A Shot of Trust

By Lou Sylvre

Brian Harrison wants to keep everyone safe -- especially his beloved sub, Jackie Vasquez -- and he’s convinced the only way to do that is to dig ever deeper in a forbidden investigation. Keeping his activities secret from the State Department means keeping them from his own boss, Luki Vasquez, and keeping secrets from Luki means Jackie can’t know either.

Meanwhile, Jackie keeps his own secrets as his kind heart and indomitable spirit drive him to find and help a mysterious homeless woman, who may be connected to a kidnapping. Both men dance around dangers lurking in LA’s hidden places.

Love continues to grow, adventurous kink heats up, and a marriage proposal still hangs in the balance. Can a willing shot of trust keep them together and alive when secrets collide?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Changeling Press
• Release date: Apr 24, 2020

Lou Sylvre

LOU SYLVRE hails from southern California but now lives and writes on the rainy side of Washington State. Her personal assistant is Boudreau, a large cat who never outgrew his kitten meow. She loves her family, her friends, the felines Boudreau, Nibbles and The Lady George, a little dog named Joe, and (in random order) coffee, chocolate, sunshine, and wild roses, among other things.

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Pollack

Prologue

Copenhagen, two years ago

Roscoe Lieb took a last, dirty-tasting drag off his cigarette and dropped it onto the crusted Copenhagen snow, where he snuffed out any surviving spark with the thick-soled toe of his St. Laurent leather boot.

He checked his watch, a Skagen piece he hoped to replace with a Georg Jensen once he netted the fish he currently had hooked. He felt supremely confident in his ability to do so. This wasn’t his first sortie into the sport of blackmail. He’d refined his style and perfected his technique until he knew the win would be his -- even with such a daunting mark as Fritsjof Westergaard.

Who was seven minutes late. But he would show, no doubt about that. Lieb had made certain the snake knew exactly what could happen if he didn’t cooperate.

Blackmailing such a powerful string puller as Westergaard posed some risk for Lieb. He knew prison was an unlikely outcome, but if things went wrong he’d certainly lose his embassy job, and the US State Department had for decades been his golden goose. He’d likely lose all the gilded eggs he’d hatched as well, and end up an unloved ex-pat in some sweaty South American barrio with roaches the size of cows.

But Lieb knew the key to managing risk -- at least the legal kind -- was calculation, and he’d always been good at math. As he figured it, Westergaard’s risks, should he not behave, added up to a lot more than his own. The man had everything to lose -- astronomical wealth, fame, and status, even the ability to influence more than one government without the hassle of political posturing. But the man had his finger in some dangerous pies, and he’d pay to keep a cover over the dark stains his dealings left. And Lieb had taken steps to assure his own life was as secure as his financial future.

But Westergaard was late -- nine minutes now. Just for the tiniest fraction of a second, doubt snuck past Lieb’s self-assurance. He knew he’d hooked a shark this time. What if the beast should bite?

* * *

Approaching Lieb, Fritz Westergaard methodically catalogued his status -- what he liked to think of as taking the measure of the man.

Stature: unimpressive.

Manner: nervous.

Face: oily and unattractive.

Hair: comic.

Clothes: above his station, below mine.

Jewelry: makes the statement, trying too hard.

Communication: lacking originality and finesse.

Skill at blackmail: just enough to imbue false confidence.

That overconfidence would, in fact, be the harbinger of Lieb’s downfall. He thought he knew more than he did about Fritz’s activities, Fritz’s character, his skillset and resources.

Perhaps I should just kill the man now, Fritz thought, his accounting of the man’s value having tallied up well short of anything he’d usually consider worth his time. But he decided not to do so. Instead, he would be a cat in a mouse suit, and -- for fun and profit -- play with his food for a while.

As much as Fritz enjoyed acting in socialite circles -- being seen everywhere as the sexually voracious, flamboyant best friend of the richest and most outrageous among the famously bad -- he was a businessman at the core. His business was Fritz, because he’d never found anything or anyone more worth his devotion. That said, business took a number of forms, including, most profitably, the international import and export of sensitive goods. Sometimes, to keep commodities and cash flowing freely, he called upon the art of blackmail. Or as he preferred to think of it -- because he always did things with flair -- chantage.

At his job, this man Lieb had risen to unimpressive rank of supervisor, minding a flock of paper pushers in the commerce section. Having a greedy, twistable, but basically invisible man inside at the US embassy at Copenhagen would certainly prove valuable.

Particularly when it came to trading in humans.

Fritz slowed his step as he neared Lieb, enjoying his ability to make the little prick sweat. He lit a cigarette when he was five strides away and inhaled deeply. When he stopped immediately in front of Lieb he held his gaze for a moment and then slowly and forcefully blew the smoke in his face. When he thought he’d stretched Lieb’s nerves enough to convert some of his anxiety to permanent fear, he spoke.

So. It appears you have me over a barrel. A fun position at times, but in this case, not so much. Tell me what deal it is that you propose.

Chapter One

The City of Angels, Jackie said, addressing his scowling reflection in the mirror. The tiny bathroom of the Boyle Heights apartment he shared with Brian had disappeared, his mind’s eye replacing reality with a celestial battle, fiery seraphim and icy cherubim blasting curses at scale-skinned demons and black-winged Nephilim.

And at least one stray curse had hit him. Grim thought, that, but it felt right -- even if Jackie did know he’d imagined the whole scenario.

From the moment he’d stepped onto the baked pavement of LA -- could it be only nine months ago? -- the city had pelted him with hard knocks. First heralded in January by the cruel Santa Ana winds that had stripped him of sense and dignity just outside the airport, the beating dealt him by Los Angeles had continued with unrelenting ferocity, taking his leg and his hard-won mental balance, threatening both his life and Brian’s.

And now, a week after his return from a much needed break from the bullshit? A sunburn. Though Jackie wasn’t as fair as his deep auburn hair and dark freckles would suggest, his skin nevertheless had little resistance to the incendiary rays of LA’s September sun. Jackie knew that, and ordinarily he took the usual precautions like clothing and quality sunscreen. But the first week in September had brought unexpected cooling to the LA Basin, and on this morning, mild warmth and a sweet breeze played through the shaded balcony outside the apartment’s front door. The pleasant weather had charmed him straight into sleep. Another trick of the sociopathic, cold hearted, overheated city, as it turned out. Because -- of course -- the shade he’d been sitting in had been temporary.

He’d learned a home remedy for sunburn relief at ten years old after his father had made him work outside for hours. He’d bent and crouched and crawled through the hottest part of the day, pulling weeds from a ridiculously overgrown, never-manicured back yard on a day when the Midwestern sun seared the dry August prairie to a crackle. Thank goodness, his father had had plans for the next three days that didn’t include Jackie or his brother, Josh. The woman his father had left them with might have been poor, but she’d had both compassion and brains. She’d given him acetaminophen to bring his body temperature down and had him sit in a cooling bath laced with rubbing alcohol. Years later, when he’d advised a friend at Nebraska U to try it, they’d scoffed, certain the alcohol would sting, but Jackie knew the opposite was true.

Unfortunately, in another twist of LA’s bitchiness, the little apartment owned by Vasquez Security, Inc. and occupied by Jackie Vasquez and Brian Harrison had no bathtub. So instead of soaking, he carefully dabbed the diluted spirits on his shoulder, neck, and cheek with a cotton ball. He’d already swallowed the acetaminophen, and now the pain of the burn dulled to a bright sting.

The pain of looking at himself in the mirror -- his face and upper body half red and half not, like a theater mask -- continued unabated.

He heard Brian come in to the apartment. Not unexpected. At about this time daily, he took a morning break from his work as the manager of VSI-LA, the Los Angeles branch of the security company owned by Luki Vasquez, Jackie’s uncle. For a few beats, Jackie’s heart fluttered, almost a tickle as if a tiny bird settled on his chest. It surprised him, confused him, until he realized he expected his Dom to scold him for carelessly allowing the sun to burn him. Maybe Brian would invoke his right to discipline him.

Discipline for errant behavior was something new between them. Brian had no real sadism in his Dominant repertoire -- he preferred to impose tightly controlled beauty with his rope work instead. Jackie didn’t savor pain the way many submissives did, needing most of all to surrender control of his body and mind. But the craziness of LA had brought Jackie new needs, and Brian had stepped up to give him what he needed. But aside from pinning his arms and issuing needed commands during lovemaking, Brian hadn’t asserted his Dominance since Jackie had returned from Washington a week ago. Now, the idea of Brian with a crop in hand sent heated blood rushing to Jackie’s cock.

Brian called out from the living room. You here, Jack?

In here. The apartment was too small for that to need clarification.

Any coffee left? Brian answered his own question: Found it.

Jackie bit his lip. He’d expected at least that Brian would seek him out for a kiss. Bravely, he walked out into the tiny kitchen, sure that once Brian saw his face, he’d give it the proper attention. He was right… sort of.

What the hell, Jackie? Stay out of the sun for the rest of the day, and you can consider that an order and say ‘Yes, Sir. I’d like to be able to touch you without peeling your skin off should the notion strike me."

Jackie swallowed. Yes, Sir, he said. It was something, but it didn’t feel right. He sighed, took the two needed steps to get to his laptop where it sat open on the kitchen table, and slumped into the chair.

* * *

Brian held Jackie’s eyes, steamed for a minute, followed the devil boy to where he’d sat down, and leaned down to kiss his mouth lightly on the unburnt half of his face. Heading back to the office with his coffee, he thought about the brief encounter. How had Jackie let that happen? He knew better than to let the sun bake him -- and all on one side? What was that about? Brian supposed that if he’d been paying a little more attention, he’d know the answers.

But those questions didn’t get to the heart of the matter. The important mystery was what in the hell was wrong with him -- with Brian himself. His reaction to the sunburn wasn’t wrong. Jackie’s transparent expressions made his need to be Dominated at any given moment crystal clear. But Brian knew what he’d said hadn’t been quite right, either. He’d let his annoyance show, and he’d not given Jackie enough of himself.

The truth was, it wasn’t Jackie that had him feeling irritated in the first place. Maybe he wasn’t even irritated. Maybe he’d let fear and frustration pile up, and that had nothing to do with Jackie’s sunburn.

No, the fear was about Roscoe Lieb -- or Gerald Roscoe, or whatever the hell his name was -- and the strange shit he’d twisted Espen Marshall into doing. Marshall, an unfortunate gambling addict and former manager of VSI Los Angeles, hadn’t been a heartless criminal. A man who’d ruined his own life to take care of a young, disabled woman, no way would he have deliberately chosen to get involved with human trafficking. He’d almost sent himself up in flames in the end, and as Brian figured it, that was no accident. He’d seen it as a way out, and he’d lit that desperate flame out of guilt more than fear of reprisal.

But that was Espen. Sort of a done deal, once he’d burned himself almost to death. According to Luki, who had an eye on the situation, he still lay in the burn unit, hanging on through the agony of procedure after procedure in an effort to keep him alive long enough to grow some usable skin.

Sad, yes, but Brian could muster up some anger toward the man. After all, he was the former manager at the LA branch. But instead of doing his job, he’d embroiled VSI, and therefore him and Jackie, in a shitstorm. Everything that had happened that day in August -- at that San Pedro apartment where he, Luki, and Lonny had gone hunting crime, and at the care facility where Jackie, Sonny, and Margie had foiled Ammarae Grolier’s kidnapper -- all of it had been triggered by Espen’s uncontrolled downward spiral.

But hidden somewhere, a smart, heartless criminal mind was calling the shots, likely a true sociopath, and Espen couldn’t wear those boots. A far more clever individual remained at large, real identity a mystery -- at least to Brian.

He had a vested interest in finding the man behind the curtain, as his safety, along with Jackie’s, was at stake. And anyway, he was already in the thick of it. He’d found the dead body of a potential informant at the Winner’s Circle motel. He’d stolen the address that led to the projects in San Pedro, and he’d been there when Espen sent the place up in flames. Even before that, he’d been the one to hack VSI’s computers to find and restore almost-deleted files that contained critical data. He’d been the one to discover the small laptop and the little black book in the slicks Espen had stashed them away in. And he’d been the one to get the first inkling of what all the clues might mean.

Though, if he was honest, he had to admit that first inkling wouldn’t have been enough. Luki, thanks to his experience with crime, had recognized patterns in the evidence. Jackie had applied his knowledge of forensic psychology to translate Espen’s behaviors into likely motivations. It had taken the three of them working together to nail down what kind of scheme Espen had been trapped in.

Smuggling.

A word that conjured in Brian’s mind images of pirates on tall ships. He’d read every story he could find about them when he was a child. He smiled at that now, sitting at his desk in the VSI office more than two decades later. He still had a complete collection of Sheila K. McCullagh’s Griffin Pirate Stories stashed in his parents’ basement in Oregon. Sipping at coffee long since gone cold, he let his mind wander back to the simple life of that boy. He wished with all his heart that the nasty criminals Espen had bound VSI-LA’s hands to were as insignificant