Chapter 21 #3
“The traffic is picking up.” Drake tightened his grip on the steering wheel. “Why did the imbécile have to take Highway 99?” They were passing T-Mobile Park and… “Merde. The Mariners must have a game tonight—and it’s just let out.”
Seattle loved its sports teams, including the major league baseball team. But with all the cars flowing onto the highway, there was no way to close the distance to Blaize’s vehicle.
In the passenger seat beside him, Rona flinched as a pickup veered across three lanes and horns sounded. “Crom. I think every driver on the road is drunk.”
Drake had to agree. “I can’t catch up.” In the darkness, he could barely tell which vehicle was Blaize’s. “Is that his car taking the West Seattle exit?”
The vehicle increased in speed.
“Yes, it’s him,” Simon confirmed.
Drake followed onto the exit. Not that the traffic improved, and he couldn’t spot Blaize’s car any longer. “Is Ray’s phone still showing on the tracking app?”
“It is, but they’re making better time than we are.” Tension edged Simon’s steady voice. “I wish we’d had time to pick up better equipment.” The owner of an international security company loved all the techy stuff.
“It was good you could equip her with a mini-phone and the camstick.” A flashy Mustang darted in front of the car. Drake slammed on the brakes.
Simon’s phone dinged with a text, then another. “I asked Alex where they are. According to the map, they’re even farther behind than we are.”
Drake scowled. Drivers hated the congestion on the West Seattle Bridge, and it was worse at night. “Hopefully, the traffic will ease up and I can—”
Ahead of them, brakes squealed followed by the ear-splitting sound of a collision.
Metal shrieked. And from the sound of it, more cars crashed.
Ahead and around them, brake lights flickered on like an all-red fireworks display…
and traffic slowed to a crawl. A multi-car accident on the West Seattle Bridge was not what they needed.
Drake clamped his jaw to keep from spitting out curses.
Their highway had just turned into a parking lot.
Masks. I hate masks. Saying everyone at the party had to wear a mask, Blaize insisted Ray put on a medical-style blue spangled cloth. As she walked with him up the sidewalk toward a house, the cloth over her mouth fluttered and left her feeling as if she couldn’t get a whole breath.
Blaize had on the kind of mask worn by criminals and ICE agents—a stretchy black, face-covering gaiter drawn up over his nose and extending to his collarbone.
I don’t want to do this. She hugged herself as she looked around the rundown neighborhood. The house on the left was condemned. The one on the right had no lights showing.
She glanced over her shoulder, and her stomach sank. There were no car headlights showing from down the street.
The accident on West Seattle Bridge had been close behind Blaize’s car. When the bridge was congested, clearing away wrecked cars took a long time. Drake and the others were probably still stuck there.
I have no rescue anytime soon.
Blaize looked down at her. “To keep everything confidential, no one uses real names here…and submissives don’t get names at all. I’ll call you slave.”
“No.” She spat out the rejection before thinking and saw anger flash in his eyes. “Sorry! It’s just…the word slave makes my skin crawl. Can we, please, use something else, maybe. Sir?” She almost gagged on the placating words.
But they worked. His eyes smiled at her. “All right. Subbie-girl will work.”
Ugh. I am not submissive to you, you lying rapist. She forced a smile behind the mask. “Great! Thank you.”
“Hey. Didn’t think you were coming today.” The deeply tan man at the door had a shaved head and a gaiter mask with a graphic of bared teeth. “Who’re you tonight? It’s hero night. I’m Conan.”
Ray stopped, unable to move forward. She’d had so many nightmares where everyone wore masks.
“Conan. Good choice. I’ll be Wick.” A couple of inches shorter than the big man, Blaize clapped him on the arm. “I hadn’t planned on attending, but my slave has been annoying as shit.”
He had a slave. Was she who he’d called fuckface on the phone? Was he cheating on his slave, bringing Ray to a party? Yeah, he really was a douchenozzle.
“Besides I knew subbie-girl here would enjoy our party.”
She nodded enthusiastically. And heard the faint sneer as he said subbie-girl. To these guys, a submissive was…a nothing. She was nothing.
“Oh yeah?” Conan’s gaze ran over her in a sexual appraisal that made her skin crawl. “Yeah, I can see why. Niiiice. Welcome, subbie-girl. Did you leave your phone in the car?”
She wet her dry lips and found her voice. “Um, yes, uh, Sir.” It’d been distressing to leave her cell on the front seat. Involuntarily, she bumped her ankle against her other leg to reassure herself she still had Rona’s tiny phone.
I have a phone. I’m not completely out of touch.
“She’s a very good girl.” Blaize put an arm around her and guided her into a big living room.
It was, indeed, a different house from where she’d been before. With an open floor plan, the living room separated from the kitchen by a tile-topped island. Bottles of alcohol and glasses were lined up along the top.
If she’d known more about BDSM back then, she’d have seen the way they pushed alcohol on her before playing as a red flag.
Focus, Ray. Find Marisol and get her out of here.
Hey, maybe she’d get lucky, and Marisol wouldn’t be drugged or anything. But the nursing student was exactly what these animals preferred—a sweet, eager-to-please newbie who didn’t know anyone in the group. And the way her Dom pushed to get her here? Really suspicious.
In the living area were two beat-up couches facing each other along with several more overstuffed chairs. A small TV on top of wall shelves played loud music videos. Curtains on the side and front windows were drawn.
The members appeared mostly heterosexual with more female submissives. The male Dominants were in their twenties to late thirties, all with masks.
Some of the submissives appeared to have lost their masks along with much of their clothing.
None of them was Marisol. Where could she be? I can’t leave unless I know for sure she’s not here.
Portable BDSM equipment was scattered through the room with different scenes playing out. A gagged woman on a St. Andrew’s cross getting lightly flogged. A man caning a woman on a spanking bench. Wax play on a compact massage table.
Memories of her assault kept sideswiping her, until she had to clench her hands to keep from screaming and running as fast and far as she could. Thankfully, the lights were low enough Blaize didn’t notice how terrified she was.
Although Master Drake certainly would have. Blaize wasn’t very perceptive, was he?
She bit her lip and glanced at a woman getting flogged. Please be close by, Drake.
Surely he was. All of them.
But she felt awfully alone.
Nonetheless, it was time to act.
“Wow, it’s pretty warm in here.” She pulled off her jacket, looked around, and…there. The TV was on a head-high empty bookcase against the right wall Perfect. “Let me put this out of the way.”
Walking away from Blaize with her hands hidden in the fabric, she turned on the camstick, clipped the device to a fold with the camera pointing outward, and rolled the jacket up. The roll fit neatly on top of the bookshelf, camera barely poking out, and should give a good view of the room.
Returning to Blaize, she leaned against him. “What’s with the scene names? I don’t understand.”
“We pick a theme and use new names each party.”
That was new. A shiver ran up her spine. It would make identification even more difficult.
“Oh.” C’mon, Ray. Keep the man buttered up. “And you picked Wick.” She smiled up at him. “I could see you as a legendary hitman.”
Ha, he stood a little straighter. “Let me show you around, not that there’s much to see. Kitchen, of course.”
At the back of the room, he pointed to the hallway. “Bathroom is on the right.”
“Always good to know.”
“St. Andrew’s cross. Spanking bench.” As Blaize led her in a circle around the living space, the predatory eyes on her made her skin crawl.
An over-muscled one muttered to the other, “It’s a twofer night, is it? This’ll be fun.”
Blaize stopped in back of one of the couches. “You’re wearing too many clothes.” After pulling off her shirt and bra—and permitting her to keep her pants on—Blaize fondled her.
She suppressed her gag reflex and let him. When he pulled cuffs out of his toybag, she shook her head. “Please, Sir, I have nightmares about being restrained except at clubs. It scares me too much.”
Amusement glinted in his eyes again. “Then you’ll have to hold very still. I’ll start with a light caning. Pull your pants down. And count for me.”
Trying to show enthusiasm, she complied and bent over the back of the couch. “One, two…” She yelped when the blows progressed quickly past light to almost savage. Gods, it hurt. Tears rolled down her cheeks. “I…I lost count.”
Delight showed in his gaze as he pulled her mask right off and kissed her cheeks. “Poor subbie-girl. I’ll get you something to drink, and you’ll feel better. Maybe a rum and coke?”
“Yes, please.” She pulled her pants up over her burning butt.
He turned and called, “Bartender. What’s your name tonight?”
At the island dividing the kitchen from the rest of the open space was a big man with receding sandy hair and cold blue eyes. “Savage. You?”
“Wick. Bring over a rum and coke for the girl.”
“Coming right up.” Savage pulled out a coke from the fridge.
“Hey, subbie-girl, check out the spanking over there.” Blaize pointed to a scene across the room. Was he was trying to keep her attention away from the bartender?
Might as well cooperate. “Oh, he’s hitting her hard.” The poor woman was crying. The Dom was a total jerk, taunting her in a sneering voice.