Perfect Vision

by L. M. Halloran

  27

  “I’m dying,” pants Nate, sliding into the booth opposite me. He grabs a stiff drink coaster and fans his flushed face. His pale hair curls damply against his temples.

  I smile. “You look radiant.”

  He grins. “There are so many hotties here tonight. It’s too bad you’re not single—don’t give me that look, you know what I mean. We both know why you skedaddled when that sexy-as-fuck guy started rubbing on you.”

  I open my mouth, then close it. It’s no use arguing that Cross isn’t my boyfriend. Whether I like it or not, our arrangement is monogamous. Isn’t it?

  “Hey, Nate? Cross made it clear I wasn’t allowed to see or be with anyone else, but do you think he’s, um… shit, we didn’t actually discuss exclusivity on his end.”

  He laughs. “Word on the street is he’s off the market, but that might be because we all saw him go caveman when that other bartender touched you. Just ask him.”

  I down the remains of my Jack and Coke. “Yeah, right.”

  Nate’s gaze roams the club. “What does it take to get drink service in this—” His voice chokes off, then resumes with a laugh. “Speaking of your booty’s boss, he’s up in VIP. You should text… oh, shit.”

  My head jerks up so fast a muscle in my back protests. Following Nate’s line of sight, I look up at the second-story balcony opposite us. A large booth of men and women is front and center, with a bird’s-eye view of the club below. The scene almost looks staged—a perfect tableau of The Rich and Beautiful. The table’s surface is covered in drinks, both empty and full, and the visible faces are laughing or engaged in animated conversations.

  No one is flushed and sweaty from dancing. No one’s hair is a lank rat’s nest, and no one’s makeup has worn off over the hours. And that’s just the women—the men are suave, polished, each possessing that singular air that comes from money and big cocks.

  Cross sits in the middle with his arms stretched across the back of the booth. The women on either side of him are close. Too close. They’re talking to each other while Cross chats with someone a few seats down. As I watch, one of the women reaches out—ostensibly to grab a drink—and rubs herself all over his chest. He doesn’t move, just glances down with a smile and a wink.

  A wink.

  “London, calm down. You don’t know what he’s doing. Cross isn’t the type to go behind your back.” When I don’t say anything, his voice gets louder and higher. “Well, this is a fucked-up bit of synchronicity, huh? Since we were just talking about it. Kinda funny, right? What a perfect opportunity for you to—”

  “Shut up, Nate,” I say without heat. Dragging my gaze away from VIP, I bare my teeth. “It’s all good. He’s not my boyfriend. We’re not emotionally involved or anything.”

  “That’s a scary smile you have going on there,” Steph says as she slides in beside me. She wipes her glistening face with a cocktail napkin, belatedly noticing Nate’s furiously shaking head. “What? What’s going on?”

  “Nothing!” I chirp. “I’m going to dance. Who wants to come?”

  Nate jerks forward in panic. “No! Are you nuts? He might see you!”

  “Who?” asks Steph, utterly confused.

  “Mr. Cross,” growls Nate, and Steph gasps.

  I laugh carelessly. “Come on! Our arrangement begins and ends when we’re actively together. He isn’t my Dom when I’m working or when I’m at home. He doesn’t control my life. And clearly I don’t have any sway over what he does with his free time, either!”

  I sound like a maniac, angry while grinning like a loon. My gaze swings between my friends, both wide-eyed and visibly freaked out. I’m an actor in a B-movie with no handle on my motivation. I’m jealous, I’m giddy, I’m… relieved? There’s no time to process the clash of emotions inside me—my animal brain is screaming for me to do something.

  Nate says, “Please, London—”

  Steph interrupts, “This is some juicy drama. I’m in!” Before Nate can protest, she grabs my hand and hauls me from the booth.

  Steph charges across the club, onto the crowded dance floor, and straight to the middle of the madness. Her fierce energy and copious tattoos ensure us safe passage. Some people even jump out of her way. I’m laughing hysterically by the time she’s asserted control over a space big enough for us both to let loose.

  This close to the DJ and sound system, the bass vibrates in my bones. Rihanna is singing over a mixed track, her velvet voice and the heady beat making movement mandatory. Swept up by the distraction, I embrace my body’s demand.

  Before two tracks have passed, my skin and hair are damp again and I’m having the time of my life. When male arms come around my waist, I don’t immediately jerk away. From the wicked grin on Steph’s face, he’s good-looking. All I know is he smells good. And more importantly, he doesn’t smell like Dominic Cross.

  My mystery partner and I move together, though I’m careful to keep space between my ass and his crotch. No point in letting him think this is going anywhere, like to his apartment. But in all other respects, I flirt with my body, uninhibited and without care.

  “You are too sexy,” a deep voice whispers in my ear.

  I make a face at Steph, who laughs. “Thanks!” I say and decide it’s time to end this pointless game. But when I start to pull away, he drags me flush against him.

  A thick, strong hand closes around my throat, fingers digging deep. Sparkling tendrils of fear move through me. We’re not dancing anymore, but in the chaos and crazy lights, no one notices anything amiss. His grip tightens, cutting off my air. My head swims. My knees lock. I’m frozen, unable to do more than gasp Steph’s name. By chance or luck, she looks over in that moment. She’s instantly charging toward us.

  “Hey, asshole!” she shouts. “Let her go!”

  Warm breath bathes my ear. “I have a message for you, Mrs. Kirkland. You haven’t been forgotten. The Old Man says hello.”

  His fingers vanish, as does his body. Steph grabs me, arm tight around my waist as she spins around. “Where did he go? Shit, let’s get out of here.”

  I nod, my hand curled protectively around my throbbing neck. Steph guides me off the dance floor. Away from the screaming crowd and press of bodies, I gulp in cooler air.

  “I’m so sorry, London. I didn’t see what was going on. Are you okay? Did he hurt you?”

  From behind me comes a chilling, familiar voice. “Did he, kitten? Because I seem to remember that being my job.”

  Steph whispers, “Oh, fuck.”

  28

  The alley is dark, the air chilled with pre-sunrise dew. It doesn’t smell great, but the overall aesthetic is a fitting backdrop for the worst conversation of my life.

  “Say that again.”

  “I—don’t—remember,” I snarl through my teeth.

  “Why, London? Why are you lying to me? I saw him say something to you. I saw the horror on your face.”

  Shivering, I wrap my arms around myself. “Nice of you to intervene on my behalf.” My voice is as acidic as my roiling stomach. “Oh wait—no, that’s right—you were too busy flirting with two bimbos in VIP. Why do you care, anyway? It doesn’t matter. It’s over.”

  “Sir?” asks Nate timidly. “It’s super late and security keeps giving us looks. Maybe we should—”

  “Not until she tells me the truth.”

  I snort. “You could always beat it out of me.” The flash of hurt on his face is so quick I convince myself I imagined it.

  Expression hard, Cross reaches for me. “I’m taking you home.”

  I shuffle back, jabbing a finger in his direction. “No. I’m going home with Nate.”

  He glances at the side. “Nathan, leave.”

  “Uhh—”

  “Don’t order him around!”

  “Now, Nathan!”

  Nate looks from Cross to me, and I know I’ve lost. “I’m sorry, London,” he whispers, then races down the alley.

  I grab my hair at the scalp and scream
through my teeth. It doesn’t help, so I unleash on Cross, shoving him as hard as I can. My efforts result in low, dangerous laughter. In a second flat, I’m trapped in his arms, my back to his front. Of course the position is purposeful, a reminder of another man’s recent embrace.

  “This is your fault,” I seethe. “I wouldn’t have been out there at all if I hadn’t seen you winking at some slut upstairs when she shoved her tits in your face.”

  More laughter, this time surprised. “Oh, really? That bothered you?”

  “No! I don’t care who you fuck. You’re obviously getting it somewhere since you’re not getting it from me. Is it her? That brunette?”

  His chest vibrates against my spine. “Jealousy brings out the kitten’s claws.”

  Anger and helplessness spiking again, I thrash in his arms. “Let me go.”

  “You’re only hurting yourself,” he says with insufferable calm. “Calm down and let me show you how to break free.”

  The words finally register. I go limp, physically and emotionally spent.

  “Good girl,” he murmurs. “Now, step your feet forward to allow space between us. Lean back.”

  “I’m going to fall,” I protest.

  “An attacker isn’t going to let go that easily. In fact, they’ll most likely try to drag you backward.” He demonstrates, my heels digging into asphalt a few feet before he stops. “Once there’s space, make a fist and punch backward. Aim for the junk. If you miss the first time, don’t give up. Keep pounding away.”

  Hands in fists, I hesitate. “I don’t want to, um, hurt you.”

  He laughs in delight. “You won’t, kitten.”

  “Are you saying I can’t?” I stiffen with affront. “What’s the point, then?”

  “No,” he says with barely restrained mirth. “I’m saying that ninety-nine percent of the male population can’t defend themselves like I can.”

  Basically GI-Joe.

  “Right. Okay.” I swing my fist back, landing a pitiful impact on his thigh.

  “Do you even know where a man’s dick is?”

  I swing harder. Alternating hands. He dodges every blow, but murmurs encouragement. “Yep, got him. Again. Nice. Good job. Make sure you keep your feet forward or he’s going to pull you back and you’ll lose the advantage.”

  Panting, I sag. “I’m still stuck.”

  “Only because I need to guide you through what happens next.” His arms fall, robbing me of his heat. I scowl at him and wiggle my fingers for him to hurry up. Smirking, he points at my legs. “Those are your best weapon, especially with heels. Sometimes, a punch where it counts will be enough for you to get away and run. But it’s best to kick immediately after he releases you, while he’s still standing and not hunched over mourning his shriveled balls.”

  I gape at him. His eyes are alight with passion, his voice instructive and encouraging. He looks… happy.

  His brows lift. “What?”

  I shake my head quickly. “Nothing. You were saying?”

  He waves me forward and taps his chest, then his stomach. “Aim here or here depending on height. Kick high and hard, then run. Let’s see it.”

  “Let me guess, I can’t actually hurt you?”

  He chuckles. “Come on. Don’t be shy.”

  This time, I don’t give him any warning. I aim a kick at his stomach, using the skills from years playing soccer as a kid. He doesn’t flinch as he catches my spiked heel millimeters from his abdomen. We stare at each other for a pregnant beat, then with a soft stroke of fingers on my ankle, he releases my leg.

  “Nice form,” he says, lips twitching.

  “Told you I’m a badass.”

  A smile breaks free. “Do you feel better?”

  I nod, blowing out a breath. “I do.”

  “Good. I want you to sign up for weekly self-defense classes. When you’ve done that for a month, you need to start running. A mile to start, then increase until you can run five miles without stopping. Understood?”

  “You’re joking.”

  “Do I look like I’m joking?” He steps close and cups my face with warm hands. “It’s important to me that you know how to protect yourself if I’m not there. Can you do this for me?”

  I swallow hard. “Okay.”

  “Thank you.” His forehead drops to mine. “I couldn’t get there in time. I’m sorry.”

  Off-kilter, I mutter, “Not your fault.”

  Kissing my forehead, he draws back to look me in the eyes. “It was. I’m not seeing or fucking anyone else. I shouldn’t have allowed that woman to touch me. It was disrespectful to you, and I’m sorry. Which is the only reason I’m not going to punish you for dancing with that dickhead. But if you do something like that again, I guarantee you won’t be able to sit comfortably for a week.”

  Heat funnels through me as I imagine what that might entail. My mouth parts on a shallow breath. “I’m sorry.”

  He smiles softly, thumb grazing my cheek. “Don’t be. You answered a question that’s been bothering me for a while.”

  “Huh? What question?”

  “Whether you give a shit about me beyond what I do to you in my loft.” Without waiting for a response—not that I have one—he wraps an arm around my shoulders and guides me out of the alley. “Let’s get you home. And by home, I mean shackled to a bench.”

  “I thought you weren’t punishing me!”

  He grins down at me. “Who said anything about punishment?”

  Oh.

  29

  By the time Cross is done with me, I’m boneless and teetering on the edge of sleep. He lays me gently on his bed, tucking blankets around me. They smell deliciously of him.

  “Sleep, sweetheart.”

  I do. Mercifully, I don’t dream. No nightmares, nothing. When I wake, it’s to soft, masculine voices in the living area of the loft. Rolling over, I grab my phone off the nightstand to check the time. It reads 10:47 a.m. Thanks to the heavy blackout curtains, I missed the sun rising and most of the morning.

  Though I only slept a little over five hours, I’m alert and refreshed. Even when in the past I’ve caved and popped a sleeping pill, it’s rare for me to experience rest free from any dreams. Is this how normal people feel in the morning? I don’t remember anymore.

  Stretching lazily, I focus on the voices. Cross and… Liam Rourke. Their tones are low, but bits and pieces hit my ears.

  “…security feeds caught him leaving right after…”

  “…staying in the city?”

  “…LAX this morning. Missed him.”

  There’s a long pause, then Cross mutters, “What the hell is she hiding?”

  Sitting up fast, I clutch the blanket to my chest. Last night comes back in a vicious surge. You haven’t been forgotten. The Old Man says hello. Delayed fear makes an appearance, shooting chills down my body.

  Stupid. So stupid to think he’d let me go, let me live free of his influence. His evil. Of course he knows where I am, where I live, work. He probably has my phone tapped, my bank accounts watched.

  What does he want from me? Better yet, what do I have left to give him?

  He’s already taken everything.

  “You’re up. Did we wake you?”

  Cross leans on the doorjamb, arms crossed over his bare chest. Low-slung pajama pants hug his lean hips and show off his inhumanly-cut physique. Normally, the visual treat has a notable effect on my lady parts. Not this time. He told me once I wear every emotion on my face, but when I look at him now, I’m blank. Empty. He sees nothing because I am nothing.

  “It’s all right.” I swing my legs off the bed. “Mind if I shower before heading home?”

  His eyes narrow. “That’s fine. How are you feeling?”

  I smile. “Good. Great, actually. Thanks for, um…”

  He smirks. “Three orgasms?”

  “Yep! Slept like a log.”

  “Good. I forgot to ask—how did Nathan like his gift?”

  “He loved it. Thanks again for
the hook-up.” Dragging the blanket with me, I edge toward the bathroom. “Is Liam still here?”

  Cross watches me with predatory focus as I shuffle across the room. “He just left.”

  I nod. “Okay, well…” I’m almost there.

  “London.”

  “Yes?”

  “While I can respect your need for privacy, our conversation from last night isn’t over. When I said you were mine, I meant it. I will find out what you’re hiding from me.”

  My shell cracks. Staring into his dark eyes, my conviction wavers. Maybe I can trust him. Maybe he can help me. Then I remember—the last person who tried to help me is dead. The possibility of Cross suffering the same fate has my walls closing high and tight.

  “It’s none of your business, Dominic. I appreciate your concern, but I don’t need your help. Or Liam’s.”

  He doesn’t react to my use of his name other than to take a step into the bedroom. “Then you won’t care that we discovered the identity of the man who accosted you last night and have a good idea who he’s working for.”

  I shrug. “None of that means anything to me.”

  “You’re getting better at lying, I’ll give you that.” His voice is mild, in sharp contrast to the ferocity in his eyes. “I certainly won’t beat the truth out of you, but I bet I could fuck it out.”

  “Ha! Funny man. I didn’t realize your cock was truth serum. Is that something you learned in the army?”

  His smile dims. “I was a Navy SEAL, actually. Do you want to see my dog tags? Hear about my last mission? Know how many people died on my watch? See the scar where I almost lost my leg and my life? I’ll warn you, though, you’ll have to get up close and personal with my dick if you want to check it out.”

  Appropriately chastised, I say, “No. I believe you.”

  Another step toward me; no trace left of lightness or humor in his bearing. “You don’t want to know anything about me. You might start to care, and that’s not an option, is it? You’ve been burned, I get it. So have I.”