Hitting the Bottom

Author's note:

Hello y'all and welcome to this brand-new story!

This one started with quite a few of my readers asking "so what happened to Dan?" towards the end of Whiskey & Rye which got me thinking... what does happen to a Dom after hitting the bottom?

A huge

thank you

to my chief co-conspirator, co-creator and editor, the chiseled Brit whose wicked ideas, wacky humor and rock-solid support are everything I could ever hope for in a writing partner.

Hope you like it... please let me know what you think! VOTE, FAVORITE and above all - COMMENT!

xoxo,

small_town_girl

PS - no sex yet in this chapter... If that's what you're in the mood for please skip to the next one :)

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dan:

I am such a fucking loser.

My palms are so sweaty that they keep slipping around the grip and my fingers feel like they're made of fucking jelly and no matter what my brain tries to tell them they won't squeeze hard enough to pull the goddamn trigger.

What a pathetic, deadbeat loser.

The taste of smooth metal is heavy on my tongue but the cold steel of the barrel had long warmed in my mouth because I cannot fucking

DO IT.

I'm not even man enough to do this one last act that could somehow redeem me from the pure evil I've succumbed to.

No. There's no redemption from what I've done. But I could end it here. I could make sure it never, ever happened again.

If I could just pull the freakin' trigger.

I just vaguely remember a time when I was a man. A damn

good

man, too. A loving husband to my adoring wife, a devoted son, a trustworthy and competent cop well-respected and well-liked by my brothers-in-arms.

That man is gone now; eaten alive by the monster I'd become.

I try to hold on to that memory of the man that i once was, to channel those faint ghosts of goodness into one last honorable act. I could still protect the innocent. I just need to do this one thing right. Pull the trigger, slay the monster! But I can't.

Because I am such a fucking loser who can't even pull his own damn trigger.

Dammit to HELL!

No.

Damn

me

to hell.

*

With a defeated curse I put the gun down, clicking the safety back without conscious thought. The movement had become automatic, ingrained into my muscles by the decades I've spent in law enforcement. It registers a moment later, the sensibility of the act mocking me. I still can't believe my own utterly crazy actions in the past few days, the pain and terror I've caused.

FUCK!

I feel the bile rise again in my stomach. The nausea had taken over as soon as I came out of my

episode

and realized what I'd done. I can't even count the number of times I've puked in the last 24 hours. There's nothing left in there but acid and still it wouldn't stop. It's like my soul is trying to break away from the monster that's taken me over, my insides trying to escape the body that carried out the attack.

My legs are shaking as I stumble to the bathroom and double over the toilet and I heave and gag but nothing comes out anymore. There's nothing left inside.

When the dry heaves stop I pull myself over to the sink and manage to take in a couple of gulps of cold tap water and then wash my face. Watching the deranged, hollow-eyed stranger staring back at me in the bathroom cabinet mirror the answer slowly dawns on me.

I can still do this. I can still slay the monster.

My hands tremble when I open the mirrored doors and start pulling out the few OTC drugs I keep there -- an almost-full bottle of painkillers, some cough medicine, a muscle relaxant and several sleeping pills. It's a small pile but I figure it's enough to do the job.

It's the cowardly way out. How fitting. The stranger in the mirror grimaces in something that looks like self-mocking irony.

I palm the pills, my new resolution smoothing my movements, making them almost recognizable. I stride over to my kitchen ignoring the grime on the floors and the mess on the counters and pull out the lone, half-full, rarely-used bottle of premium vodka from my freezer.

No point in letting it go to waste.

Back in my study I place the bottle and the pills on top of my desk next to my gun.

Should I write a note?

No. There's nothing to say, really. Actions speak louder than words.

Committed, I set out to work. Twenty minutes later every last pill is downed and there's barely a single shot of vodka left in the bottle and I am already light-headed. There's a fire burning in my belly but somehow the nausea is gone and I think I can keep it down long enough to succeed, but maybe it'll be easier if I lie down. I pick myself up and walk over to my living room and crash heavily onto the worn cushions of my sofa.

My vision starts to blur as I look around me at my small living room, noticing the sorry state of my rented apartment. I kept it in decent shape in the first few months of living solo, but at some point had stopped caring enough to make the effort. It's deteriorated rapidly in the last year. I never had anyone over so they wouldn't see it. Wouldn't see the truth of how low I'd sunk.

They're gonna see it soon.

I imagine how they'd find me. My next shift is scheduled for only the day after tomorrow and I wonder if my neighbors would notice anything before then. Probably not. I'll be a no-show at the station and they'll call and there will be no answer so they'll send someone over. Jon, most probably. My partner and my best friend; of course he'd be the one to come over to drag my sorry ass in.

FUCK.

He doesn't deserve this. But there's nothing I can do about it anymore. Besides, by then he would probably know what I did. I hope he understands this last act of mine. I hope he figures out this was the only way I could make sure nobody else was hurt. And maybe, just maybe, he'd hate me a little less because of it.

*

Suddenly there's a thundering banging at my door, wrenching me wide-awake from my drug- and alcohol-induced haze. It's loud enough to wake the whole building in this ungodly hour of the night, and I can hear Jon's voice bellowing from behind it:

"Dan!!! I'm gonna fucking KILL you, you sonofabitch! Now open the goddamn door right NOW!"

He knows.

I don't even hesitate as I get up to open the door. I know what's coming and in a strange way I feel relieved. Undoubtedly he's heard what I did. He knows that I attacked, beat up and sexually assaulted Naomi, my ex-wife. His wife's best friend. He knows, and he's here to deliver the torture I deserve before I die. I look forward to it. Maybe it'd help cleanse my soul.

I open the door and only get a moment to see the utter rage and disgust on his face before his left fist grabs my collar and a half-second later his right hook explodes into my jaw shooting white-hot pain through my system, making my head swivel back sending blood from the split lip fluttering in a wide arc onto the dirty hardwood floor. I can anticipate his next move but don't even try to resist; this feels

right.

I smile.

His right hand grabs the back of my neck now and together with the fist in my collar pulls me down at the same time that his knee comes up to connect with my lower torso and we can both hear the crack when it catches under my left ribs. Another spear of pain slices my guts and I gasp and cough, but keep my hands limp by my side.

"You like that Dan? You want more? FIGHT, damn you!" He sounds anguished.

I try to raise my arms but my limbs won't obey me. I can only hang there from his fist in my collar like the worthless piece of shit that I am. With a disgusted curse Jon pushes me back and away from him and I feel myself collapse like a sack of potatoes and then my head catches on the corner of the wall behind me and there's another crack and one more splitting jolt of pain before everything goes black.

*

*

*

Everything hurts.

My head throbs with every heartbeat. My chest screams in agony with every breath. My mouth feels like it's stuffed with dry, foul cotton. I groan.

"Mr. Moreno? Can you hear me? Dan?"

The voice is soft and melodic, coaxing me to answer.

I crack my eyes open and the light from the window behind the darkened figure almost blinds me. I shut them tight again and another moan escapes as the throbbing in my head intensifies to unbearable, violent pounding. She must have noticed because she moves away and a moment later the blinds are tilted to block out the afternoon sun. I feel myself sinking down into the blessed darkness again.

"Mr. Moreno? Can you hear me? Can you open your eyes, Dan?"

The voice caresses my mind, softly pulling me awake. I will my eyelids open and try to lift my head but as soon as I do pain comes rushing back, stealing my breath away and followed immediately by a huge wave of nausea. I slump back and focus on breathing, willing the sickness to pass.

"Shhh... lie back Mr. Moreno. Don't try to move or it'll only hurt worse. Here, let me get you some water."

A straw is slipped into the right corner of my mouth, and when I purse my lips to sip I feel the sutures pulling at them. The whole left side of my mouth and jaw is grotesquely swollen. A cool hand slides under my neck to gently lift my head up.

"There you go Mr. Moreno. Nice and slowly."

I drink and let the water fill my mouth before gulping it down. Some of it spills through my deformed lips onto my chin and trickles down the side of my neck.

How pathetic.

I am such a pathetic loser.

That thought jingles in my mind and suddenly everything comes rushing back: My shock and despair when I heard about Naomi moving on and giving her submission to a new Dom from Annie, Jon's wife and Naomi's best friend. Exploding in a crazy tirade in front of my friends. Jon wrestling me down to their living room carpet and finally making me crash in their guest bedroom telling me I should 'sleep it off', as if my rage would evaporate along with the alcohol. Leaving a note the next morning to Annie asking her to tell Naomi I wanted her back. Naomi's reply a day later texting me that it was all over and I should move on, like she did. Driving straight to the airport and waiting there like a zombie over 24 hours for the first available seat to take the long, trans-Atlantic flight to New York.

It all seems a blur now, but I can still recall my stake-out across the street from the office building where her company is headquartered. I remember spotting her when she came out of the main door and following her downtown to her lover's place, and then uptown again, much later in the evening, leading me to her apartment. I remember hiding in plain view among the homeless on the lower levels of Penn Station, sleeping on a thin stretch of cardboard side-by-side other lost souls, and then roaming the streets aimlessly for hours before going back to her building and waiting for her by the door.

The stream of flashing images slows down to a snail's crawl when it gets to the moment she stepped out of the elevator and started walking down the corridor towards me. I wish I could delete the next few hours from my memory.

No. I don't get to delete them. I don't deserve that grace. I've tried for oblivion, for abolition, and failed that, too. Now I know that this is my cross to bear: Remembering and reliving every second of my atrocities in super-HD slow-mo, playing in an endless loop inside my sick mind.

The look in her eyes the moment she realized something was wrong once we were inside her door. The fear that suddenly tightened her face. I'd never seen fear on her face before; it only served to fuel my rage. Slamming her back into the wall and knocking the wind out of her. Rejoicing in her shocked gasp while at the same time being infuriated by it. Striking her across the face twice, HARD, deliberately breaking her hard limit right there and then, so she'd know I wasn't fucking

playing

with her. Seeing the bruise flare on her cheekbone and feeling a twisted, deep sense of pride.

She's wearing my marks again.

Calling her a whore for hooking up with someone else, two years after our divorce.

I'm such a pathetic loser.

A miserable moan forces its way out from the back of my throat, squeezing past the huge lump that's lodged there. The nurse had put the water aside and was on her way out but now she's back, moving close again, pressing her hand onto my shoulder. Her touch is gentle and soothing and it's almost my undoing because I know I don't deserve it, and soon enough she'd know it too and then even this small mercy would be gone.

"Shhh... Try to get some more sleep Mr. Moreno, I'll come back to check on you soon."

She leaves, and I wish I could follow her soft-spoken order and go back to sleep. But the horror movie in my mind keeps playing and I know the worst is yet to come but I can't make it stop. Just like I couldn't stop myself then. I remember how I grabbed both her wrists and twisted them painfully behind her back and tied them up with the panties I tore off her body. How I dragged her over to her dresser and got the sports socks and the scarf to gag her. The terrified look in her eyes when I started pushing the rolled socks into her mouth. How she struggled and screamed.

She

screamed

.

I'd made her scream many times before, in ecstasy and pleasure. But never before had I made her scream her safe-word,

wasabi

, over and over again. Her eyes were pleading with me, begging me to stop, to respect this one fundamental rule upon which our whole fucking relationship was built; the one rule that had always allowed her to trust me.

I laughed in her face and ignored it. I tied her spread-out and face down to the bed. I spanked her and finger-fucked her and made her cum though I knew damn well she didn't want any of it --

she safe-worded!

- but I thought -- I thought maybe if I did she'd remember that she loved me and would want me back.

I'm such a fucking loser.

And then her phone rang and it was

him

-- her new lover, her new Dom -- and I went completely berserk. Because deep down I knew -- I knew that I'd lost her forever. But I didn't stop. Instead I punished her, as if I had any right. I lashed her with my belt HARD, so fucking hard, harder than I ever had. Harder than I ever thought myself capable of. I just wanted her to

hurt

. And I know for a fact I would have damned well fucked her --

raped her

-- if her new man hadn't gotten there and stopped me in the nick of time.

Shit. I'm gonna puke again.

I barely manage to roll over to my right side and lean my body against the railing while my head hangs over the side of the bed when the heaves start again, each one shooting pain from my cracked rib out to every cell in my body. There's nothing in my stomach but these few sips of water --

they must have pumped the drugs and alcohol out or something

-- and in another moment it's over and I slump back, exhausted and sweaty and utterly disgusted with myself once more.

Loser.

I close my eyes and let the darkness suck me in its blessed numbness.

*

When I come to again the room is dark, the only light coming in is from the door standing partially open to the corridor. There's a rhythmic noise coming from the other side of my bed and it takes my still-fuzzy mind a moment to place it.

Somebody is snoring.

I turn my head slowly to my right. No light is coming through the window so it must be nighttime. I keep craning my neck all the way until my right cheek is pressed to the pillow and I rest there, staring.

Jon is here. He's slumped in the chair that is pushed back to the corner of the room, his head resting in an uncomfortable angle against the wall as he sleeps.

I must have made some noise because in the next moment the soft snoring stops and his eyes open, unfocused for just a second before sharpening and narrowing in on me. He straightens up, and then pulls his chair closer to the side of my bed and leans forward, forearms on his knees.

We keep staring at each other. He's obviously waiting for me to speak but I don't know what to say. What do you say after doing what I did? What do you say after betraying the one person you've cared most for in your life? I try to read his face but can't, he seems... at a loss for words, just like I am. Finally he drops his eyes and shakes his head looking at his hands with their fingers tightly clutched together before raising it to look straight at me again.

"Why, Dan?"

The anguish in his voice slices into me.

I've betrayed him, too.

I try to answer but my mouth is too dry. I swallow and try again; any movement in my lips pulls the sutures and it feels as if they are poking me with dozens of sharp pins and needles. My voice comes out so gruff I can barely recognize it.

"I'm sorry."

Jon looks like I just punched him; his face twists into rage and he just barely keeps his voice down, leaning over me to grab my collar again. His fisted hand shakes with his effort to control himself.

"You're SORRY? You fucking asshole, you think saying 'sorry' is good enough?! Are you out of your fucking mind?!"

I just stare back. What can I say anyway?

Yes, I'm sorry. No, I know it's not good enough. Yes, I'm out of my fucking mind.

Finally I manage to croak out: "You should have finished the job last night, Jon. Or stayed away and let me finish it myself. Never mind. I'll make sure to do it right next time."

Jon pulls back and just looks at me in dumb silence for long moments. His words when he speaks come out slowly.

"What the fuck are you talking about, Dan?"

The lights flicker on in the room, flooding it suddenly with white brightness. "Ah, Mr. Moreno, I'm glad to see you're finally awake, we were starting to worry about you." The soft, melodic voice is back and I turn my head slowly towards it.

"Hi, my name is Sandra." The nurse leans over my bed and shakes Jon's hand. There's a kind, polite smile on her face, but there's no mistaking the authority in her voice when she speaks.

"Sir, if you could step outside for a few minutes I need to check on Mr. Moreno now. I shouldn't be too long. There are some vending machines at the other end of the hall if you'd like to get some coffee."

Mutely Jon nods and gets to his feet and after throwing another glaring look my way that clearly says

'I'll be back, you fucking asshole'

strides out of the room.

The nurse, Sandra, pulls the vitals cart she brought into the room with her close to the bed and efficiently wraps the inflatable sleeve around my left upper arm to take my blood pressure and then sticks the thin thermometer into a disposable plastic shield before slipping it gently into the right corner of my mouth.

"Keep it under your tongue Mr. Moreno."

She looks at her little monitor while I feel the sleeve inflate and press tightly around my arm. Within a few seconds the machine beeps and the nurse retrieves the thermometer and disposes of the plastic shield before putting it back in its place. Then there's another beep and the sleeve deflates and is removed to be put back on the cart as well. She picks up the chart hanging at the foot of my bed and logs in the numbers showing on the monitor, then hangs it back and looks up at me.

Her clear baby-blue eyes assess my face and her full pink lips tighten a little before she steps closer and places her hand on my shoulder like she did before.

"How are you feeling, Mr. Moreno?"

"I'll live."

For now.

Her brows furrow but her voice stays gentle. "I need specifics, Mr. Moreno. How's the pain and nausea? You have sustained a concussion on top of your cracked skull and rib and your split lip; I'm afraid you're going to be uncomfortable for quite a while. But we can help manage the pain and nausea with medication. So I'll ask you again, how's your pain and nausea right now?"