Page 52 of Tortured Eyes
“You’ve served your two weeks suspension.”
“Yes, sir.” I nod, hoping I can come back to work and start to carve out a new sense of normality.
“But you’ve not seen the department psychiatrist like I instructed.”
“Lieutenant, I don’t need-”
“Bullshit, McCarthy. You’re lying, and I’d bet you’re in trouble. You refused to enlighten me as to what would keep you away from your duties for three days with no check-in, and reporting back with a lost weapon and badge. Don’t play me for a fool. You will get cleared before I allow you back to active duty.”
I look Benson right in the eyes. It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask for help. There’s a logical place in my mind that says that it was survival that made me do all the things I did, but only part of that is the truth. So, my lips stay sealed.
“So be it. You have until the end of the week. As there are no criminal charges or investigations against you, your suspension won’t last past then if you talk to someone. I urge you to do this, McCarthy. Don’t bottle it up.”
“Yes, sir,” I placate, knowing I’ll never see a shrink. Jimmy is the closest I’ll get to one of those.
“Dismissed.”
I stand and leave the office as swiftly as possible. The last thing I want is to run into Nigel or God forbid, Watts. There’s even a part of me that wishes I could hand in my badge for good and be done with everything, but as I walk past my office and see the case file photos still on my wall, I know I can’t turn my back on the victims who need someone to find their answers and justice. My own justice has to be served first, and then I can put all of this behind me and start to rebuild my life.
“Hey, McCarthy.” Nigel’s smile is reassuring despite my previous hope not to run into anyone.
“Hey, Nigel.”
“Are you back?” he’s quick to ask.
“Next week. You keeping Watts inline? I’m trusting you are.”
“He’s a good kid. Cocky, but nothing you can’t shake out of him. Everything okay?” He casually steps between me and the exit, forcing me to stay put for a few more minutes.
“Fine. Better. Look, I’ve got to go.” I don’t give him the opportunity to ask further questions because I can’t bear to lie to him. To any of them. But I can’t come back and be Bryce McCarthy until I’ve dealt with Logan Cane.
* * *
I head home and check my mail, still frustrated and wound up from all the secrets I’m keeping inside. As I flick through the circulars and marketing crap, I find a small package waiting for me—the same format, same address label, only smaller this time.
Kicking the door closed behind me and issuing the command to turn the lights on, I waste no time in tearing the envelope open to see what he’s sent me this time.
Over the last few weeks, I’ve received three other packages, each with a series of case files or evidence relating to crimes in Chicago or elsewhere. That’s not the only thing they contain. Email documents and money transfers accompany the information, changing the whole focus of the crime.
The first case looked like a simple open and shut—the murder of two drug dealers in an undesirable part of town. The police report had it as an open and shut turf war in the area. Gunshot wounds, no witnesses or drugs found on them. The narcotics team were informed, but no further investigation required.
Only the information sent with this case included communication and a lab report all pointing to the drugs being cut with all sorts of crap, and evidence of a series of junkie deaths in Detroit. Put it all together and Cane, it seems, ordered the hit on the new drug dealers trying to push bad drugs in their neighbourhood. Of course, it meant they had no competition. But it made me wonder about some of the lines that Logan fed me.
The stack of new cases and information lives on my kitchen table. Instead of obsessing over my father’s old cases, I now obsess over these. And Logan Cane himself.
There’s no paperwork in the envelope this time, only a thumb drive, so I turn my laptop on and plug it in. The file pops up on my desktop, and I hover the cursor over the file. A video file opens, and I press play.
The opening scene is one that’s familiar—it’s the room I was in at Logan’s house. Movement draws me in, and I see myself on the floor. I keep watching, desperately seeking the memories that accompany the scene that’s unfolding, but there’s nothing. I watch as Logan places something on the chair seat, and then comes toward me. From the angle, you can tell he has something behind his back, but it’s too hidden to see the actual thing he's holding. Everything I should have experienced and remembered, I now go through. The pain and anguish, confusion followed by the obvious effect of the drugs.
Humiliation. Hate. Lust.
I watch, transfixed as I see myself transform on the screen. Logan watches on, rapt with my every move as I stretch out on the small cot-bed. You can see as the drugs take effect. My movements change, and I can see the drugs change me. It’s like they remove all my inhibitions and all I care about is getting closer to Logan.
My breathing hitches as it gets physical. I pull him to me and run my hands over him. It’s like I have free reign over his body and that’s all I want. As the scene unfolds, it gets harder to watch. Not just because I can see what I’m doing, but because I enjoy watching it. I don’t remember what I see, but I know what Logan feels like, what he tastes like, and it turns me on.
Logan lets me take control, set the pace and dictate—not what I would have guessed. Every little while, I look like I’m lost in the moment and Logan looks to swap positions, flipping me, kissing me and continuing to fuck me. It’s like a secret war of who gets to dominate who. Only we both win because we’re both enjoying the fun of fighting for control.
My own peep show continues for several more minutes, and my body grows restless. Hot. My hand drifts to the apex of my thighs and brushes over my pussy. The need to feel what I felt in that room grows deeper and more powerful the more I watch. It’s impossible to turn away. Popping the button on my pants, I shove my hand inside my panties, shocked to feel how wet I am. My finger slides through to press on my clit, just as my eyes follow Logan’s handling of me, moving me to a better position for him to fuck me.
