Edge of the Enforcer Read online

  EDGE OF THE ENFORCER

  Cherise Sinclair

  www.loose-id.com

  Edge of the Enforcer

  Copyright © May 2014 by Cherise Sinclair

  All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the original purchaser of this e-book ONLY. No part of this e-book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without prior written permission from Loose Id LLC. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  Image/art disclaimer: Licensed material is being used for illustrative purposes only. Any person depicted in the licensed material is a model.

  eISBN 9781623003982

  Editor: Maryam Salim

  Cover Artist: April Martinez

  Published in the United States of America

  Loose Id LLC

  PO Box 806

  San Francisco CA 94104-0806

  www.loose-id.com

  This e-book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Warning

  This e-book contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language and may be considered offensive to some readers. Loose Id LLC’s e-books are for sale to adults ONLY, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please store your files wisely, where they cannot be accessed by under-aged readers.

  * * * *

  DISCLAIMER: Please do not try any new sexual practice, especially those that might be found in our BDSM/fetish titles without the guidance of an experienced practitioner. Neither Loose Id LLC nor its authors will be responsible for any loss, harm, injury or death resulting from use of the information contained in any of its titles.

  Author’s Note

  To my readers,

  The books I write are fiction, not reality, and as in most romantic fiction, the romance is compressed into a very, very short time period.

  You, my darlings, live in the real world, and I want you to take a little more time in your relationships. Good Doms don’t grow on trees, and there are some strange people out there. So while you’re looking for that special Dom, please, be careful.

  When you find him, realize he can’t read your mind. Yes, frightening as it might be, you’re going to have to open up and talk to him. And you listen to him in return. Share your hopes and fears, what you want from him, what scares you spitless. Okay, he may try to push your boundaries a little—he’s a Dom, after all—but you will have your safe word. You will have a safe word, am I clear? Use protection. Have a backup person. Communicate.

  Remember: safe, sane, and consensual.

  Know that I’m hoping you find that special, loving person who will understand your needs and hold you close.

  And while you’re looking or even if you’ve already found your dearheart, come and hang out with the Doms of Dark Haven.

  Love,

  Cherise

  Acknowledgment

  Thanks to you all for talking me into writing about deVries. (And although he won’t say as much, he’s grateful too.)

  Kisses to Suede and Phantom for answering questions about the sadistic mindset.

  My gratitude to Leagh Christensen, my personal assistant, for shouldering an amazing amount of thankless tasks, and blessings upon Lisa Simo-Kinzer, gracious Mistress of my street team and discussion group.

  Thanks to my beloved ShadowKitten’s street team for enthusiastically pouncing upon potential new readers and for help with story questions.

  Where would I be without my evil beta readers—Bianca Sommerland with her love of darkness and heightened emotions, Fiona Archer who likes balance and romance, and Monette Michaels who expects consistency (sheesh!) and intense action. Sweet Liz Berry kept deVries from stepping out of line, and Molly Daniels added a keen eye—and lively discussions on weaponry. Thank you all!

  A big shout-out goes to my editor, Maryam, and the awesome copy, line, and proof-editors at Loose Id. Their passion for turning a manuscript into something y’all would want to read is so, so appreciated.

  I’m sending big hugs to all of you who come and play on my Facebook pages and in the new Discussion Group. My days are brightened by cat jokes, heated discussions about the Masters, eye-candy, and your enthusiasm for answering odd questions.

  As always, my love and appreciation to my Dearheart, who ruthlessly drags me out of the cave and reminds me that life is meant to be lived.

  Chapter One

  No moon. Beneath the cold stars, the pickup bumped over the rutted road, tossing the mercenaries around like fired shells from an M-4.

  “Fuck,” deVries growled under his breath. He resumed his kneeling position and braced himself on the wooden side slats. Grasping Harris’s shoulder, he used his free hand to apply pressure to the young man’s belly below his bulletproof vest. Blood poured out, warm over his fingers. The new merc wouldn’t live. They’d put dressings on the leg wounds, but from the amount of bleeding, the bullet in his pelvis had ripped up his insides.

  Medical care was too far away.

  “I-I’m cold,” Harris whispered. The kid was in his midtwenties.

  Too fucking young to die.

  “Hey, Iceman. Here.”

  DeVries caught the jacket a teammate tossed over and added it to the others on Harris. Poor bastard. Last one to join the team. First one to go.

  “You got anyone back home?” deVries asked.

  A convulsive tremor shook the kid. His systems were shutting down, one by one, no matter how hard his body fought. “Uh-uh. Wife left me.” Another shiver. He sucked air. “She d-didn’t like being poor. Want her back so signed on here. Pay’s good.”

  Yeah, mercenary work paid top dollar.

  “Got no one,” the broken whisper continued. “You?”

  “Nah.” No one to go home to. No one to talk to about his job or his merc work. No one to mourn if he didn’t return. Missions like this made for a fine adrenaline zing. Didn’t make for a long life.

  The kid had screwed up. Tripped and alerted the perimeter guards. A nice clean extraction had turned into a goat fuck. DeVries’s armor had stopped one bullet; the next one had ripped a chunk of meat from above his hip. His jeans were already soaked with blood. Couple inches over and he’d have been lying beside Harris.

  “We get the guy out?” Harris whispered.

  “Affirmative. You did good”—what was Harris’s first name?—“Luke. The man’ll be reunited with his family by tomorrow.” But it sucked that the asshole they’d rescued wasn’t worth someone’s life.

  “Won’t see it.”

  Grief and anger twisted in deVries’s gut. Dammit. Wasn’t fair.

  In the faint moonlight shining down into the bed of the farm truck, Harris’s eyes were dull but level.

  “No, you won’t.” DeVries wouldn’t lie. If a man could face the question, he deserved an honest answer. DeVries closed his hand over Harris’s chill one. Squeezed. “I’m sorry. You have anything you need done?”

  “Buy the boys a round for me.”

  His throat tightened. “You got it.”

  Harris’s eyelids drooped, and his breathing turned shallow.

  DeVries settled in beside him. A man shouldn’t die alone. Each time the truck hit a bump, pain stabbed into deVries’s side, reminding him he was alive. One day, he’d be the poor bastard lying there. No pretty woman to cry for him and make him fight to survive. Only a teammate to keep vigil.

 
And he’d die…for what? To save a dirty politician from his well-deserved desserts? To get a few extra bucks in the bank?

  He’d turned down money before. His mouth tightened, remembering his fucked-up childhood and how his mother’s pimp had yelled at her. “…good-looking boy. The little shit could fill his pockets with big bills, and he says no? You got the stupidest kid in Chicago.”

  But deVries hadn’t wanted to be a whore. To sell himself for money. He’d craved a real home. Someone to love him. Right. Now here he was, a mercenary and alone. God had a fucking good sense of irony.

  * * * *

  A week later, deVries walked through the chill autumn air up to the door of Dark Haven—the notorious San Francisco BDSM club. As he entered, he found a line of members waiting in front of the reception desk.

  Fine with him. He could use the time to get his head into the right space for the night. With a sigh, he leaned on the wall, feeling the drag of exhaustion like he wore diving weights on his belt.

  Damn fucked-up mission. The throb of grief was more painful than the wound in his side. Harris had died before they’d reached the pickup point. Hadn’t even had anyone to notify. Because his wife didn’t want to be poor. Yeah, some bitches could be greedier than any soldier for hire.

  With an effort, deVries sidestepped old dark memories. He was in enough of a crappy mood. The healing gash along his hip still hurt like hell, and ripping the stitches open would be stupid, so using his favorite flogger was out. But, damn, he wanted a good, long session. The need to inflict pain was a low hum in his bones.

  The pretty receptionist named Lindsey smiled at the next person in the line.

  “Hi, HurtMe,” she said in her soft Texas drawl, taking the membership card from the young man. “Are your classes going well?” Despite the leisurely, warm river of her voice, Lindsey had a personality that danced like a sunlit fountain.

  Under her attention, the masochist glowed as he told her about his exams.

  DeVries shook his head. Lindsey was the reason the line moved so slowly. The girl liked people and had the ability to talk with anyone about anything.

  Too lively to sit, she stood behind the reception desk. Her wavy brown hair, streaked with red-and-gold highlights, had grown over the summer to her bra line. Quite a bra it was too. The club owner, Xavier, had decreed an animal theme for the night, and Lindsey wore a fur leopard-printed bra. Be nice to see what covered her ass, since the girl didn’t lack imagination.

  Rather a shame she never stripped naked, though. She had a sweet little body—one designed to be used well and often. Unfortunately she didn’t enjoy the harder forms of kink.

  “Have a good night, sweetie.” Turning, she looked at deVries and held her hand out. “Sir, may I take your card?”

  He handed it over to put through the card reader.

  “Thank you.”

  He noticed how she averted her big brown eyes, and her mouth tightened. Apparently, what he’d told her a while back had hurt her feelings. She needed to get over it.

  “Lindsey,” he growled.

  Her gaze flashed up to his.

  “Better.”

  She gave him a puzzled blink, and hell, he wanted her under him, giving him that confused look as he started doing everything he’d imagined to her.

  But he wasn’t going to go there, even if she did still owe him a blowjob and anal sex from a paintball party last July. Sadly, he’d been called away on a mission and hadn’t collected. Pissed him off at the time. Just as well—fucking her would have been a piss-poor move. Lindsey was a sweet submissive, and he had no use for niceness in his life.

  “You look tired.” She handed his card back. “Are you all right?”

  Yeah. Warmhearted as could be.

  “No.” With a brusque nod, he turned away. Tonight he’d delve into the darker side, indulge his need to give pain, erase the bitterness of the last mission. This one couldn’t take what he needed to dish out. Few women could.

  Only males held up well when deVries got this needy.

  As he walked into the club, he glanced back and saw Ethan Worthington lean over the desk and run his finger over Lindsey’s play collar.

  Not surprising she smiled a welcome. The Dom was intelligent. Well-liked. And had more money than God.

  Looked like the lucky bastard would be the one to enjoy the sweetie. Well, more power to him.

  Jaw tight, deVries shoved through into the main clubroom, feeling as if he’d like to kill someone. Again.

  “I DON’T ENJOY a lot of pain,” Lindsey said to Sir Ethan, trying to concentrate on the conversation and not watch deVries stalk through the door. God, the way he moved was like a timber wolf on the hunt. Powerful and deadly.

  Sexy as hell.

  And he didn’t like her. Oh, she had thought different at the Fourth of July games. He’d sure acted growly when he’d been called away. But later, back in San Francisco, when she reminded him of her debt, he said he’d collect her ass if he wanted. His dismissive attitude showed he had no interest in her whatsoever.

  Way to make a girl feel like a scrawny chicken not even good enough for the stew pot. He hadn’t even noticed her sexy costume sewn from less than a yard of furry fabric.

  “Lindsey.” With one finger on her chin, Sir Ethan drew her attention back. His clear blue gaze was perceptive…and understanding. “Do you really want to play with a sadist?”

  “I… No.” God no. Especially not one like deVries…who didn’t want her.

  * * * *

  An hour later, Xavier strolled out of the main clubroom into the reception area. Several inches over six feet, with Native American dark coloring, black eyes, and black hair in a braid down his back, the owner of Dark Haven never failed to make Lindsey sit up straight and lower her gaze. Somehow, he gave a whole new meaning to the word dominant.

  A step behind him, his wife, Abby, had flushed cheeks, swollen lips, and reddened skin around her wrists. Obviously they’d already had a scene.

  Xavier smiled at Lindsey. “Work time is over, pet. Go find someone to play with.”

  As he picked up the new member applications, Lindsey stood up and stretched. “Sounds good. Thank you, my liege.”

  Sitting down in the chair Lindsey had vacated, Abby tilted her head. “How are you doing? Are you ready for a girl’s night soon?”

  “I’d love it.” She’d have to skip lunch for a day or two to afford it, but girlfriends came far, far higher in the priority scheme than food. “Next weekend?”

  “Rona said she was busy on Friday. Can you do Saturday?”

  Lindsey nodded.

  Abby patted Xavier’s bottom. “Your receptionists are going to be on strike next Saturday.”

  He raised an intimidating eyebrow. “That means Dixon will have to take the desk for a shift.”

  “Well, I’m sure he’ll leave us a mess. Nonetheless, we’re still taking the night off.”

  “You’re definitely a stubborn little fluff.” Xavier bent to capture his wife’s lips.

  Lindsey smothered a sigh of envy. Once upon a time, she’d thought she’d have a loving husband, a family. A home.

  As Xavier headed back into his club and Abby turned to greet an entering member, Lindsey glanced at the desk. She’d left it bare except for one stack of papers. If Dixon took reception, disaster would ensue. The cutest submissive in Dark Haven, Dixon considered himself a lover, not a secretary, and never filed anything.

  However, huge paper piles were a piddly price to pay for a weekend night off and a chance to drink without having to work the next day. Abby was a professor at a small college, and Rona did hospital administration.

  Back before her life had gone to hell in a handbasket, Lindsey had been a social worker. And had loved it.

  Now she was a receptionist—and her temp job would end this week. Job hunting wasn’t easy, even though the fake ID she’d bought last spring passed muster. But when she’d fled Texas, she realized what the lack of her college transcripts and
past employment recommendations would mean.

  She was stuck in minimum-wage jobs despite her years of education.

  Come to think of it, education sure hadn’t helped her pick a good husband. He’d taken her in completely. She closed her eyes at the memory of Victor’s sneer. “Why would I want a cunt like you when I can fuck sweeter meat?”

  God, she’d been blind. She remembered her daddy’s John Wayne quote. “Life’s hard. It’s even harder when you’re stupid.”

  Wasn’t that the truth? Now she had a warrant out for her arrest and cops who would kill her before she ever made it to jail. Who had already tried. She glanced at the long scar on the back of her wrist.

  Abby returned a man’s membership card. “Have a great night.” As he walked into the main room, she turned to Lindsey, and her forehead creased. “Are you okay?”

  No. “Sure.” Lindsey gave her an only slightly twisted smile. “Saturday it is. Party time!”

  After sharing a high five, Lindsey headed into the club.

  On the main floor, tables filled the center of the room between the two stages. Members in leather and latex, corsets and chains, naked or fully covered, were socializing, dancing, drinking, and watching demonstrations. The dark wave music of Anders Manga reverberated through the huge room, keeping the dancers at the far end moving.

  At one time, she’d loved to dance. Two-step. Line dancing. But that time was over. She stood for a moment, hobbled by despair. She couldn’t go home to Texas. Not when the head of her husband’s smuggling operation had turned out to be his brother, Travis—the police chief. Not when the corruption extended into other law enforcement agencies like the border patrol.

  She exhaled slowly.

  If she couldn’t go back, she had to move forward. If nothing else, the police officer’s death—as well as her husband’s—had taught her how short life could be and to fully live in what remained to her.

  Here in San Francisco, she’d embraced that philosophy. Joined Dark Haven. Turned long-held fantasies into reality. She was no longer a novice in the BDSM lifestyle.