“You don’t know,” Shaw said.

“No.”

“How long have they been blackmailing you?”

“A few weeks.”

“What’s on the video?” North asked.

“Fuck you.”

“Buddy, I know it’s not the role you usually play, but you’re the one who’s about to get fucked.” North reached for the pen.

Shaw stopped him. He could see where some of the pieces of this puzzle touched: Brueckmann’s posture, his fear, the old man moaning on one of the screens while a kid blew him, North’s offhand comment about Shaw in a collar, and, of course, the video of Matty Fennmore losing his virginity. Shaw waited another moment, tracing the shadow of the idea, and then he trusted it enough to say it out loud.

“You sub.”

This time, Brueckmann’s reaction was more intense. He tried to get to his feet, his face so furious and afraid that the pain of jostling his injured hand didn’t seem to reach him. He reached for the pen with his other hand, obviously planning on yanking it free and attacking again.

North’s fist met Brueckmann’s right eye about two seconds later. The explosion of the punch rippled through Brueckmann’s face like it was cold jelly, and Brueckmann wobbled, his whole body blank, wiped clean by North’s punch. Then Brueckmann collapsed, half his body supported by the desk, half of it trailing off onto the floor.

As Brueckmann wheezed and gasped and tried to recover, North worked his way around the desk, planting himself behind Brueckmann, gathering a handful of the older man’s hair, and yanking his head back.

“So,” North said. “Sometimes you like to wear a collar. Sometimes you like to have your ass beaten. Big deal.”

“Everybody likes a nice spank now and then,” Shaw said.

And for some inexplicable reason, North’s cheeks heated at that, but he maintained the easy back and forth without missing a beat. “Maybe some guys like it a little bit more.”

“Maybe some guys like a choke collar.”

“Yeah, that’d be nice,” North said. “Maybe some guys like those dog suits. Like to get paraded around with a silicone tail sticking out of their ass.”

“You know what, North?”

“What’s that, Shaw?”

“Lee Brueckmann’s a big old dom top, you know?”

“Oh, I know. He’s wearing a leather jacket. That’s like a billboard.”

“Maybe he wants to wag his little puppy tail, though.”

“Him?” North punctuated the word by slamming Brueckmann’s head into the desk. Then, pulling it back up, he examined Brueckmann’s bloody face. “No. No fucking way. A big dom top like this guy? But Shaw, he makes all his money getting other people to wag their puppy-dog tails.”

Dropping into Brueckmann’s seat, Shaw kicked his feet up onto the desk. “That would be a big problem. Wouldn’t it, Lee? You don’t mind if I call you Lee, do you? Because, Lee, here’s the problem as I see it. Maybe you like a nice big dick slapping you in the face. Maybe you like it when somebody else holds the reins—”