VIGILANCE
[working title]

(c) 2009 M Roulette Chatelaine
(Steal my shit, and I’ll be hunting YOU down.)

CHAPTER ONE —

. use me

I dig my heel deeper into the soft pouch of flesh between his legs, protected only by a thin layer of fabric, thanks to my generosity of allowing him to leave his pants on. Trust me, I didn’t have to. His eyes are wide, and he’d be begging and pleading with me to spare him the pain and humiliation, were he able to. I’ll have to remember to buy a new pair of hosiery in the hotel lobby, I mentally note before alleviating just enough pressure; it should allow the man to speak. Oh, except for the hose. I yank that quickly out of his mouth, enjoying the nice red lines that have formed at the outer edges of his lips due to him having to accommodate the big ball of lingerie.

“Well?” With my other arm casually against my thigh, pistol in hand, of course, I look right at him. Ready for my answer. Too bad for him, it appears he has nothing. Nothing doesn’t fly with me. Not in my work, and not in my play. I hate that I keep getting the two mixed up.

“She said … ” He begins.

“That’s right, Jimmy. You take a nice deep breath and think carefully about your words.” Somewhere in the back of my brain, I realise Cassandra would kill me, if she knew I was here. Not that I cared, or that it would stop me. Cass and I were friends. This is what friends do – when one of them gets date-raped, at least. “Do you think I have all day?”

“What?” He sputters. “I, I … I don’t even know who you are!”

Well, that’s a no-shit. Nor will he ever. If he wants to live. Against my better judgment, I’m not always a sadistic hell-bitch. I do ensure that the punishment fits the crime. And, well, California, and thereby, Los Angeles, isn’t going to make rape a capital crime anytime soon. Regardless of my own personal, albeit biased, feelings toward the subject matter.

“James. Listen up.” I lean into him; not that I want to, given that he still smells of cigarettes and hard liquor. “What’s the opposite of ‘yes’?”

He blinks at me, as if carefully considering his answer before continuing. (Good boy.) Attempting the first time … (Failing.) And then a second … “ … Like … the word?”

That’s it. Within seconds, my nails are buried more deeply into the fabric than my stiletto heel was even capable. (It wasn’t my fault the dude wasn’t wearing denim.) Once his tone returns to something near normal … enough, I holster my gun, and take a fistful of hair with my now free hand. (It was just for intimidation anyway. This guy was a total pussy – which I knew already from the fact that he raped my friend.)

“Okay!” He shouts. “Okay, okay, okay – ”

“Okay?” I laugh. Oddly genuinely. Okay? “The opposite of ‘yes’ is ‘okay’?”

“No! No! No, no, no, n-n-n-no, no, no. It’s ‘no’! It’s ‘no’! The opposite of ‘yes’ is ‘no’!” He shouts proudly, strangely reminiscent of that kid my partner’s second-grader is always tormenting. (It’s really cute, actually. Reminds me of me at that age.)

“Good, Jimmy!” I say, mussing up what had been my handful of his straight brown locks. “Fantastic. Now, what does a lady mean when she says ‘no’ … ” I paused before continuing. “James Walker Wilson?” People typically get freaked out when I call them by their full names. Especially when they’ve never told me, and I haven’t actually found the information anywhere. But we’ll get to that later. Of course, it has the exact effect I wanted it to, and he looks up at me, quizzical at first, and then a bit scared.

“ … Are you a cop?” Are the first words he can think of. It’s a common misconception.

“No, Jimmy. I’m a lot worse than a cop.” I lean into his ear – for no other real reason except it’s fun. And, well, that seems to be what they do a lot in the movies, don’t they? I don’t really know what purpose it serves, outside of giving the audio engineer the chance to amplify the speaker’s next words, creating an air of suspense and overall creepiness. (And it does, actually.) “I don’t have any rules that govern me.” And I smile at him really brightly. He looks as if he shits his pants. (He probably does.)

“I’m sorry!” He says, now genuinely afraid. Poor fuckwad thinks he’s actually going to die today – and, in all fairness, he could. Except that I’m on a schedule, his death is not on it, and I didn’t get a lot of sleep last night. Oh, and the fact that he didn’t actually kill anyone. Mostly that.

“What are you sorry for, Jimmy?”

“I … I shoulda stopped.”

“Uh-huh.”

“She said she didn’t want to tonight, and, and, and I should’ve stopped … ” His mind is trailing off. I don’t like that. Wandering thoughts always leave me feeling uncomfortable, and a little bit drained. I hate chasing after them. “But she just looked so fucking hot – ”

I sigh. God, is he stupid.

Hand, hair. Balls, heel. Screaming, crying – blah, blah, blah. Oh – I grab my pistol and jam it under his chin. That’s the right effect. Real tears. Good. I like to see real tears.

“Care to print a retraction there, James, or do you really want that going to the presses?”

“No!” He shouts, half-laughing. People do that when they’re scared shitless, I’ve discovered. They just start laughing – as if their terror is the funniest Goddamned thing they’ve ever experienced. As if the logic centres of the brain all check out for the time being, and raw instinct takes over. Raw instinct, on the other hand, is rarely rational, and can be very, very dangerous. Curiously enough, I love raw instinct. “No! I’m sorry! Goddamn it, I’m sorry, okay? You fucking crazy bitch – ”

Okay, I know I said it before, but I’ll say it again. Goddamn, is he stupid.

But just as the gun is cocked, my little stress-reliever is interrupted by the sound of angry (yes, angry – I’ll tell you later) footsteps, and a very loud hotel room door slamming against the wall. And … the even more angry (see?) voice of my partner.

I roll my eyes, turning to face him. He’s saying a bunch of stuff, but since it’s the same stuff he always does when he thinks I’m seconds away from losing my temper, I tend not to always listen. I sigh. “Did you even check to see if it was locked first?” I remark, regarding the now broken-down door. Hotels tend to like that so much, they show you their gratitude with an especially hefty fine.

Now, it’s his turn to sigh, momentarily out of breath. Probably from running up the stairs. I narrow my eyes at him for a second – yep, stairs. Too many people on the elevators. Too busy. He didn’t want to wait. He hates to wait. Hence … the door. So, running a hand through his hair, he straightens his tie – even though it’s hanging a good few inches down his neck.

“It’s more fun to kick it in.” He gives the air a good kick, just for emphasis.

“Of course, it is.” I shake my head slowly, rising from my previously kneeled position. I think Jimmy’s pissed his pants. Sure the fuck isn’t semen running down his leg. Last I’d checked, he had no masochistic leanings – which was what made my display all the more enjoyable. For me, that is. Walking over to Schyler Chase – AKA, my partner, I look up at him (since he’s a good foot taller than me). “I wasn’t going to kill him, Chase.”

He scoffs. “Sure, Dev. I believe you.”

“I’m serious. He raped Cassandra. I was just making sure he got to experience a similar terror, and possibly, somewhat lasting effects.”

“I have!” He assures, rather suddenly, from the floor. “I really have.” It’s quieter now, as if the realisation is setting in. Truly terrified. Mission accomplished. Boo-yah.

“Ember,” he begins, but on dangerous ground. He’d only use my first name – November – if it were really serious. Major-fucking-holy-shit-the-sky-is-falling-run-for-your-lives, serious shit. Oh, and about November – I dunno. My mother was on crack. Not literally, but she might as well have been. It was a statement, according to her. She didn’t get why only certain months were suitable for naming a child. What was wrong with fall? And why did winter get cut out of the deal, too? Sure, you don’t name your kid ‘March’ or ‘July’, but there are plenty of Junes, Aprils, and even some Mays. But the ‘-uary’ and ‘-ember’ months got left out of the whole equation. I tried to convince her it was with good reason, but she doesn’t listen to me – or anybody else. She’s also … kinda crazy. (Oh, surely, I jest. Only the most sane women name their daughters ‘November’.) It is with true kindness that Chase chose to truncate it.

“Wait,” I say, holding up my hand to stop him. He knows I need say no more.

His eyes fall upon poor James Wilson. “Good point.”

But James gets the wrong idea entirely. “Oh, shit.” And … has the nutty notion that going out the window is somehow going to be his only way out alive.

“Hold it!” And even I stand in attention at Chase’s peculiarly commanding voice. Which has always freaked me out. Nobody can order me around – and it’s usually pretty ugly for them if they try.

But there are some advantages to being short, petite, and slender. You can weave quickly, are light on your feet, and capable of grabbing someone’s collar – and pulling hard. The expected choking noises were exactly what I wanted to hear, so I slam him over toward the single room’s modest full size bed – with horrendous seventies throwback floral print.

“Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God … ” He whimpers and cries beneath my hands and Chase’s gaze. I sigh, rolling my eyes for the third time this evening.

“Do you realise, without question, that if you harm another woman, in your lifetime, that I will hunt you down and remove from your person your cock and balls?” This caused even my partner, who’s surprisingly badass for a genuinely nice guy, to wince. “Do you, James Walker Wilson?”

It flashes across his mind for just a moment: how would I know? Which is a very good question, but a dangerous track for him. I really didn’t want to have to keep him on my silent watch list. There were enough people on it already, and I didn’t have time, patience, energy, or enough of a give-a-damn for the ones already on it. But he didn’t know this, and, hell, I was so convincing that I’d believe me. And, who knows? I found myself in the mood to castrate someone disturbingly often. (But I was getting better.)

He swallows hard before answering – first with just a fast nodding motion, which made his entire face look suspiciously like a bobble-head – then with actual words. “Yes. I do.”

“Good.” I say, slapping him on the back and subsequently rising from the bed.

Chase then asks with just a hint of demand: “Can we get the fuck out of here now?”

I eye him for the moment, crooking my brow. “Aww, are you bored already?” I grin, replying mock-sweetly.

“The only thing interesting about this was kicking down the door.” At least he’s being honest.

I shrug. “I’m sorry if my little detours don’t do it for you anymore.”

“Your little detours cause us to be off-schedule. Instead of doing what you should be doing, you’re off torturing some asshole for being an asshole.” I’m walking out of the hotel room now, leaving Jimmy and the memory of it all behind. He probably thinks we’re crazy. Of course, he wouldn’t be that far off.

Chase plants his hands on his hips. “You’re not going to change them, Devereaux. No matter how badly you terrify them, what fear of whatever all-powerful deity you put into them, or how much effort you put into reprogramming them.”

I turn to him, somewhat dazed. I really can’t keep doing two in a night like this without sufficient sleep the night before. He can sense my wobbliness and prepares to spot me – just in case. It looks a bit humourous – as if he keeps debating as to whether or not he should embrace me, or not. Like the most indecisive overture ever. Not that he’d ever make one. He just … Well, I don’t know. I never have. He’s too tough of a nut to crack. I can’t read him, and it’s always made me uncomfortable.

And fascinated. And a little bit attracted. But only because of that thing which is unknown. Exciting. Different. Uncharted. Possibly even … dangerous. But then the thought amuses me even more than his thoughtful attempts to keep me from careening into the wall. Chase? Dangerous? Yeah, right. He may not be an open book, but I know him incredibly well.

… Don’t I?

Sure, he could lie to me, and I wouldn’t know it. He was the only one that could do that, and it freaked me out. Freaked me out so much that … we joined forces. What sense does that make? Fuck if I know. I figured that if he was capable of destroying me, the least I should do is make him an ally. That way, he couldn’t. Right?

… Right?

“Ground control to Devereaux.”

Wow. Mind wandering. I really must be tired.

“Right. Can’t change ‘em. Shouldn’t even try.”

Oh, great. Now he’s pissed. “Are you even listening to me?” (No. Not really.) He sighs. “I didn’t say don’t try – you can always try. But if you’re going to up and go vigilante on me, the least you could do is send me a text.”

I stop. “And this differs from my regularly going vigilante … how?” He had to admit it was kind of redundant. We were already doing some kind of odd vigilante thing. “You mean the next time I go rogue vigilante to give you a head’s up ahead of time?”

He folds his arms and half-glares at me. I don’t know why I love it when he does that. Maybe because it’s kind of cute. He looks a bit pouty, and also kind of stern, and it’s oddly adorable – even for a guy in his late-thirties. (Especially for a guy in his late-thirties.) “Aren’t we supposed to be partners?”

Oh, here we go again. ‘You don’t include me enough.’ ‘I never know what you’re thinking.’ ‘I never know where you are.’ ‘Why don’t you make decisions with me?’ Fuck. Okay, I’m just tired. I’m not looking to take this out on him, he’s not the source of my ire, and he doesn’t need to be. I just really wanted some fucking sleep this morning, instead of chasing down some asswipe who’d forgotten the most basic rules of social conduct. But, no. I chose this. Hell, I chose all of it. We both did. It only made sense to combine our fucked-up powers of … what, being fed up with the human condition and a lot of unresolved anger? Yeah, but how many people actually do something with theirs? How many actually actively re-educate people? So much to the point where they have to put them on a schedule just to fit them all in? Why couldn’t we just hang out at home, like most normal people, and watch reruns of Lost? Just because we were both freelance professionals and set our own hours, didn’t mean we had to spend those hours we weren’t working tracking down and ‘re-educating’ those that either fell through the cracks in the system, or ended up having enough corrupt friends in the right positions of power to get off scot-free.

But the delicate balance of the universe just doesn’t work that way. No one gets off scot-free. I think he’s in it for the sheer purpose of experience. But me, I have something to prove. Maybe to myself. Maybe to them. Maybe to everyone; I don’t even really know yet. But I get closer each day to finding out.

“We are partners,” I say, finally. I don’t know what else he’s said during my silent pontification, but it doesn’t matter. “I was just being spontaneous. Like an ice cream run.”

He’s thinking he misheard me. “Okay, I know I must’ve misheard you.” (See?) “Like … an ice cream run?”

“Yeah.”

“Except tracking down and scaring the shit out of the guy who raped your friend.”

I smile before pressing the button to the elevators. “Exactly.” As we both get on, we’re outwardly silent, but his mind is absolutely buzzing. For the moment, we ride in silence. “Besides. I could use the practise.”

“Practise?”

“Yeah. You know. Proper interrogation technique, bondage and restraint; especially, the sadistic use of pain and psychological domination.”

It’s out before I can take it back, though. Almost as if tangible, the words hang in the now-silence between us. Great. But soon, the elevator car comes to a halt, and the doors open immediately thereafter. Saved by the fucking bell. I take one step out of the car, hoping to quickly leave the awkwardness in the cramped space behind us.

“Next time … ” He begins, stepping off next to me. I can feel the anticipation in his words, and it does things to me that I really don’t want to be thinking about right now. “You can use me.”

And … he walks off ahead of me. Which is a good thing, seeing as I have nothing prepared in response. Son of a fucking bitch. (But not really; his mother’s cool.) I drag a both hands along my scalp, digging my nails in, as if to physically erase the thoughts in my own head. Right. Like that’s gonna work.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Fuck.

“Are you coming?” He calls from up ahead. Seeing as I took a cab (to avoid having to find a damned parking place) riding back with him is a really, really nice thought. Usually. But now? Pure, unadulterated terror.

Firing him a look that probably says a lot more than I can vocalise right now, I open the passenger side door and get in. Of course, just as the morning rush hour begins. He pulls away from the curb, blissfully silent – and continues to be for the remainder of the trip.

If only that didn’t make me want him more.

Fuck.

Tags: BDSM, dominant female protagonist, dominant woman, Femdom, fiction, mistress roulette chatelaine's fiction, mistress roulette's fiction, transgressional fiction, vigilantism