Page 141 of Deep Cover

26

Cole

January became February and the rains stopped. Annie ran outside every morning, with me or without me, though more often than not she ran alone. My business had gone to 24/7, with hardly any time left for anything extracurricular. The connections in Brazil had paid off. I was on my way to owning significant swathes of rainforest. That meant I then had to finish vetting the hire of an army of men who could be trusted to police the forest, have each other's backs but report anyone taking advantage of the absentee owner by reporting them, and be making enough money that they wouldn't turn on me and let in – anyone. Other pharma companies that had the same ideas. Farmers who wanted to slash and burn. Anybody who wanted to build anything.

Meanwhile across the States, there were things I had to take care of in various plants and laboratories. The only billionaire CEO who delegates is the ex-billionaire. Run your own business. Be hands on.

That meant unfortunately I was hands off with Annie. I'd wanted to leave her with Nina, a daily maintenance spanking to remind her who she belonged to, but I also didn't want to be responsible for Nina's death. She's a freak, but she didn't deserve what I thought would happen if I told her to spank Annie.

Annie's fight was building. That was fine. She'd agreed to the contract and that meant two men were dead. The fact that they were killed because of the company they kept and the business they were in and not by anyone I had hired was beside the point. I knew what Annie had ordered and that was enough to get her locked up and the key thrown away.

Courts frown on police officers ordering hits.

Along with that, the party was coming. She'd be in my care before that and I'd see to it she had an experience during. It might not be an auction, but I wasn't kidding when I told her it was an orgy.

What I hadn't told her was it rarely got that far before everybody started doing everything. And slaves were open season. I licked my lips thinking about it and had a hard time concentrating on work.

One day I flew to Texas and went to the border to meet with men I trusted not at all, making arrangements to bring a handful of immigrants into the country. Everyone would be well compensated and the immigrants would work for my U.S. businesses with green cards that would eventually be the next best thing to legal.

On another day I flew to Atlanta and took part in the mock trial and sentencing of a girl who was so kinky she wanted to undergo a judicial trial and be sentenced to a laundry list of punishments including waterboarding. That scared the crap out of me. I was there because I'd been a doctor for all of five seconds. That scared me more. I didn't like it and I didn't trust it and I hoped like hell she'd stop the fantasy before that happened. I was there in the capacity I was really there: as the doctor on the scene to make sure nothing too permanent happened.

At the last second Emily Jean, tied to a medical exam table in a big, freezing, mostly empty, marble-lined courtroom and being tilted backward, her naked sex slick as any woman's I'd ever seen, safe-worded herself out of the scenario. There wasn't a single masochist or sadist in the room who didn't blow out a sigh of relief.

Kind hands untied her. In the courtroom, an abandoned, condemned courtroom we'd taken for a two-day long trial and sentencing, voices whispered, wondering what her story was, what secret guilt, what trauma.

I knew. It wasn't anyone's business but on the other hand, there were no cruel jokes, no speculations, nothing but concern and warm hands and warmer blankets, coffee and soup and medical attention.

I was the medical attention and that came first. I wrapped a microfleece blanket around her and put a mug of coffee in her freezing cold hands. She was already shaking, her teeth chattering both from actual cold and from stress reaction.

When I told her I was going to examine her, she flinched away from me like any woman who's just been abused, not like one who’d ordered it all herself.

"Not like that," I said quietly, cursing myself for being stupid. She was in flight still, subspace and trauma together along with whatever drove her to this. Most of the time I'm convinced a predilection to BDSM or Master/slave or masochism and sadism is simply that – that's what floats the individual's boat and it's a nice thing when two compatible kinks meet.

But some people come to it to try and work through some history of abuse or trauma. I thought Emily Jean was one of those and I shouldn't have spoken without thinking.

"I want to listen to your heart, and I want to take your blood pressure," I said slowly and distinctly. "And I won't do either if you don't give me permission, unless you look like you're in medical danger."

She met my gaze, held it, and broke into tears. She sobbed so hard the coffee splashed, burning her leg. The mug dropped and shattered. The blanket around her shook.

I sat down on the couch that had been dragged over for that reason and pulled her into my lap, tucking the blanket securely around her and pulling her head down against my chest so she could hear my heartbeat under her ear. I put one arm around her shoulders and the other hand guided her head down and then stroked her hair. I rocked her and she sobbed. She needed more attention than I had given her. The caning had broken the skin in a handful of places and the switching had left her raw with bleeding stripes. She hadn't eaten in two days, too keyed-up and excited, scared and nauseated, and pretty much out of her head and into subspace even before anyone touched her.

I held her and she cried and around us all the people who came in to make her dark fantasy a reality did what they could to help. They turned up the lights so it no longer felt like a dark tribunal, and turned off completely the blazing lights that had shone down on the table. They turned the heat up and they turned on music, something sunny and light. Crazy or not, it seemed to be The Partridge Family.

Or maybe I was a little out of my head too.

I knew why Emily Jean chose to do what she'd chosen to do.

She was the last person who had seen my little sister Emily after she scored off someone Emily Jean introduced her to.

I held her, and for a little while, I cried with her.

One of the other changes I ordered when I started the busy month and left Annie with Nina and yet mostly on her own, was communication with Tad Charles. She no longer had to sneak it through the YouTube videos because I wanted her to study her marital art. Such disciplines are important.

It wouldn't hurt for her to know what was happening in Seattle. Apparently not knowing hadn't worked. And Annie knew she had to get healthy if she was going to rejoin the fight. Whether she headed into DEA or some other alphabet soup agency, she had to be clean and she had to have cover stories that were unshakable.

I could get her both those things.

At a price.

So I let her have some freedom and hoped that I hadn't just given her rope to hang herself with again. This wasn't supposed to be a trap or a test.

So I hoped she passed it.

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