Life on Top A Cassandra Marcella Mystery

Case 101

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2015

TL Alexander

Published by Crazy Writer Books/TL Alexander

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All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations in articles or reviews—without the permission in writing from its publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarities to persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. We are not associated with any product or vendor in this book.

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with other people, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, (shame on you) or was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it to the seller and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting all my hard work.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Books By TL Alexander

Special Note to Reader

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Epilogue

About The Author

Copyright

Law Inc. Cassandra Marcella Mysteries, a continuing series

Case 101: Life on Top

Case 102: Between a Rocker and a Hard Place

The Layers Series

Layers

More Layers

Beneath Layers

Beyond Layers

Go to www.tlalexanderauthor.com for more information on these books and others.

Let her know what you think by leaving a review, or comment at purchase site, social media, or website. She’d love to hear from you.

Life On Top is a story about a Dominant, and just for the record, I do not claim to be any kind of an expert on the lifestyle of a Dominant and Submissive in any way. When researching for this book I found myself saying things like, Interesting, Wow! Oh my God! No Friggin’ Way! Why? and Holy Shit! And I laughed my ass off reading Ten Worst Sex Toys, Ten Worst Sex Positions, For the Love of Dom, and The Bottom Sucks. That said, the opinions and attitudes in this book are those of my main character, Cassandra Marcella. So, all you sexperts please note this is fiction and the terminology and some of the scenes are from her novice perspective as well as mine.

On a more serious note, I’d like to mention that during my research I was brought to tears by many stories of rape and abuse. One rape is one too many. For more information go to RAINN—Rape, Abuse and Incest National Network at rainn.org

TL

I wake up with a start, warm sweat running down my spine, turning cold by the time it reaches the top of my crack. I know what time it is. I don’t have to look. I know the alarm clock will read 5:20 a.m.

I’m so tired, exhausted really. The nightmares are more frequent, the details clearer, more real, when I’m tired. Working fifteen-hour days, the nightmares were to be expected. But even when I expect them, it never prepares me, or lessens their cruel mocking intensity.

Rubbing the sleep from my dry, tired eyes, I think, if I had balls, I’d give up my right one for three more hours of sleep. However, my ball-musing sacrifice would be stupid, futile and damn painful. Years of experience have taught me that once awake, sleep will never return.

I peel back the sheet and sit up. Swinging my long bare legs over the side of the mattress, I exhale as I run my fingertips down my slightly crooked right arm. Please don’t ache today, I tell it, as if it could hear, or had a brain of its own and could reply.

After talking to my mute arm, I examine my nude body. It’s a ritual, a habit, a daily checklist of fitness and existence. As I scan, I note the following: no swelling, no bruising, no burns, no cuts, no infectious puss, no blood, no broken bones, no lice or unknown vermin, no retch-inducing smells of feces or vomit. I am healthy. I am alive. I am free.

Physical exam completed, I drag my weary self to the shower. I turn on the hot water, watching the steam rise and fog the glass before I step under the spray. As water rains down my back I close my eyes and plan out my day. It’s Friday—thank you Goddess of Fridays—the second of July. Tomorrow I leave the city for a long weekend at the lake. Thank you, Goddesses of holidays and lakes.

As I shampoo I think about catching a yoga session, or maybe taking a quick run before heading to the office. Yoga and exercise help impede or minimize the anxiety attacks I sometimes suffer after nightmare-filled nights. As I rinse I conjure images of my office. Uneven piles of paperwork, separated by useless colored tabs, line the front of my desk, like the Rockies. Old case-file boxes are stacked up against the window, towering over me like Everest. Files scatter the conference table and chairs as if they erupted from Mount Saint Helens. In other words, if you googled the phrase mountains of paperwork, an image of my office would be one of the first search results. I quickly pooh-pooh those thoughts and in just over an hour, find myself sitting behind said desk, in my loft office on the Lower East Side.

My name is Cassandra Marcella; I’m a criminal law attorney in the state of New York. Some might say I’m a badass, ball-busting, controlling bitch. And that would be the some whom I’d consider my friends. I run my own firm and I like it that way. I’ve worked hard, earned a reputation as the best, as someone who doesn’t like losing and rarely does. My practice is at a place where I can pick and choose my clients. With the amount of work I have, I’ve picked and chosen way over my head.

I haven’t achieved this on my own. My practice and I wouldn’t run smoothly, or at all, if I didn’t have the best damn, hardest-working, generously paid team in New York. I’m as lucky as a sock-wearing, lotto-winning, wartless toad to have them. They are my associates, my friends, and my family, and I thank the goddesses every day for them.

I look at my watch. 7:24 a.m. My PA, Sidney Clark’s, phone has been ringing nonstop. All calls are forwarded to voicemail, but the constant ringing drives me friggin’ nuts. I decide to pick up, answering it like a machine, something I find myself doing when the office is closed, or when I want to pretend I’m not here.

You’ve reached the law office of Cassandra Marcella. Our regular office hours are nine a.m. to six p.m. Monday through Friday. If you’ve reached this recording after hours and it’s an emergency, please call 212-229-4171. Thank you. Beep.

"Cassandra, this is Julia Stein. I’ve been calling your office for freakin’ hours. I called your emergency number; who the hell is Otis? Oh, wait, I think I remember him. He’s that huge bald guy, from… some Southern state, Mississippi, Alabama, or is it Idaho? I guess I don’t need to tell you, I’m sure you know. Anyway, Henry was arrested last night, driving under the influence of narcotics or some bullshit. Cocaine they said, friggin’ coke. We haven’t snorted that shit in years. Stupid-ass idiot cops. And they found a little baggie of pot underneath the seat, the passenger one. You’d think they’d figure out if it was under the passenger seat, then the driver wouldn’t be smokin’ it. Like duh. A little teeny tiny baggie, can you believe it? It was a Ziploc, the snack-size. Those Ziplocs really are worth the extra dollar. Those store-brands… hell, they just don’t cut it, you can’t close them. The slider thingy doesn’t line up. Henry tried to tell them pot is legal in Colorado, and he was born in Denver. Henry told me he’s going to put a copy of his birth certificate in all his cars. I thought that was a great idea. What do you think? Hey, this is weird, the machine or service or whatever usually cuts me off by now. Maybe each time you call it adds on minutes, like when you don’t use your allotted text time and they add it to the next month, rollover, I think it’s called. Anyway, Henry said he tried to tell the officers who he was twenty times, but by the twenty-first time, he’d had it. They’re calling it assault. But you know him, Cassandra. That’s just crazy. This is Henry we’re talkin’ about, for hell sakes. He can’t kill a fly. He’s afraid of them, ya know. This officer, Kilpatrick, said he refused to get out of the car. And he did, he admits to it. But he thought it was raining. Turns out it wasn’t, he’d hit a fire hydrant that was in the middle of the street. It was his new Maserati GranTurismo convertible. It’s ruined, totaled. We want to sue the city for putting hydrants in the middle of the friggin’ road. I mean, really! Who the hell does that? Cassandra, I need Henry out of Central lock-up in the next couple of hours. We’ve got to be in the Hamptons this afternoon. By the way, are you coming to our party on the