click and the next, Hestia
Hyacinth’s profile relayed a dramatically different story. Gone was the cute and curious
little subbie, as well as the lovestruck woman devoted to the will of her Dom. Gone
were photos of the
woman
at all. Haunting images took over her feed, some borrowed from other sources, others
taken with her cell. Moody landscapes. Pining poems. Shots of things like tumbleweeds,
cloud-filled skies, lone swans on foggy ponds.

The captions to the images were just as desolate. Rambling and grief-stricken, the
texts were filled with pleas and questions, begging Master Peter for an explanation
of what offense she’d committed to turn him from her so suddenly. From the looks of
things, diva-boy Dom had left her to hang, despite how she begged him for a phone
call, a text…a chance.

Rhett pounded down more water. “Why do I suddenly wish this was vodka?”

Rebel cocked back his head, closing his eyes. “Asshole saved all the pretty for the
camera.”

“A lot more makes sense now. About what Brynn said.”

“Truth.” Reb straightened, taking in the images with newly scrutinizing eyes. “So
what happened after that? These last pictures are dated nearly a year ago.”

Rhett clicked open the window with his original search results for Enya’s name. “I
had more hits here…let me see if anything turns…”

“Whoa.” Rebel voiced the polite version of
what-the-fuck
, as the monitor was filled with a certificate bearing the state’s seal—then three
words in ornate script.

Power of Attorney

It was easy enough to skim the legal mumbo-jumbo and locate the names of the key people
on the doc.

“Enya gave Brynna her power of attorney?” Rhett frowned.

“And not to a parent?” Rebel countered. “Are their mom and dad around?”

Frustration seared Rhett’s chest. He’d shared sexual ecstasy with the woman now embedded
into his bone marrow, but barely knew a thing about her life, especially her family.
While the connection of this week was hardly going to transfer back to their real
lives, the incongruity still felt wrong. “Wait.” A memory blasted in. “Wasn’t Brynn’s
mom at Shay and Zoe’s wedding? The funny little thing who sat on the hay bale all
night?”

Rebel’s head jerked up. “Yeah,” he said slowly. “Right. She was the overgrown garden
gnome crossed with Kathy Bates, circa
Misery
.”

“Only she thought that corner was her little pulpit after a while. I think she quoted
every apostle in Jesus’s posse, along with Paul and a few guest stars from the Old
Testament too,”

“Right.” Reb snickered for a second. “Thank fuck Zoe wasn’t showing with the
bebette
yet.”

“Well, that clarifies Enya’s choice. A little.”

“A
little
.” Rebel used the emphasis to drive in the opposite. There was still a lot they didn’t
know about all this. “What the hell isn’t adding up?” He dragged a hand through his
hair and turned his gaze out the window, as if the towering cypress and oaks would
magically give up the answer. “What are we missing?”

“Or more accurately, what can’t we find?”

Suddenly, Rebel swiveled his head back around. His eyes were brilliant as cut stones.
“You mean what we can’t find…legally.”

Rhett returned the stare with rising comprehension. “Things like health records…or
sealed court documents.” He tapped knuckles against his chin, thinking deeper. “Or…a
restraining order?”

“Perhaps.” Rhett hedged. “But filed by whom? Look at Enya’s posts again. Her desperation
adds the detail. She lists everything about her time with Peter except goddamn bathroom
breaks. There’s length of their play sessions, depth and intensity of the guy’s discipline—”

“Toy types.” Rhett’s brows jabbed up. “Positions. Climax counts. Christ. This shit
is juicy.”

“And just as abundant after their breakup, only the information is different. The
little Jane Austen can spin the angst with the best of them.”

“Roger that.” The material would’ve been a little comical, had the heartache beneath
not been so palpable. “‘
Breathe in, breathe out, but I only swallow glass…top of the world, but I’m sitting
in trash…
’”

“Wonder if she ever thought of selling to Nashville. Girl could stir herself up a
pile of gold.” He held up both hands at Rhett’s censuring glance. “Just sayin’,
podna
.”

Rhett reveled in warmth from the man’s casual endearment—for a moment. He shoved it
aside just as quickly to focus again on the monitors. “So if Peter didn’t file it,
and
she
didn’t—”

“We’re still looking in the wrong place.” Reb started the pencil drumbeat again.

“But still seeking something protected by the court.”

The drumming stopped. As if drawn to the very lightbulb that seemed to blaze to life
inside it, Reb lifted his head. “Like psychiatric care?”

Rhett pivoted in his chair.
Bam
. There was his lightbulb too. “A fifty-one fifty psych hold?” The words even felt
right to say. “Or something else? Or both?”

“Not sure it matters. But it sure as hell slides some things into place.” Rebel rose,
braced hands to his hips then paced toward the doorway leading to the other den, where
the rumpled blankets on the futon were a blatant reminder of what had gone down this
morning for all three of them. “
A lot
of things.”

Rhett nodded. The circuits in his brain kept snapping into place, gears hitting at
high speed. “That was the reason for her meltdown, wasn’t it? It wasn’t all just about
Zoe.”

It wasn’t a shocker to him—nor to Rebel, judging by the guy’s unchanged posture. After
a long moment, the sinews of his shoulders twined and shifted as he reached for the
door frame, noticeably clenching the dark wood. “Taking on that kind of responsibility…es­pecially
if her sister had a significant breakdown…”

“Because of a Dom who took ‘wham, bam, thank you, subbie’ to a whole new level of
ass wad.” Rhett leaned forward, meshing his hands and dropping his head. “Unbelievable.”

“No wonder she’s fighting so violently against her submissiveness.” Reb’s hands glided
downward, almost caressing the wood. “Though I’ve never met a woman more perfectly
created for it.” He rocked back and forth in the portal, embodying the rate at which
both their brains now churned. It all started to fit. The memories of what she’d said,
together with the facts they’d just learned, added to some damn confident inferences
on both their parts.

Rhett tilted his head up again. “Damn. A natural submissive who refuses to submit.”

“Unless her brain is forcibly locked out of the situation.”

Rhett chuffed. Another unarguable point from the “Look what we learned in bed this
morning” folder. The things Brynna had agreed to…the heights they’d taken her desire,
once she’d just given up, given in, and surrendered to their full control…

“A situation we managed once.” The argument needed to be voiced aloud. “Fat bloody
chance she’ll allow it to happen again. In that gorgeous head of hers, losing control
doesn’t just mean surrendering her body. It’s a matter of losing
herself
.”

Rebel turned around, lifting his hold to the doorway’s upper jamb in the process.
“Just like her sister did.”

Damn
. Talk about losing oneself. Moon’s stretched, burnished muscles were an eyeful that
made Rhett forget his own name for a second. He readjusted his position in the chair,
silently cursing the events of this morning—for the thousandth time. And for the thousandth
time, taking them back. The revelations they’d known and all the new things he’d seen
in this man…he’d never forget any of it, and knew that in time, when the recollections
melded into the places of his mind reserved for the most special moments of his life,
that an image of Rebel’s passion-drenched face would be there, too.

In the end, he’d be damn glad it all happened.

He wasn’t sure Brynn would be joining him in that boat.

Once more, he decided to finish his musing aloud. “But her tenacity about the control…it’s
like clutching greased rope. The tighter she holds on, the more her grip slips.”

“Which we witnessed in full, sobbing Technicolor.”

Rhett stood now, too. Stuffed both hands into his pockets while battling the urge
to reach out and just run his hands beneath Reb’s tank. It wouldn’t be for any sexual
thrill this time, though. He felt the visceral need to put an outward display on the
new things he felt for the man. No, not even for the man. This was just about…the
person.
The connection to him. The acceptance by him, for him. The better ways they could
already read each other, know each other. Their synchronicity on missions, already
legendary, was going to be off the fucking charts now.

But it wasn’t possible. Couldn’t be. If he touched just one place, he’d want more.
Then Reb would want more. Then a touch wouldn’t be enough, maybe not even a kiss.
And it would be amazing. Conflagrating. A bonfire for the ages.

A passion he’d never be able to recover from.

Working side-by-side with the man wouldn’t be synchronicity anymore. It would be hell.