How Does Your Garden Grow Read online

  How Does Your Garden Grow?

  By

  April Hill

  ©2014 by Blushing Books® and April Hill

  All rights reserved.

  No part of the book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Published by Blushing Books®,

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  Hill, April

  How Does Your Garden Grow?

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-62750-3495

  Cover Design by ABCD Graphics

  This book is intended for adults only. Spanking and other sexual activities represented in this book are fantasies only, intended for adults. Nothing in this book should be interpreted as Blushing Books' or the author's advocating any non-consensual spanking activity or the spanking of minors.

  Table of Contents:

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

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  CHAPTER ONE

  When she regained consciousness, her hands were tied behind her back, and her ankles had been bound with what felt like duct tape. But where was she? She knew she was on a rough concrete floor, lying on her side in a puddle of slimy water, and her back was pressed up against a wall that was wet and cold. It was too dark to determine much else, but she could identify a few dim shapes—a pile of cardboard boxes—and something round and tall that might have been a water heater. Something alive scuttled across the floor just in front of her, its claws clicking on the concrete floor, and Beth grimaced. Mice were okay, even cute, as long as they didn't set up housekeeping in your pantry and eat all the good stuff, but whatever her current companions were, they were too large to be mice, and she didn't particularly like the other possibilities. But the rodents settled one issue. She was still in her own basement. She had to be. There couldn't be another one this grungy. For a moment, she couldn't understand why she'd been so confused, and then she remembered the pills. A second unseen creature scurried by, brushing her foot, and Beth groaned. Why the hell hadn't she listened to Adam? Being a detective wasn't turning out to be as entertaining as she'd expected.

  Another sound. Not an animal now, but what? Beth held her breath and listened, fighting back a sudden wave of panic she knew she couldn't afford. Kruger was here, somewhere. She could sense him. He was very close, now. In the dark. Breathing.

  Which drew her back to the one thought she'd been trying to avoid thinking about: Adam. What was it had Kruger said earlier? About the water. Oh, God! Where was Adam? Was he still alive, or…?

  She was about to start crying again when she was distracted by a creaking sound, close behind her and getting louder by the second. While she was still trying to identify the noise, small clumps of concrete began dropping from overhead, accompanied by a gentle shower of gravel and water. At first, the falling debris was simply annoying, but soon, the random chunks pelting her head and shoulders became increasingly larger and more difficult to dodge. And then, as suddenly as it had started, the rain of concrete stopped.

  Beth wriggled around until she was in a seated position, with her back against the wall and her legs in front of her. She was about to breathe a sigh of relief when the wall behind her groaned once and gave way, accompanied by a muffled roar and a suffocating cloud of dust. As slabs of broken concrete crashed to the floor, missing her head by inches, a thick sludge of dirt and oily water gushed out of nowhere and began welling up beneath her legs. Beth tried to squirm away, but the unmistakable sound of splintering wood changed her mind, and she scooted backward quickly. Splintering wood could mean that the basement roof was ready to collapse, and something told her that when a house was about to come crashing down on your head, the safest place to be was probably against a wall—even a crumbling one. She was complimenting herself on the wisdom of her decision when a foot-square slab of broken concrete slammed into the back of her head and right shoulder, knocking her unconscious—again.

  * * * * *

  When she woke this time, she was lying in a clean, dry hospital bed, with an IV in her left arm and her right arm immobilized in a gauze bandage that extended from shoulder to elbow. The room was cool and dim, and her vision was blurry, but she could tell that it was morning, and though she didn’t know where she was or how she'd gotten here, she knew it was over and that she was safe. She had a splitting headache; her throat felt raw and swollen, and every inch of her body seemed to hurting at once, but she was alive—and not in Felix Kruger's basement chamber of horrors.

  Still dizzy and confused, the details of what had happened were vague and probably out of sequence, but she was fairly sure that Adam was safe, as well. She remembered him talking to her and holding her hand while she was being put into an ambulance. But what if she was wrong? What if she was confused about that, too, What if…? A wave of panic swelled up in her throat, threatening to choke her, and she struggled to sit up, to call someone.

  A strong hand on her arm, and a soft voice in the semi-darkness. "Easy, babe. Don't try to move around, yet. You took a hell of a whack on the head."

  Adam!

  "Thank God," she cried, half sobbing. "You’re all right! I wasn't sure I was…"

  "I'm fine, and so are you. Or you will be, after a couple days' rest." He leaned down and kissed her on the forehead. "Try to go back to sleep, now."

  "No! Please, don't leave," she pleaded. "Not yet. I need…"

  He stroked her hair. "I'm not going anywhere. They dragged a chair in for me. I've been here all night." In the half-light from the hallway, she could see him pointing to a spot next to her bed. "I'll be right here when you wake up again."

  "What about Kruger?" she asked hesitantly. "Is he…?"

  "Under six feet of mud and rubble, last time I checked in. Your place is swarming with forensics guys and cadaver dogs, but they think it'll be late tomorrow before they can get to him. We pulled you out through a gap in the back wall, but Kruger's going to be harder to reach. There's still a lot of water and debris down there, so they'll have to do sift through it very carefully, and document…everything." He paused for a moment before giving her the last chilling bit of information, and held her hand while he told her. "It looks like he'd been at it a lot longer than we thought, Beth."

  "There's another search team at Kruger's place, of course, and that may take days, as well. The whole neighborhood's pretty well blocked off because of all the equipment—and you made the late news last night." He touched her shoulder gently. "How's the shoulder feel?"

  She groaned. "Like two really big guys were using me to make a wish."

  "The doctor says it's just wrenched—pretty badly, though."

  "So when can I get out of here?"

  "That's up to your doctor. He said maybe two or three days. He wants to watch you for a while."

  "Why?"

  He sighed. "Because a house just fell on you, that's why."

  "That's ridiculous," she complained. "I feel fine, except for the shoulder and a headache."

  "Not a headache," he corrected her. "A concussion."
r />   "It's not a concussion," she said firmly. "I had a concussion when I was twelve, when I ran my bike into a tree. This feels different, like a regular headache."

  Adam shook his head. "I'll share that diagnosis with your colleagues," he said. "The ones who actually attended medical school."

  "How long will I be in this stupid thing?" she asked irritably, indicating the bandage sling.

  "Until they tell you it’s okay to take it off."

  She made a face. "If it’s not broken, and not in a real cast, why…?"

  "Because they're the doctors, and you're not," he said wearily. "Just don’t start, okay?"

  "Don't start what?"

  "Whining. For once in your life, you’re going to do what someone tells you to—without whining about it."

  "I'm not whining," she whined.

  "You could have fooled me. Besides, that bandage is your friend, kiddo. The sooner it comes off, the sooner you and I are going to have that little talk I've been putting off. For too long, apparently."

  "Talk?" she asked, pretending confusion. "What talk is that? You know, I think that concussion you mentioned may have done something to my memory. That and whatever it was Kruger gave me to keep knocking me out. Is there a medical condition called a brain fog?"

  "Let me refresh your memory, then. We were going to talk about a couple of things. About why it's a bad idea to lie to a police officer—repeatedly. About sticking your nose into an official homicide investigation. About taking idiotic risks. Let's see…. I also wanted to talk about breaking and entering, and about how breaking into someone's private office—even someone you’re sleeping with—isn't legal, or even polite, and can get you tossed in jail."

  "I didn't break in—exactly," she grumbled. "I just sort of jiggled the lock."

  "With a chisel and a claw hammer?"

  Beth yawned. "Well, what's done is done, right? And besides, everything worked out okay in the end, didn't it? Anyway, putting me in jail would be very ungrateful. I did save your life, you know."

  "Who said anything about putting you in jail? I'd just have to waste a lot of time testifying in court. I'm planning to skip all the legal formalities. Simple, really. You plead guilty, and we go directly to the penalty phase."

  Beth scowled. "And what sort of penalty did you have in mind, as if I didn't know?"

  He smiled. "Bright girl. Looks like the brain fog may be lifting. Ten belt swats per offense sounds about right to me. Hard ones. The idea is to leave your butt on fire for a day or two, and save me a lot of paperwork. That's a damned light sentence, under the circumstances. I'd take the deal, if I were you. I may not be feeling so lenient after everything starts to sink in."

  "Like what?"

  "Like how close you came to being Kruger's next victim. Like how scared I was that the woman I loved was in danger of being potted like a damned geranium. All because she was stubborn and pig-headed determined to be Nancy Drew. In my book, all of that earns you one hell of a spanking." He grinned. "When you’re feeling up to it, of course. I don't want to be accused of police brutality or of being insensitive to an invalid."

  "I don't suppose you’d be open to a little bargaining, would you?" she asked sweetly.

  "Not likely, but go ahead and give it a shot. I'm a reasonable man—or used to be."

  "Well, since—as has already been mentioned—I did save your life, it seems only right that I should get a full pardon, so to speak. And besides," she added coyly. "I can probably think of a lot of very nice ways to show my gratitude. I'd call that fair, wouldn't you?"

  "No. I'd call it attempted bribery." He leaned down to straighten her pillows. "You need to get some rest, now. Lie down."

  "I don’t want to lie down. Just think how awful the headlines will look in the newspapers," she insisted. 'Selfless Heroine Flogged Unmercifully By Ungrateful Public Servant.'"

  "Okay, here's another headline," he suggested pleasantly. 'Exasperated Cop Blisters Uncooperative Witness' Butt, While Hospital Staff Applauds.'"

  With that, Detective McCann said goodnight, kissed her on the top of her head and headed off to find some coffee. He paused for a moment in the doorway.

  "The attempted bribery's going to cost you, by the way. One solid minute over the arm of the couch, with your bare ass on fire and you howling bloody murder about injustice. On the other hand, if you'll stop trying to squirm out of what you've already got coming, I'll overlook the bribery charge and give you the choice—spanked, blistered or flogged? I'd like to go for all three, but that's just me. Later, I'll even take you out to dinner at Ernie's, on the pier. The shrimp's great, and it’s the only place I know around here where you can eat standing up. And in your case, babe, that's going to be an absolute necessity. Go to sleep, now."

  * * * * *

  The combined spanking-flogging-blistering went forward on schedule, with Beth bent gracelessly over the back of McCann's leather couch with her jeans and panties pulled down to her ankles and her bare backside shivering. When Adam rolled up his shirtsleeves and unbuckled his belt, she groaned and gritted her teeth.

  She had vowed not to make a sound and succeeded—for the first five strokes. But when the belt landed for the sixth time, leaving in its scalding wake a bright red ribbon of pain, Beth's resolve crumbled, and she let out her first squeal, accompanied by a series of howls and frantic squirming. If these piteous but highly exaggerated expressions of anguish were calculated to encourage sympathy from the man she loved, they failed miserably. For if ever a man was determined to deliver a long overdue and well-deserved spanking and to make that spanking as memorable as possible, it was Detective McCann.

  By the time he finished and slipped his belt back through its loops, he was well-satisfied that the feeble whimpers now emanating from his beloved were one-hundred-percent genuine.

  After a suitable intermission, wherein she alternately sniffled and whined and cautiously rubbed her overheated behind, the promised dinner at the pier also proceeded on schedule. As predicted, Ernie's plump fried shrimp were delicious. As also predicted, Beth found it more comfortable to consume the luscious meal standing up.

  And so ended Beth's first case as an unofficial homicide investigator. It was her last case, as well, Adam assured her—with a not-especially-gentle pat on her throbbing rear end. As they walked back to his apartment, hand in hand, they talked softly, laughing as they recalled their first meeting. But as darkness fell, and the air grew damp and chill, she stopped walking and moved close to him, grateful for his quiet strength, and for the warmth and security of his arms. Beth had begun to remember the rest of it, now—the grim details she had hoped to put behind her when Felix Kruger was finally nothing but a terrifying memory.

  It had begun several months ago—with one of her many calls to the local police precinct. Most of the calls had ended with nothing but frustration and anger, but then, one night…

  * * * * *

  Three months earlier:

  Something very odd was going in Felix Kruger's tidy little brick bungalow. Something creepy.

  "Creepy," the cop on the phone repeated. He sounded bored, and Beth knew he wasn't writing down anything she'd said. He was doodling on a notepad or clipping his nails and not even making notes. She should have used a better word. Something more ominous than an old-fashioned word like "creepy." "Horrifying," maybe. Not that it mattered. She'd used "ghastly" the last time and "frightening" the time before that, and each escalation in terminology had brought about the same response: an audible yawn.

  "Did you hear what I just said?" she asked, making an effort to keep the irritation out of her voice.

  "Yes, ma'am. Creepy. Your neighbor's doing something creepy. Got it."

  "Are you writing it down, though?" she persisted. "A report?"

  "Yes, ma'am. Got it right here in front of me. Creepy."

  "And your name, again, officer?" she inquired, a bit too politely.

  "Keenan, ma'am. Sergeant Dennis Keenan."

  Beth sighed.
Keenan, again. She might just as well be talking to a table lamp.

  "Thank you, Officer Keenan. As always, you've been a tremendous help." She hoped the sarcasm in her voice was coming through, loud and clear.

  "No problem, ma'am. That's what we're here for. You take care, now."

  The phone went dead.

  Beth hurled a throw pillow across her tiny living room and swore. He hadn't believed her—again. Why wouldn’t anyone believe her?

  * * * * *

  Three days later, when the phone on Keenan's desk rang at 2:14 in the morning, Adam McCann picked it up. Technically, Detective McCann wasn't on duty. He was still on vacation—for another two days, five hours, and forty-six minutes, to be exact, and had dropped by to pick up some papers on his way home from the airport. They'd come home early from Disney World because Amy had to be back at school in four days, and his ex-wife Diana always threw a fit when he cut it too close.

  He and Diana actually had shared custody of their fifteen-year old daughter during the summer months, but Diana still made most of the rules. There wasn’t much that truly angered Adam McCann, but losing precious visitation time with his only child did. At almost sixteen, Amy would soon be at the point where boys were more fun than ten days in Florida with Dear Old Dad.

  Keenan was out on a call, and the other detectives who normally shared the cramped squad room were gathered around the office's elderly coffee machine, banging on the top and making the usual obscene threats about what they wanted to do to it. McCann swore softly as he picked up the receiver. It looked like his vacation was about to end early, too.

  McCann listened attentively to the overwrought female citizen on the other end of the line, jotted down a quarter page of notes on Keenan's yellow legal pad and assured the caller that he'd "look into it."

  When the woman hung up—or slammed the receiver down, more accurately, he called across the room to the others. "Anybody here know anything about a woman named…," he glanced down at his notes. "Walker? Over on Hazelwood Circle?"

  A chorus of hoots and whistles broke out.