Make Me: Twelve Tales of Dark Desire

by Aleatha Romig

  Whatever. The fact that the asshat ignored her safe word was an unforgivable snap of a whip through the heart.

  “What happened?” Nathan’s hand settled on her lower back.

  “Jay fucked up. Let me deal with it, okay?” She followed the bend in the hall, veering around techs juggling equipment.

  “Does this change—”

  “Nothing changes. I’ll have it fixed by morning.” And she would. Jay owed her an orgasm, and dammit, he would give her one. A half-baked plan sprouted, soothing her. He wasn’t going to like it, but fuck him.

  The protective team’s familiar faces popped up at every corner, bend, and open doorway as she weaved through the flow of roadies with Nathan’s hand a bolster at her back. They formed a comforting perimeter around her, adjusting their formations to maintain a circle of protection as they moved through the back-of-house.

  The exit came into view, and a man in a suit flashed through the bustle of crew members rolling crates through the door. The suit and dark hair were familiar. Too familiar.

  She skidded to a halt, her pulse thick and distant in her ears.

  Nathan stopped with her, hand pressing against her spine. “Charlee?”

  The man in the suit looked up, complexion dark beneath a thick mustache. Not Roy. Relief settled through her shoulders. Until he narrowed his eyes on her.

  “That man is looking at me.” Did he know her? What the hell did he want? Oh God, he was walking their way.

  Nathan pushed her behind him and held up his hand. “Identify yourself and don’t take another step.”

  “Alan Patera. Executive Assistant to the CEO of Oxford Industries.”

  She locked her knees and gripped the back of Nathan’s shirt.

  “What do you want, Mr. Patera?” Nathan’s clipped tone did not invite idle conversation.

  A technician in baggy jeans pushed a cart past her, its wheels screeching with each rotation.

  Patera extended a thin hand, holding a crisp white envelope. “Mr. Oxford sends his regards.”

  Shooting an arm toward him, Nathan grabbed the envelope, but Patera hung onto it.

  Patera narrowed his eyes. “A response is expected.” He released it.

  Shifting back with an envelope in hand, Nathan grabbed her wrist and led her around the smiling Craig.

  “What was that about?” Her heart pounded an impatient tattoo as she glanced over her shoulder. The Craig was gone.

  Outside, Colson opened the door to a waiting SUV.

  Nathan’s attention swept left to right as he stuffed the envelope into his breast pocket. “Message from Roy.”

  A throb erupted behind her eyes. He wrote her a letter? Was he out there, watching her? In one of the hundreds of cars in the lot? Standing behind one of the windows veneering the building? Waiting for an opportunity, for the millisecond of time when all of her guards might be looking the other way?

  “Please, get in the car, Miss Grosky.” Colson waited, eyes on the exit behind her, hand on the door of the car.

  She shivered and bolted in, sliding across the bench and bumping into Vanderschoot with a screech. “Oh, hi. Sorry.” Damn her out of control pulse.

  The seat bounced with Nathan’s weight beside her. He reached for the door handle and pulled.

  A hand shot through the crack of door, gripping it and preventing it from closing.

  She gasped, frozen to the seat, as Nathan wrestled to close the door. His free hand stretched for the gun at his hip.

  The knuckles around the door frame were grooved with callouses. Callouses from guitar strings.

  She clamped down on Nathan’s hand over his holster. “It’s Jay.”

  Nathan squinted at the door and let go of the handle.

  Jay’s drawn face lowered into view. His gaze moved through the car and stopped on her. A tornado of emotions whipped across his weary expression. His Adam’s apple bobbed, and he ducked his head, wedging into the third row behind her. The leather seats creaked as he scooted in, Tony following.

  Colson steered them into the concert traffic, and Charlee decided to be the first to break the tense silence. “I said not to follow me.” Sandwiched between Vanderschoot and Nathan, she kept her eyes on the windshield.

  “And I said you were not to leave my sight.” His deep, dominating tone caressed her back, the bastard.

  “Are you still high?” Good grief, she sounded petulant. Maybe she was. She shifted to look at him.

  “I’m coming down.” He studied her face, his own pinched in pain. “I’m so sorry.” A whisper.

  She would find out shortly how sorry he was. She turned back and looked into Nathan’s soft blue eyes. Looked at the envelope in his breast pocket.

  His fingers were hesitant as he pulled it out and handed it to her. “It’ll be obtuse, you know. Anything in writing will be worded in a way that won’t implicate him for what he’s done or plans to do.”

  Flipping the white envelope over in her hands, she nodded. “I know.” She couldn’t stop the resignation from dulling her voice. “I’m expecting a legal-team-approved death threat.”

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  ‡

  The god-awful regret constricting Jay’s voice snapped when he heard the bleak acceptance in Charlee’s. “What death threat?”

  Bile flooded the back of his throat. She’d already endured so much misery. His aftershow performance settled around him like a miasma. Shame constricted his heart and darkened the very fiber that made her soul shine. He did this. He was no better than Roy.

  Her fingers flicked over the controls on the roof until dim light illuminated the envelope in her hand.

  “What is that?” He didn’t like the way she held the corners, not opening it, as if there were a bomb inside. “Is that from Roy?”

  Her shoulders twitched, and she hunched slightly to the right, toward Nathan.

  Nathan touched her hand. “Want me to read it?”

  She shook her head. “I’ll do it.”

  So Jay was the only asshole she was ignoring. He earned it, but he didn’t have to fucking like it.

  She held up the nondescript envelope to the light. White. Standard size. No writing or logos. Was it a correspondence from Roy? A swarm of hostility took over his muscles, tensing him from neck to feet. “Did you see Roy? Was he here?”

  She picked at the sealed flap, shoulders bunched to her ears.

  His hands clenched with the urgency to be closer, to hold her pain for her. “Vanderschoot. Switch with me.”

  The guard swiveled his balding head, looking around the tight seating arrangement, probably wondering how he would maneuver a switch while the vehicle was in motion. “Right now, Mr. Mayard?”

  Charlee let her head fall back and glared at the roof. “Jay, would you please just sit there—” she let out a ragged, drawn out exhale “—and shut the fuck up.”

  His face caught fire, his shame reigniting. If he were perfect, she’d be too good for him. He was far from perfect. “I deserve your anger, your hate, and anything else you want to throw at me.” None of that mattered while her life was in danger. He needed to be very clear, make her understand. He couldn’t face losing her again. “My fuck up does not change your need for protection.” He shifted to the edge of the seat and the force of his breath ruffled the crimson river of hair flowing over her seat back. “I employ your protective team, so I need to know what the fuck is going on.”

  He snapped his fingers at Vanderschoot. “Switch.”

  The lean man folded his body and crawled to the back beside Jay.

  “Thanks.” With a lot less grace and an unnecessary hand on Charlee’s shoulder, Jay tumbled into the second row.

  Gorgeous blue eyes narrowed on him, stealing his breath. Her lashes fluttered closed through a deep breath. “I’m pissed. Hurt. Ashamed…Frustrated.” She glanced out the windshield and whispered, “Blue ovaries frustrated.”

  Jesus, she couldn’t have hit him any harder. He’d left her unsated. Again. W
hile one of his weakest decisions fogged his head as he climaxed. He buried his face in his hands, wanting so badly to take it all away. Too damn late. The ugliest, dirtiest side of himself had sauntered out of its hole and spread its legs in her face.

  She didn’t run. Instead, she seemed willing to talk about it. He raised his head. “You want to do this right now? We can. My protective team knows all about my indiscretions. They’ve carried my unconscious ass out of more concerts than not. And maybe Nathan should hear what kind of a fuckwad he’s working for.”

  Nathan drummed his fingers on his knee and stared out his window. “I’m already well-informed.”

  “Be nice, Nathan.” She massaged her temple. “And Jay, please don’t insult yourself. It’s not helpful.”

  Jay blew out a breath and leaned back. “The kid I shoved in the hallway slipped me forty migs of Oxycontin.”

  She snapped her head toward him. The flash of passing headlights glanced off her rounded eyes.

  “I wanted a light buzz, a dose of energy. Oxycontin gives me that without the appearance of being high.”

  “So does Red Bull. And Starbucks.” She was back to staring out the windshield, the envelope twitching in her hand.

  “Touché.” He bent his elbows on his knees. “I also needed a panic attack suppressant. I thought what I took was Oxycontin. Maybe I got the dose wrong. Maybe it was mislabeled. Because the high has…had a delusional effect. Like heroin.”

  It had been only him and Charlee in that arena. No crowd. No groupies. Everything had peeled away, leaving an erotic euphoria with her at its center.

  Narcotics had a way of driving him through the worst of his anxiety. A numbing appeal. But he would lose her if he didn’t take the wheel and confront his weakness head-on and sober.

  “Are you delusional now?”

  The single pitch in her voice vented her suspicion. He knew she was thinking if she couldn’t recognize the side effects, how would she ever know when he was high? Worse, he’d annihilated any trust he might’ve earned. “I’m clear-headed enough to know I made the second worst decision of my life tonight.”

  She looked away from what he knew was desperation burning in his eyes.

  “I’ll give up the tour, the shows…the band. Anything to make this right.” Yeah, he was choking with desperation. He hadn’t lied. He’d give it all up.

  “Drama queen.” She flipped the envelope over and over through a weighted moment. Then she tucked her chin to her chest and asked, “What was your worst decision?”

  The memory of the night he met her coiled around him, suffocating and intoxicating all at once. “St. Louis. Three years ago. Letting you walk away. If I’d delayed you, took you for coffee, kidnapped you myself…”

  She cupped her mouth and closed her eyes.

  Christ, he’d reminded her of Noah’s death. “Charlee—”

  “It’s okay.” She dropped her hand, eyes resting on her lap. “Walking away was my worst decision, too.”

  His heart flipped over. Sure, if she had joined him for coffee, Noah would’ve survived, but he told himself she was thinking of the three years she might’ve had with Jay.

  “Roy’s assistant delivered this.” She shoved a finger under the seal and tore it open. Chest heaving, she unfolded the letter and held it under the dome light at an angle the three of them could read silently.

  Miss Charlee Grosky

  27124 Los Hermosos Way

  Los Angeles, CA 90027

  Dear Miss Grosky,

  Oxford Security is pleased to offer you a position as Resident Artist for our organization. We are excited about the talent you would bring to our company.

  Should you accept the offer, you will be working in the San Francisco penthouse, where our security teams reside. You will report directly to the CEO of Oxford Industries. Your initial task will be to sketch a portrait for one of our high-ranking security officers. The commissioned work will be presented to the officer’s niece as a gift for her nineteenth birthday.

  You will be classified as an executive-level employee. Your initial compensation package includes full medical and dental coverage, and fringe benefits. In addition, Oxford Security will loan you an amount equal to all of your expenses incurred by The Burn. Should you remain with Oxford Security at least three years, the loan will be forgiven in its entirety.

  We look forward to your arrival at our company and are confident your skills will play a key role in the morale of our personnel. Please sign this letter and return it to me at your earliest convenience as a written acceptance of the offer. Let me know if you have any questions or if I can do anything to make your arrival easier.

  Sincerely,

  Alan Patera

  Executive Assistant to Roy Oxford

  Oxford Industries

  Jay’s stomach turned and bucked. “What the almighty fuck? He’s offering you a job?”

  “The threat is here.” She traced a trembling finger over the paragraph about the nineteen-year-old niece and looked at Nathan, her voice dropping to a whisper. “I’m not seeing it. What am I missing?”

  Nathan leaned close and slid the letter from her hand. His eyes flickered over the words as his free hand gripped hers.

  Jay wasn’t sure which felt worse, his jealousy or his exclusion from their history together. He knew their shared torment was what connected the two of them in the most intimate of ways. He stuffed that to the back of his mind and focused on the letter.

  She was right. Roy wouldn’t offer her a job. He’d blackmail her. “Nathan, how well did you know the high-ranking officers? Who has nieces this age?” He flicked a finger at the letter.

  “I don’t know.” Nathan rubbed his brow, his tone low and deadly. “We didn’t discuss our personal lives.”

  Then why would Roy mention anything about an employee’s family if Charlee and Nathan didn’t know them? “What about the undercover guy? Do you know—”

  “Fuck.” Nathan pulled his phone out of his pocket, swiped the screen, and held it to his ear. “Mr. Munt…Yes. Sorry to call so late. I need to know if your contact has a nineteen-year-old niece…That’s right. If he does, he’s been compromised…I’d rather discuss it over a more secure line…Understood.” He returned the phone to his pocket and met Jay’s eyes. “He doesn’t know the spotter’s identity. He hired him through a private company. Personal details best kept personal for obvious reasons. He’ll find out and call me back.”

  Jay reread the letter in Nathan’s outstretched hand. “What about the expenses incurred by The Burn? What is he threatening with this?”

  “He’s saying that if I return to him willingly for three years, he’ll forgive you by leaving your band alone.”

  The buzz of Nathan’s phone cracked the tension, and everyone seemed to hold their breath as Nathan answered it.

  “Mr. Munt.” Silence. “Keep me updated.” He lowered the phone, lips taut, jaw squared. “The spotter isn’t answering his phone, but this isn’t unusual given his position at the penthouse. Munt put a call into the private company that employs him to get a warning to his family. He’ll call back.”

  She frowned. “See what Crane and the rest of your guys can make of the letter.” Laying her head back, she touched Jay’s knee, lingered there for a moment, and returned her hand to her lap.

  Was she testing his trigger? Touching him for comfort? Did it matter? Her caress left behind a tingle that swept through his bloodstream and invigorated him with purpose. He had a lot of self-improvement to do.

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  ‡

  The SUV passed through the gate of the band’s estate and parked in the garage. Jay glued himself to Charlee’s side and stumbled when she veered in the opposite direction of the interior door.

  He wanted to reach out and grab her, but opted for patience. “Where are you going?”

  As the guards moved inside, the click of her heels followed her to the back wall where the utility boxes and carpentry tools lined shelves a
nd cabinets. She rooted through the drawers until she found a palm sander.

  “Charlee, talk to me.”

  She handed him the sander and a sheet of sandpaper and moved to the workbench.

  He turned it in his hands, unease trickling through him. “What am I supposed to do with this?”

  “You’ll see.” She opened a metal box. “Oh! This is perfect.”

  A bundle of rubber-insulated wire flew toward him.

  He caught it, surprised by the heavy weight. “Electrical cable?” Did she plan to hook his dick to a generator and fry it off?

  She scanned the garage, chewing on a nail, lifting up and down on the balls of her feet. Given the horrible events of the night, she seemed a little too excited about whatever was going through that gorgeous head of hers.

  Realization sucked the blood from his face. She wasn’t looking for tools to torture him with. They were for her. A sickening amount of panic gripped his gut. “You want me to hurt you.” His certainty was thick and strangled.

  She yanked something from a bin of gardening tools, turned toward him, and held out a bamboo plant pole. “Yes.”

  They stared at one another with that menacing pole raised between them. She didn’t tell him he owed her this. It flared from her stony unblinking eyes.

  His heart pummeled against his ribs. She didn’t want to scream at him or kick his ass. She didn’t want to walk out and never see him again. She wanted him to man the fuck up and be her Dom.

  Big breath. Another. He nodded. A jerky movement. “Okay.”

  She lowered the pole. “Okay?”

  “I’ll give you whatever you need.” He held out the sander and cable. “But electric shock, Charlee? I’ll fucking kill you.”

  She let out a soft huff and shook her head slowly, lips twitching. “Percussion play. Electric shock won’t be necessary.”

  “Percussion?” The image of her strapped over Rio’s drum kit inappropriately tumbled into his head.

  She breezed past him in the direction of the interior door, twirling the garden pole like a baton. “Impact. Flogs. Whips. Percussion.”