Autumn's Fury: A BDSM Ménage Erotic Romance & Thriller

By Simone Leigh

When a Killer Has Nothing to Lose, There Will Be Consequences

Klempner mown down by traffic in pursuit of the Surgeon…
Will he survive?
If the killer escapes, what will he do next?
Can Georgie rescue her relationship with Borje?
And after Charlotte's miscarriage, will she succeed in giving Michael the child he craves?
A BDSM Ménage Erotic Romance & Thriller

• Language: English
• Publisher: Simone Leigh Publishing
• Release date: Jul 2, 2022

Book preview

Chapter One - Klempner

A bare heartbeat to see the vehicle bearing down on me…

… The impact rips the air from my chest, slams the thought from my brain.

And for an unending moment-eternity-split-second…

Pain…

Lifted from my feet, I roll across the hood...

… impact the unforgiving ground…

And as darkness blooms, I see only the triumphant grin of The Surgeon, looking down at me…

*****

The world spins, blurs, and fades out…

…

… And fades back…

… in a sense…

My heart hammers…

Breathing is a riot of pain…

… Shadows dance with my vision…

Above me, it’s blue. But black ghosts skitter and streak across my vision. Inside my skull, blood and demons roar…

The air is thick, gluey, fighting against my lungs and the shriek from my ribs.

The pain disables me… Masking thought… Self… sanity…

Around me: a clamour of screams…

Shrieks and running feet...

From somewhere, car horns blare.

Close by, voices babble… He just ran out. I couldn’t stop…

He was chasing the other guy. I saw him…

A voice slices through the buzzing in my head. It seems to me I should know the voice...

"He attacked me. He came out of nowhere. I was so scared… Be careful! He’s got a knife. Look what he did to me!"

Don’t worry, Bud. He’s not gonna do anything to you now…

Hey, Ricky, what the hell happened? Was it a mugging?

"Matt! Um… Not sure… I think he was just after my wallet. But I was so scared, Man. Look at that knife he’s carrying… I…"

Hey, c’mon, calm down, Rickie-lad. Let me have a look at that… Yeah… Bastard got you a nasty slice. It’s gonna need stitches, but it missed the arteries. You can see that, can’t you?

Yeah? Yeah... You’re right… Just panicking a bit, y’know.

Course I do. Now, I know it hurts, but you’re not in any danger. Hop inside and I’ll get you fixed up… The voice turns jokey… Hey c’mon… S’not often you’re in the back instead of the front, is it? Helluva way to skip off work. Next time, just ring in with a Sickie like the rest of us…

The demons chitter at the edge of my hearing, rising to a clamour, bringing the darkness on their wings…

*****

Something rumbles…

Something wails, a rising and falling scream that rapidly recedes and dies…

*****

Mr Waterman, can you hear me? Something hovers above me. A dark blur against the blue. Mr Waterman? The blur grows larger, louder. Something soft and warm wraps around my hand. "Mr Waterman… Larry! Stay with us. Larry... Larry, can you hear me? Talk to me."

Stanton?

Did I speak the word?

Or was it only inside my head?

I’m not sure.

it’s not important…

A voice yells. He was going after the other guy. With a knife..

Where’s the man he was chasing?

The other ambulance took him.

The dark blur retreats but turns sharp and shrill. "Polinsky, get onto the Accident and Emergency Department at the hospital. Right now!. Make sure they know the incoming ambulance contains the man we suspect of being the Surgeon."

*****

The darkness peels away again.

Air, fresh and cool, flows over my face There’s something over my mouth and nose. Shapes move above me, indistinct blurs against white…

It was blue before…

Why’s it white now?

The blur grows larger, garbling something…

From beneath me… a vibration…

Then a jolt which slices through every part of me…

And a noise… A rise and fall… Something wailing…

A siren?

But quickly, it fades, consumed by the darkness…

*****

Chapter Two - Richard

Chewing my frustration, I make coffee, find work for my hands…

Klempner in pursuit of the Surgeon…

City-wide alert from the police…

What the hell’s happening?

Maybe I could call Will?

But plain common sense tells me that the city police commissioner has his hands full. Random calls, even from old friends, would not be welcome.

Exasperating as it is, I’ll just have to wait for news. Doubtless, Klempner will be in touch at some point.

Michael strolls into the kitchen. That’s Marty settled into a room. I left her making a call to her sister to arrange something more permanent.

You’ve not left her alone, surely?

Charlotte’s keeping her company for the moment.

How is she? I offer up the coffee pot. Or would you prefer a cold beer?

Beer please. He drops into a seat, swiping sweat from his face. She seems okay, all things considered. The room’s en-suite, and I’ve given her the run of the restaurant and the other facilities while she sorts out her situation. Chad’s loading her stuff into storage for the meantime. And I gather Will Stanton’s on his way to interview her himself.

So… you think she’s coping?

He sucks at the can… God, that’s good… …then holds it to his neck, wiping condensation over his skin. "Hard to say. I’m not sure what qualifies as coping in this situation. What does go through your head when you learn you’ve been targeted by a serial killer?"

I huff. Perhaps we should ask Klempner for some insight on that. Michael gives me a long look and I wish I could swallow my words. Sorry, strike that. Bad taste. Can’t think why I said it.

He shrugs it off. Forget it. Graveyard humour seems appropriate right now. Do we know where Klempner is?

I’ve heard no more… I cut off mid-sentence as my phone buzzes. Ah, perhaps we’ll learn something now. It’s Will Stanton… Michael’s brows rise and he leans forward, ear cocked. I tap my phone onto loudspeaker. Hello, Will. What can I do for…?

Will’s voice snaps out at me. Richard, I'll be brief. Klempner’s been involved in some kind of road incident. I don't have the details yet but he was hit by a car while in pursuit of another man…

Crap! Michael sits bolt upright. The other man being the Surgeon? Harkness? Was he hit too?

Yes, we believe it was Harkness, but I’ve had no report that he was involved in the incident.

And Klempner’s condition?

As I speak, he’s in an ambulance on his way to A&E. I was going to call Mitch to let her know, but thought the news would be better coming from you.

Michael interrupts again. There's no word on how badly he's hurt?

All I know is he was hit, and he's drifting in and out of consciousness. I'm on my way to the scene, but I imagine Mitch and Charlotte will want to go to the hospital.

We’ll all go. Thanks for letting us know, Will.

No problem, Richard. I'll be in touch if there's anything else I can tell you. I have to go now. The line goes dead.

Michael scrapes a hand through his hair. Christ! D’you know where Mitch is?

In the garden talking to James the last I saw.

As I speak, the door opens and Mitch appears, carrying a tray, James right behind her. As she sees us, she pauses, her eyes passing between us. What’s happened?

*****

James snatches up car keys. Mitch, I’ll drive you.

Her face pinched white, Mitch bundles up bottles and baby clothes. Michael lays his hand on hers. Mitch, why don’t you let me take Vicky and settle her into the crèche? If we… If we don’t know what we’re going to find, it would be better for you to know that Vicky’s being looked after elsewhere.

Flat-lipped, eyes swimming, Thank you, she whispers.

Charlotte stamps in. Cara too. I don't want her seeing Dad until we know what condition he's in.

Beth’s right behind her. Take Adam as well. They’ll be happier if they’re together.

Done, says Michael. You all set off. I’ll follow you as soon as the children are settled.

*****

Chapter Three - Harkness

Picking my way through jammed traffic, behind me, Matt stirs and groans. Twisting around, I risk a look back…

He’s not going anywhere. Blood, most of it his, drips from the walls where he spurted, pooling on the floor. A trickle drips from the dashboard where I stashed the scalpel. The sucker curls up around himself from where I stuck him. His whimpering’s getting on my nerves.

Should I finish the job?

More important things to do…

Under the uniform, the slash on my hand throbs. That bastard’s blade sliced through skin and impacted the bones. If he’d gotten a better angle at me, it could have smashed every bone in the hand. As it is, skin and the thin flesh is sliced loose, and despite the elastic bandage holding it together for now, blood oozes through saturated fabric, dribbling free.

It hurts.

Oh, Christ, it hurts.

My heart thumps. I’m panting. Spots dance behind my eyes.

Get a grip…

Don’t panic…

It’s just a setback…

Taking control of my breathing, I inhale, long and slow, then exhale, again slowly. And again.

That’s better.

Why did he attack me?

I’ve never done anything to him…

And that knife he carries…

A knife out of some nightmare, or some slasher movie. A great, long, sinister-looking thing, jagged-edged like the teeth of a crocodile.

Trying to control the seepage, I raise my injured hand, resting fingers on the top of the wheel. It's just for show. I can’t grip, steering with the other hand. Blood trickles from under the bandage in a thin stream, down my wrist, before dripping into the foot-well.

Who the fuck is he?

Still… should be dead by now…

Won’t have survived that…

Bastard!

The radio mutters something at me… Alert to all staff! … and I turn up the volume…

Patrick Harkness… Extreme Danger… Do not approach this man… Alert police immediately on this number…

Hitting the siren, I slam my foot onto the gas. Traffic opens in front of me, letting me through, then closes up behind.

That stupid bastard in the back was right about one thing. My hand needs stitching. Still, if there’s an upside to this, I’m in an ambulance.

Plenty of kit in the vehicle.

Sutures, antiseptic, surgical needles…

Could park up and get it done…

A police car screams past in the other lane, back the way I came. Another follows.

My heart thumps again and my panting returns…

Can’t stop…

Could be spotted any time.

Should ditch the ambulance and run?

But I'm surrounded by traffic…

Panic rises, welling up. I can't think straight.

What to do…

If I go to A & E, that's normal…

That’s it. Act normal…

But at A & E, they all know me…

They're be looking for me…

Not the hospital then…

Get rid of the ambulance, pick up my stuff, and get the hell out…

*****

Needles…

Sutures…

Dressings…

I grab what I need from the ambulance supplies, then dump it in the basement level of a parking lot.

Sleep…

I’m longing for sleep. I head back to my apartment on foot, but I’m exhausted. I don’t know how far I ran today. Miles. And the wound’s killing me. Every time I move, it burns, searing up my arm.

Maybe a sling would help?

Could improvise something…

No, too noticeable…

Instead, I shove the hand into my pocket. It's not perfect, but at least it restricts the movement. The pain subsides a little.

Taking side roads and back alleys, I keep my head down. No one looks at me twice.

Home soon.

Deal with it there…

But as I turn the corner into the end of my road, I halt mid-stride.

The door to my building is cordoned off. The area’s heaving with police. They're everywhere.

The old bag from the next floor down totters to the cordon, carrying a groceries bag and dragging that rat-dog she keeps. Some cop on duty nods her through but calls over another one, who takes her bag of shopping, nodding and talking with her.

Even from here, I can see the buzz of activity at my door.

They're in there. Going through my stuff. Taking my things.

I can’t go back…

Got to hide somewhere. Lie low

Where do I go?

*****

I have to walk another half mile or so before I spot what I’m looking for.

The house looks run down and badly kept.

Windows dark…

No car outside…

No one home?

Experimentally, I try the bell.

No answer.

No barking…

Stepping smartly, I go around the back, smash a side window, reach in to lift the catch, then climb through.

*****

Despite the shabby outer appearance, it’s clean inside. The cupboards are well-stocked. The refrigerator too. A couple of beers settle my nerves.

How long do I have?

Do the job, then get out fast.

Maybe strip out some of the easy stuff so it looks like just a break-in…

The kitchen seems best. Enough light to see by and a good, solid table.

The slash gapes at me, an ugly flap of raw skin and flesh; welling dark and liquid, crisped black at the edges, arterial red in the centre. Gashed from knuckles to wrist, and biting into my forearm, it’s got to be five inches long.

How many stitches?

My fingers haven’t gone numb. There’s no tell-tale tingling of damaged nerves, but flexing the hand or wrist sets flames scorching up my forearm.

My mouth tastes foul. Swilling around some water, I swish it from cheek to cheek, spit, swish again, then swallow a couple of gulps. The drink helps to steady my nerves.

I’ve seen this done, know how it’s done. Dipping the curved needle through the alcohol, I set myself ready, needle in one hand, suture at the ready in the other…

Prop one wrist against the other to steady myself…

…but as I try, at the slight pressure, pain shrieks through my injured wrist, the fingers spasm, and screaming, I drop the fucking needle.

Collecting myself again, I take a couple of breaths. This time, I lean forward over the table, supporting myself by my elbows.

Trying to hold the needle, simply making the pinch between the thumb and forefinger, my hand trembles as I try to line up needle and suture. Thread and eye waver wildly as I jab at the eye with the end of the suture.

The fucking thing won’t go in…

Straightening up, I take a break.

Breathe…

Take your time…

Pain gnaws at me. I’m cold inside, but my face burns. My stomach writhes and knots. Shivering, I drink a little more water.

This time, I sit, propping my wrist on the tabletop. Filling my lungs, I hold the breath, my hand steadies and…

Got it!

The end of the suture slips through the eye. Quickly, I thread through again to make the locking loop. Another deep breath and I poise the needle over my seeping wound.

It reflects the daylight, a curved sliver of steel, the tip glinting, a three-inch claw, a cat’s or a hawk, a scythe of metal set to impale.

Puncturing the skin…

Penetrating the flesh…

Like skewering meat…

My hand trembles uncontrollably, but I press forward, press the tip of the needle the flap of flesh…