Held

by Marlee Wray

  “You should quit while you’re ahead, Zoe.”

  “Or what?” I demand.

  “You know what.”

  I look at the strong hand gripping his mug. That hand spanked my ass last night until I squirmed and sobbed. My stomach clenches. So does my pussy. There is something so aggressively masculine about him that I can’t help but react to it.

  “What’s happening with the investigation?” I ask, anxious to move on from memories of last night.

  “It’s on. When they know something worth knowing, they’ll tell me. Until then, they’re working.”

  The front door opens. “C?”

  “Here,” Connor says.

  A young guy with a smattering of scars over the side of his face and neck comes in. He sets a duffle bag on the counter.

  “Everything from her list,” he says with a nod.

  I stare at the bag. It’s from my place. I’m stunned.

  “Thanks,” Connor says.

  “You need anything else, C?” he asks in a tone that says he’s ready and willing to run more C Crue errands.

  “No, head out.”

  The guy runs a hand through his scruffy hair and then looks at me. His gaze cuts back to Connor. “There were flowers on her mat. From a guy. Dennis. I tossed them on the counter. Figured the neighbors didn’t need a signal she wasn’t around.”

  “Good.”

  The guy sets my keys on the counter. “Later,” he says, leaving.

  When the front door shuts behind him, C looks at me. “Dennis who?”

  “Sanders. He’s my ex.”

  “An ex who comes by your place?”

  I shrug. “Sometimes. He probably came by to congratulate me for getting through opening night. He was around when we were planning the show.”

  “We? Who’s we?”

  Shit. That was a mistake. “Me,” I say quickly. “And Miss Sylvia. I got her advice on some things.”

  He swigs his coffee. “Not a bad breakup if he’s bringing you flowers. Is he trying to get back with you? Or does he have something to make up for?”

  “That’s personal.”

  “How long were you with him?”

  “Again, personal. As in none of your business.”

  “It is my business. He’s a guy who shows up at your place unannounced. When was the last time he was in your apartment?”

  The spoonful of fruit and yogurt pauses halfway to my mouth. “It ended three months ago. I don’t remember the last time he stopped by, but a while ago.” My mind races. I broke things off with Dennis when I’d suspected he was using me to get close to guys in Frank’s organization. He was always talking about wanting to make more cash and how the guys working for Frank Palermo never had to worry about money. No, I thought, they just had to worry about getting killed. I’d made it clear I wanted no part of dating someone who worked for Frank. When he’d mentioned Frank’s organization once too often and insisted on coming in when we went to pick up Rachel, I’d broken things off.

  Connor sets his mug on the counter. “What’s on your mind, Z?”

  I shake my head. “Nothing,” I say, finishing the bite of yogurt and turning. I rinse the container in the sink.

  When I turn back, Connor is texting. A moment later, he slides his phone into his pocket.

  “What was that about?” I ask.

  “Do you love him?”

  “What did you just do?”

  “Nothing. Do you love him?” he demands.

  “No, I’m not in love with him. That doesn’t mean I don’t care what happens to him. He shouldn’t be targeted because he’s my ex-boyfriend and left me flowers.”

  “You think this is about jealousy?” he asks, coming around the counter.

  “What else would it be about?” I say, although of course I know. I was contemplating the same thing a minute ago.

  “It’s about getting to the truth.” He pauses, eyeing me. “My shirt looks good on you,” he says, putting his hand on my hip.

  His attraction to me is something I secretly love, but wish I didn’t. I push his hand away. “Don’t do that.”

  “I’m the reason you missed getting flowers this morning. I’ll take care of that. What’s your favorite kind?”

  “I don’t want flowers from you. If you want to do something for me, let me go.”

  “Not yet.”

  The intensity of his gaze sends shivers down my spine and tingles through the private parts of me.

  “Then I’ll go work on my classwork,” I say, knowing I need to get away from him before I give in to the attraction I’m trying to hide.

  I wait for him to stop me, but he doesn’t say anything. I slide the duffle off the counter. When I turn, I half expect him to slap my ass. When he doesn’t, I don’t know whether I’m glad or disappointed.

  * * *

  Connor

  I get updates from the guys all day. Leads are pursued, and people are ruled out.

  I pull Trick from the neighbors and theater people the minute I learn about the ex. I’ve got a hunch, and I want Trick’s talents on it.

  I pass the game room a few times. Zoe’s got her books and laptop on the poker table. She seems to be working hard, and I’m curious about the project, but I don’t interrupt.

  The text I’m waiting for comes at three in the afternoon.

  I’d sent Trick a text earlier in the day that only said: there’s an ex who shows up uninvited when he feels like it. Dennis Sanders.

  Now he’s answered.

  Trick: 85%

  By eighty-five percent, Trick means that he’s eighty-five percent sure that Zoe’s ex is one the guys who robbed us. Eighty-five percent sure from Trick is as good as a hundred.

  I don’t text back. He’s not expecting me to.

  Even on burner phones we don’t send many texts that relate to the darker side of our business. We’ll have a conversation later, somewhere secure. I’ll hear what he’s learned. And we’ll decide what comes next for Dennis Sanders.

  Am I glad we’re almost at the end of the investigation? I am. Am I sorry that a guy who used to fuck Zoe is about to be on our hit list? No. I’m not.

  I enter the game room. “How’s it going?”

  She looks up and nods. “Good. I finished. I’m just proofreading my slides and making sure the videos play.”

  “What’s the presentation about?” I ask.

  “The Newport Jazz Festival. It’s for my Music History class.”

  “Have you been to the Newport Jazz Festival?”

  “No, but I’ve been to New Orleans Jazz Fest. And hopefully both NOLA and Chicago this coming year. We’ll see.”

  “What does it depend on?”

  “Money. And the timing of things.”

  “What things?”

  “Rachel’s schedule.”

  I nod. “Would you go without her?”

  “I don’t want to,” she says, stretching her legs under the table. “I might have to.”

  “Can’t see why Frank would object to you guys going to a music festival.”

  “Frank has plans for Rachel. If she does the things he wants, she might not have time for jazz festivals this year. I might not either. We’ll see.”

  “You might not? What do Frank’s plans for her have to do with you?”

  “Sometimes she needs some moral support. Or someone to drown her sorrows with.”

  “Maybe she needs to leave the dark side. Maybe you both do.”

  She stands, stretching her arms up, making those glorious breasts rise.

  “You make it sound easy.”

  “Do I?” I know better than anyone that leaving the Palermo organization is far from easy.

  “No one leaves Frank without paying a price.”

  “Some people pay the same price or worse by staying,” I say.

  She exhales and shrugs. “It is what it is. You know that.” She starts to walk past me. I reach a hand out and catch her arm.

  “Hang on.”

&
nbsp; She turns, her dark brown eyes studying my face.

  “What do you want from me?” she whispers.

  “Want a list?”

  The corners of her mouth curve up, but she shakes her head. “Don’t even, C.” She sighs. “You think I’m not tempted? What girl who’s seen you isn’t?” She rests a palm against my chest, her hand burning through the T shirt to sear my skin. My dick is already at half-mast from just looking at her. The touch fans the flames.

  “But you’re the dark side too, Connor. And like you said, I’ve got too much of that in my life already.”

  I let her walk away, but this thing between us isn’t done. Not even close.

  Chapter Seven

  Zoe

  I wear a black dress with my knees bare and, for some perverse reason, I want him to reach over and put his hand on one. He hasn’t touched me since we parted ways in the game room. At first I was relieved, but now I’m not. Despite the danger that comes with getting close to him, I crave his touch. I think I put my hand on his chest earlier to provoke a physical response. I didn’t get it. His hand didn’t come up to cover mine. He didn’t lean in. Or reach out.

  I glance at his hand where it rests on the gearshift. Those strong fingers were inside me last night. Deep inside my core, I throb from the memory.

  “What’s on your mind, beautiful?”

  How wrong is it that my heart races from him calling me beautiful? From the sound of his voice and the way the word rolls off his tongue? Nothing was ever so sexy. No word ever reached inside me and made me burn the way that one from him does.

  I turn my head to look at him. He glances at me and then back at the road.

  I search for something to say, something other than the truth. “I’m thinking about the show.”

  “Do you get nervous before a performance?”

  “Yes,” I say and that is the truth. “It’s the good kind of nervous.”

  “How’s that?” he asks.

  I love everything about the way he asks that question, especially the intent way he looks at me. Performing is my life. Or at least I hope to make it my life, so I’m happy anytime someone seems interested in my dancing. This time means more because Connor McCann’s not known for doing the boyfriend thing. He and his closest friends hook up with women frequently, and apparently in some kinky ways that leave me breathlessly curious, but I don’t get the sense that asking about a girl’s hopes and dreams plays into those scenarios often, or at all. The way he asks me questions makes me feel special; it feels like I matter to him and since he’s so powerful, so coveted, and normally so aloof, that’s a rush.

  I drag my mind back to his question about why I think nervousness can be a good thing.

  “It heightens my energy and attention. I feel like I’m better on stage when I’m nervous before I step out.”

  “Nervous anticipation makes sex better for some girls, too,” he says, the corner of his mouth tipping up in a sexy smile.

  I’m instantly transported to memories of being over his lap, of the spanking, of the way my heart raced, and of how fast and hard I came when he fucked me afterward. My face flushes, and I squeeze my knees together.

  He pulls into a parking spot right near the backstage door. “Stay there until I open your door,” he says. C gets out and checks around the corner of the building, then returns. He opens my door and steps back.

  I slide out, shoving my skirt down when my feet are on the pavement. I reach for my bag, but his hand is faster.

  “I’ve got this for you,” he says, shutting the SUV’s door and motioning for me to head into the theater.

  His hand’s on the small of my back as we walk down the hall. I know I should walk faster to put some distance between us so people don’t get the idea that we’re together, but the warmth of his hand and the way it sends a thrill through me won’t let me.

  “I’m in here,” I say, nodding to the door of the big group dressing room.

  “Nah,” he says, catching my arm. “Come with me.”

  “Hey, Mr. McCann,” someone says and once that happens, everyone that we pass follows suit in greeting him and pressing against the wall so he can pass without adjusting his path.

  He stops at a door that’s been locked since we started rehearsals. He unlocks it. The single dressing room is clearly meant for a star. The vanity table is cream lacquer, there’s a small chandelier overhead, and rose and taupe silk pillows rest on a chocolate couch. A taupe rug covers a section of the marble floor. A giant spray of cream and pink roses with lavender and baby’s breath rests on the dressing table in a stout vase. They’re the flowers he promised me, I realize, and I can’t help but walk over to smell them. They’re beautiful, elegant, and as luxe as the place.

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “You don’t need to say anything. This is the star’s dressing room. You’re the star. You should’ve been in here all along.”

  I can’t suppress my smile. “Thank you.”

  He nods and sets the duffle next to the dressing table.

  “I need to get my costume and to let—”

  “No. Sit down. They’ll come to you.”

  My heart flutters, but I try to contain my excitement over the fact that he thought my performance warrants this. I remind myself that everyone worked hard to make the show a success, including and especially Rachel. This isn’t all about me. “Connor, I don’t want anyone to think I asked for this dressing room on the second day of the show.”

  His brow cocks. “Zoe, it’s all right to act like the star when you are the star. But if it makes you feel better, I doubt anyone will think this was your idea. Wherever I am, people assume I’m calling the shots. Which I am.”

  “But even that... people could get the wrong idea about us.”

  “You mean Frank Palermo could? What’s going on there? Were you involved with him?”

  “Involved?” I say, confused.

  “Did you go to bed with him?”

  I suck in a breath. “No! God, no!”

  “Good.”

  “But you’re in a war with him. And I visit his house. That could be awkward. Or worse.”

  “Then you should stop going to his house. Rachel can come to your apartment. No reason you need to hang out in the Palermo mansion, is there?”

  “Am I addicted to the sauna and swimming pool, do you mean?” I say with a bitter little laugh, thinking about how Rachel and I were encouraged to use and be photographed by the pool the summer before.

  “Are you addicted to anything there?”

  I shake my head. “Sometimes it was fairly sketchy to open my eyes and find a big camera lens pointed at us. I will miss swimming though. Maybe C Crue can buy the community center and reopen the pool. Since you’re in the revitalization business,” I say, swirling a finger to indicate the dressing room and theater.

  “Maybe,” he says noncommittally.

  I have no idea why I said that. I’m not going to be Connor McCann’s five-minute girlfriend and then be forced to desert my years-long relationships for the sake of a quick fling. I’m not even sure Frank would let me do that without some really horrible scene. And what if he decided I didn’t need to see Rachel anymore? Unthinkable. The best thing to do is walk the line until I can get out of this situation.

  “I’ll be back,” Connor says before he walks out of the dressing room.

  I turn toward the mirror. Concentrate on the show. Get ready for the show.

  * * *

  Connor

  I send the backstage people in to Zoe. They transform her back into a beautiful bird.

  For this performance, I sit at the far left of the front row. The music isn’t as intense and fantastic during this show, but Zoe’s just as amazing as she was the first time. After her bows, I walk backstage and wave away the guy who helped her get in costume.

  I enter the dressing room with one thing on my mind. I want her.

  She’s flushed and moving with barely restrained energy.r />
  “What did you think?” she asks.

  “I think you’re incredible.”

  The smile she flashes is brighter than the stage lights.

  “Did you notice anything different this time?”

  “The music wasn’t as good, and the troll king doesn’t have a mole anymore.”

  She exhales like I’ve let the wind out of her sails. “You noticed the mole last night?”

  I nod.

  “Do you think everyone did?”

  “You mean do I think Frank did? Yeah, I think he did.”

  She stops and leans forward over the dressing table. Her hands shake slightly before she rests them on it, looking like she might wilt like she did onstage when she was wounded.

  “Hey,” I say, moving forward. I grab her and pull her into my arms. “If you need protection, I’m offering.”

  She looks into my eyes, her expression soft and vulnerable. It makes me want a lot of things, and not all of them involve my cock.

  “That’s probably not a good idea,” she finally says.

  “If you say so,” I say, turning her so I can unzip the costume. The curve of her bare spine emerges, making me want to run my tongue over it. I press my thumb against the hollow just above her ass.

  She tries to step forward. “C—”

  I stop her progress and then push the costume down, revealing a tan thong and her firm, very round ass. There are no marks from last night’s spanking, which I guess is good since she had to perform. I can’t help but wonder how she’d respond to a whipping that leaves some marks.

  I put my hand on her belly and slide it lower, dipping my fingers into her panties.

  She grabs my wrist. “Connor, the door’s not locked,” she says in a whisper.

  I let her go, walk to the door, and throw the latch.

  “Take the pins out of your hair.”

  Her back’s still to me as she obeys. The wild curls puff up when she runs a hand through them.

  I cup her left ass cheek and tip my mouth to lick the side of her neck. “I should bend you over the end of the couch and spank your ass for being so fuckable.” She shudders, and I know a part of her wants me to do it. Instead I slap the cheek I was holding and take a step back.