Page 21 of Shades of Ruin (Sharp Edges Duet #2)

Chapter Sixteen

GREYSON

T he air is stale, rife with the mingled scents of every deadbeat, sleazebag, and criminal who’s ever sat in this grossly uncomfortable chair.

Fear-tinged sweat lingers in the sparse padding along the arms and seat of the metal frame.

I’m careful not to add my own to the mix as I shift in the hopes of finding an agreeable position.

After three hours of waiting, I suspect my endeavor will prove just as useless as it was twenty minutes earlier.

This chair has held a great many guilty people. And perhaps a few innocent as well. As I stare at the gruesome photo wordlessly tossed across the desk by Detective Dickhead when he threw me in this room and locked the door on his way out, I decide I’m somewhere in the middle.

I’ve been in this situation before, alone and trapped in an interrogation room.

I was just a kid then, the consequences of getting caught a little less severe but all the more daunting.

I ignore the memories that start to resurface.

That version of myself is dead and buried now.

Let’s hope the past stays buried with it .

I rub my hand over my tired eyes and try not to focus on the familiar face left charred and bloody in the crime scene photo.

Try not to replay our last, bittersweet moments together the weekend before.

I wasn’t kind to her. She bared her heart, and I threw it back in her face.

I’m man enough to admit she didn’t deserve my cruelty, but I’m bastard enough to withhold my remorse.

Everyone I play with knows what treatment to expect at my hands.

It’s not my fault she was naive enough to expect tenderness when all I’ve ever given her is pain.

Sadists like myself really only know how to show their affection in a way that stings—at the end of a whip, the slap of a hand, the sharpened edge of a comment meant to burrow beneath the skin. Satine was my favorite sub, and that meant I whipped her the hardest.

Now, how exactly do I explain that to the ever so reasonable and understanding Chicago law enforcement? Given that one of my subs has turned up dead, I’m sure this is going to be quite the cluster fuck. Fuck, even I can say I look guilty.

Angélica must be cursing the fucking day she walked into my kitchen for the first time.

I tried my goddamn hardest to keep her out of my toxic orbit because everything I touch turns to shit.

I’ve given her hell, I’ve probably made her want to turn in her apron more times than she can count, and she’s survived it all.

I’d admire her strength if it didn’t make it so much harder for me to walk away.

And like the weak bastard I am, this week I just stopped trying to resist. And now I’ve dragged her into this fucking mayhem.

I may not have killed Satine, but I tortured and fucked her a week ago.

Like the cops, Angélica might decide that’s enough evidence to condemn me anyway.

But I have no intention of losing her again.

Not after I’ve waited so long. Now that she’s mine, I’m going to do everything in my power to keep her.

Just as soon as I get out of this fucking room .

When I’m about to start yelling at the two way mirror like a madman in the hopes that someone in this goddamn building remembers I exist, the door creaks open and in walks Detective Dickhead and his trusty sidekick with tits.

“About fucking time,” I scoff as I cross my arms and lean back in the terrible chair.

“Do you have any idea how long I’ve been waiting?

You’re lucky it’s not dinner at Grey’s yet, or I’d be sending you a bill to cover reimbursing every single customer deprived of my valuable time and expertise.

” I take a long, scathing look around the room, noting the detectives’ cheap suits.

“I doubt the department could afford it.”

Detective Asshat glares at me. “This really how you want to start out a murder investigation, Mr. Greyson? I gotta tell you, things aren’t looking too pretty for you as it is. You wanna add obstruction to the heap of shit you’re already in?”

“I’ve got nothing to worry about, Detective—I’m sorry, what was your name again?” I ask, genuinely failing to remember the rushed introductions for the muscle-head and his quiet, female counterpart.

“Dickson,” he grits with a gesture toward himself before waving at the younger woman beside him. “Howard.”

I stifle a smirk at his answer. I guess Detective Dickhead wasn’t too far off. “Right, well as I was saying, Detective Dick’s-in, I have no involvement in this case. You’ve got the wrong guy.”

“Sure I do,” he retorts with a belittling nod. “That’s what they all say. But I have a gut feeling about sickos like you. And you know what it’s saying?”

I lean forward and rest my elbows on the table. “I’m on the edge of my seat, hanging on your every word, detective.”

“You did this.” He slides a grotesque crime scene photo in front of me. “And this.” Another picture scratches across the tabletop. “And fucking this .” He throws the rest of the gruesome photographs into the pile .

By the time the bastard is done, the entire table is covered in pictures portraying Satine’s mangled corpse at every angle.

I have a strong stomach, but I feel the acidic bile rising up my throat at the sight.

Whoever did this is far, far more depraved than I am.

I’ve done some terrible things in my life, but I know those people got what they deserved.

Satine was an innocent, and I draw the line at innocents being harmed.

“How do you know Sarah Daubert, Mr. Greyson?” the detective asks, ripping my thoughts away from how terrible the end must have been for her.

“Sarah?” I ask, a puzzled crease forming between my brows.

“You may know her as Satine Daubert. That was the name she used for her nighttime clients, wasn’t it?”

I grit my teeth, the detective’s insinuation riling my sense of justice for the dead. “Satine wasn’t a whore.”

“Course she wasn’t,” he answers, his dull eyes taking on an unkind gleam. “I’ll ask again: how did you know her?”

I hold the detective’s stare for a beat of silence that’s long enough to have him shifting in his seat. He looks away first, and I savor the victory before answering, “We fucked on occasion.” With a smug wink, I add, “I let her have it for free.”

It’s clear from the cold look on the detective’s face that he has no sense of humor. “Were you two in a relationship?”

“Ahh, trying to pin me with that right from the start. Anytime a girl turns up dead, it’s always the boyfriend or the husband, isn’t that right, Detective Dicks? I imagine that makes your life rather easy when there’s no need to do any actual investigating.”

“Just answer the damn question, smartass.”

I lean back in my chair and look between the two of them, trying to decide if their lack of imagination and ingenuity is going to cost me jail time.

I wouldn’t be the first innocent thrown behind bars just because the label fit.

“I don’t do relationships. Like I said, I fuck.

Satine, or Sarah, is one of about twenty other girls I play with on a regular basis. ”

Or did play with before I crossed the line with my little ruin. And suddenly, one girl reduces twenty others to mere memory.

“Play with?” the detective snarls. “This isn’t a game, you sick fuck. A girl has been murdered. Brutally. And you’re a little too easy breezy while sitting in that chair on the wrong side of a murder investigation.”

“Death doesn’t faze me,” I retort with a careless shrug of my shoulders. “I’ve seen plenty of it.”

Detective Dickson takes a manila folder from the other detective.

And this one has my name written on it. “Yeah, I see you lost your mom at age five,” he says as he flicks through the pages.

The temperature of my blood grows a little colder, and I swallow down the dread rising in my throat.

“Dad died right before you graduated high school. Records are sealed regarding your father’s death. Wanna explain that?”

“Not particularly, no.”

“Do you think this is a joke? Think we brought you in just to get our rocks off?”

I meet the detective’s fury with a smirk that’s sure to dig right under his skin. “Well, I’m not an authority on what sorts of things people like you are into. But who am I to judge? No kink shaming, that’s my motto. ”

“Since you mentioned kinks, maybe we should get into yours, Mr. Greyson?”

I suppress a groan, knowing this interrogation is slipping into dangerous territory. “I like to keep my private affairs private. I’m sure you can understand.”

“This is a murder investigation. You’re not entitled to shit, least of all privacy.”

“Alright, since you’re so interested in my sex life. What do you want to know?”

“What kinds of things go on at Pandemonium? That’s where you and Ms. Daubert would play , isn’t it?”

“A great many things go on at Pandemonium,” I drawl, my empty expression giving away nothing.

“None of which can be disclosed. In spite of how much I’d love to spill my guts to you filthy fucks about the most exclusive club in the city, I can’t.

All members and participants sign bulletproof NDAs.

No one is going to risk Finnian Holt’s wrath to help Chicago’s finest pin a crime on one of their own. ”

The detectives exchange a charged look. My guess is they were hoping to have a man on the inside to shed light on all Hell’s secrets.

But that man isn’t going to be me. “Fine, forget the club. Tell us about you. Would you consider yourself to be rough in bed, Mr. Greyson? Get a kick out of marking girls up a bit? Maybe crossing the line a little more than you should be?”

I glare at him, my fists clenching in my lap. “If you’re asking me if I’ve ever done something without a partner’s consent, the answer is no.”

“Alright, alright, let’s say for argument’s sake that a few troubled girls like to be smacked around. That the kinda thing you’re into?”

The question sounds like a trap—because it fucking is one.

I can’t answer truthfully without giving them some pretty damning evidence to throw in front of a jury.

And I can’t lie because I can already tell from the self-satisfied gleam in his eyes that he knows the answer to the question and probably has a way to prove it.

“I’m into the kinds of things that get my partners off. If that means that they want it rough, then sure, I’m happy to oblige,” I reply and hope that I haven’t fucked myself over.

“How very gallant of you,” Detective Dickson answers with a dark glower.

He thinks I’m his guy; he’s just waiting for me to incriminate myself enough that he can hold me.

“Care to take a look at these photos for me?” He slides two pictures across the table, both of them a back view of Satine naked on a medical examiner’s slab.

Jabbing his thick, sausage finger at the marks etched into her back, he asks, “Want to explain how the fuck she got these? Because they predate the time of death by about a couple hours.”

Suddenly there isn’t enough air in my lungs. “When was she found?” In the shock of hearing about her death, I never thought to ask.

A predatory smile slinks across the detective’s swollen face. “Saturday night, little before midnight. Time of death was determined to be between ten and eleven. You were with her that night, weren’t you?”

My jaw clenches. “Yes.” There’s no sense in denying it. He already knows I was. I’m suddenly questioning my brash decision to turn down a lawyer.

“And any idea how the hell she got those marks?” Both detectives look at me like I’m the key to solving their case.

“Yes,” I grit out again. Might as well confirm their suspicions because they’re true. “She took my whip like the sweet little masochist she is and came with my fingers coated in her blood.”

Jesus Christ , that was the wrong thing to say, but I’m sick of tiptoeing around the truth we all know. I give pain, and I enjoy giving pain. But that doesn’t mean I killed her.

Detective Dickson looks ready to lock me up on the spot. “You were the last person to see Sarah Daubert alive. She has your marks on her body. And your damn DNA inside her. You’re our only suspect at the moment, Mr. Greyson. And right now, I’m really liking my fucking odds.”

Shit, definitely the wrong thing to say

“I need to make a phone call,” I demand, trying to keep the panic from my face.

The detective turns to his partner. “Howard, go get Mr. Greyson’s phone from lockup.” His eyes land on mine, cold and merciless. “Not that it will help him any. I think we’ve about got this case straightened out.”

Howard disappears for a few minutes while Detective Dick and I stare down each other in charged silence. The tight-faced detective returns and throws my phone across the table toward me. It’s a miracle it doesn’t crack on impact with how little she gives a shit. “Go ahead, make your call.”

I unlock my phone and find the number of someone I haven’t talked to since he found me at a sex club with his precious sub turned fiancée. Things between us have been a bit tense after I kept Kara company during their separation. Wonder if he’s found it in his heart to forgive me yet?

I almost think he won’t answer at all before he picks up on the final ring. “Ashford,” I greet tentatively, wincing while I wait to see what kind of mood the bitchy British bastard is in.

“ What the fucking hell do you want ?” comes the deep, accented voice on the other end that used to belong to one of my closest friends.

We’ve shared subs and even brushed cocks, but now I’m not sure where we stand.

I think it’s safe to say I haven’t been forgiven for getting too close to his fiancée.

And I hope he doesn’t see this as an opportunity for a little payback.

“Long time no see, Lord Dark and Broody. I hate to disturb you while you’re probably fucking sweet Kara halfway toward ecstasy with your moderately adequate, boring dick, but I need a favor.”

“ An offer I’m absolutely dying to refuse. So what’s so important you had to come crawling back on your hands and knees ?”

I heave a breath and glare at the detectives who are eying me like they’re sizing up what noose to hang me from. “I need your fucking lawyer.”