In the Shadows (The Club, #10)

by M. A. Grant

  In the Shadows

  Book 10 of The Club Series

  by M.A. Grant

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2015 by M.A. Grant

  All rights reserved as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976. No part of this publication 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 embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its author, M.A. Grant.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, place, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Cover design by M.A. Grant

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Thank you to Scarlett Dawn for including me in this project, and to all my fellow Club authors for creating this awesome world.

  It’s impossible for forget my dear CP, Kari. May your enforcing emotional growth never end. Love you!

  DEDICATION

  To my husband —

  You are my favorite hero.

  Contents

  In the Shadows

  Copyright

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  DEDICATION

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Welcome to The Club

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  "It was just one touch!" the man howled as he was thrown out the rear door of the building.

  Ezekiel Harding didn't give a fuck. The man didn't want to follow the rules of The Club so he was removed, as per policy. The fact that he didn't want to leave quietly wasn't a deterrent. If anything, it simply confirmed Zeke had made the right call and pulled the guy out at the appropriate time.

  Safety, privacy, and reputation were the most critical elements of The Club's success, which made sense since it was one of the most elite BDSM clubs in Texas. Zeke understood mission statements. He believed in them, supported them, trusted them, and had been willing to die for them. Throwing a drunken idiot out on his ass was minor in comparison to the shit Zeke had gone through over in Syria.

  "Come on, man," the drunk whined as he tried to stagger to his feet in the alleyway. "I didn't mean anything by it. Just let me back in."

  That was an easy answer. "No."

  "I can pay you–"

  Seriously, how many times had he heard those exact words? As if a few hundred bucks on the side would somehow compare to the hefty sum Jet Mak paid each of his private enforcement staff members, his Suits. As if Zeke was such a loser that he wouldn't honor the contract he'd signed his name to. A contract that clearly stated bribes or side payments in exchange for access to The Club, its patrons, or its premises, would result in immediate termination.

  Getting fired would be the least of his concerns though. Not getting his ass handed to him, or ending up thrown in a ditch for coyotes to scavenge was the more pressing issue. Mr. Mak valued loyalty and Zeke owed him.

  The man didn't know any of this though. He was nothing but a drunk hoping to grope another woman.

  "I don't want your money," Zeke stated. That familiar cold calm was settling over him, like hoarfrost crystallizing on an undisturbed surface.

  The drunk could react two ways: accept that Zeke wasn't going to budge and walk away, or use his response to pick a fight.

  "My money's not good enough for you?"

  Clearly option two. Somewhere deep below that familiar chill, a spark caught. The adrenaline mixed into his blood, pushing comforting warmth under his shell, under the mask he projected. Zeke wanted to beat the living shit out of this douchebag, but patience was the key. After he'd gotten stateside and seen the cluster his capture had left in its wake, he'd promised that he wouldn't resort to violence unless it was the only way he could get the message across.

  "You fucking mick! Think you're a man now?" And the idiot drew a crappy knife from his pocket with the flourish of a man who doesn't realize he's about to die.

  Zeke cast his eyes heavenward, silently breathing a prayer of thanksgiving. A smooth flick of his jacket granted access to his twin Sig Sauer P220 Combats in their shoulder harnesses. Before the man could take a wobbly step forward, both barrels were trained on him.

  "First," Zeke said quietly, "that's an incredibly offensive term. And second–"

  The man whimpered and dropped his knife when Zeke let one barrel drift lower and lower until it was aimed at a very sensitive spot.

  "–I'm more of a man than a coward like you would ever know. Now hold still."

  The man closed his eyes and cringed, waiting for the shot that never came. Instead, he jerked and cried out in fear at the sound of Zeke's cell snapping a photo.

  "There we go," Zeke said, slipping his phone back in his pocket and resting his hand on his holstered gun. "If I ever see your face around this building again, you will regret it. Have a safe trip home, sir."

  The man staggered away, confused and too terrified to talk back. Zeke watched him finally reach the street and turn the corner, heading for the main plaza of old town Karim where he could pick up a cab.

  With a sigh and a hand run over his hair, Zeke turned back to the subtle emergency exit. A biometric scan and carefully sequenced access code punched into the panel got the door to open.

  Inside the narrow hallway, the world was almost peaceful. A concealed door connecting the hall back into the main section of The Club waited, the live singer's sultry voice teasing through the panels.

  Jackson was waiting when Zeke emerged. "How'd it go?"

  Zeke rechecked his jacket for the fifth time, ensuring it draped correctly, and shrugged. "He won't be back."

  "Fucking guest night," Jackson muttered, looking out over the writhing sea of bodies on the dance floor. "Always get a few assholes."

  "Price of doing business," Zeke agreed. "But they're few and far between."

  "They should be. Shit, don't they realize how lucky they are to even be in here?"

  Zeke didn't answer that one. The truth was, the dumb bastards probably didn't know how rare it was for anyone to get an invitation. They probably thought they'd earned it or, more likely, deserved it. The assholes always did. No, the people who truly appreciated the invites were the ones who knew there was no reason on God's green earth they should have been allowed through the door. They were the ones who entered The Club in a state of awe, wide-eyed and inspired by every sight they took in. The ones he never saw again because they didn’t make the final cut.

  Zeke liked them infinitely better.

  "I'm going to update Preston," Zeke told Jackson. The man nodded and continued scanning the floor, already back to work.

  Preston Stevens, The Club's head of security, was waiting in the control room. The bank of monitors around him played out lurid fantasies, but he never seemed to notice.

  "You take care of it?" Preston asked him, Texas drawl and deep voice adding a weight to the question Zeke knew wasn't really there. If it was, Preston would have sent another Suit out to join him in the alley.

  "Yessir." Zeke handed over his phone, the man's picture already up. "In case you needed a better copy than the camera footage."

  "Nicely done, Irish."

  Zeke hated the nickname. It was a constant reminder of his greatest failure, not that he'd ever share that with any of the men he worked with. Professional and personal were kept miles apart; he'd learned his lesson the last time, and there was no way he wa
s diving back down into that particular hell.

  Preston grinned at Zeke's scowl. "You're gonna get used to it someday."

  "Not if I can help it, sir."

  "Still planning on escaping?"

  On one of the screens, a slim young woman with tastefully done make-up and a barely-there dress walked past the bar. A few of the men turned in their seats, eagerly watching the sway of her ass. Too bad Zeke knew her.

  Knew she was a single mom who was working at The Club while she paid her way through her first year of community college. Knew she stayed because working at a ritzy place like The Club would give her the skills she needed to make it as a business associate somewhere outside Karim. Knew that the men sitting at the bar who were there on the guest pass tonight didn't give a shit about any of that, unlike their regulars.

  He dropped his eyes from the monitor, felt the ice creep back to claim another little piece of him. "I'm out as soon as I can afford it."

  "Irish, if you really wanted to be gone, you could afford it right now." Preston chuckled when Zeke didn't argue. "I thought so. You're one of the only men who hasn't gone out to buy a flashy car or purchase a few diamonds for his gal. You've got money. Which means you're staying for another reason."

  Yeah. I owe Mr. Mak big time.

  "Can I have my phone back, sir?"

  Preston dangled it above Zeke's head. At six-one, Zeke was several inches shorter. He wouldn't demean himself by jumping. Instead, he glared at his boss.

  "Come on, Irish, let's see a little of that fight you're so famous for." When he got no response, Preston raised an eyebrow. "What, did I hit a little too close to home?"

  Zeke turned and walked away. "Keep the fecking thing, sir. I can always get a new one."

  "Harding–"

  He caught his phone in mid-air. Preston stood across the room from him, arms crossed over his chest, his all-black suit doing nothing to hide the fact that he was a good, wholesome, God-fearing, mama-loving Texas boy who would never be able to understand the skeletons that hung out in Zeke's closet.

  "You know you're not alone, right?"

  There was no way in hell he'd ever be able to explain that today, of all days, he was more alone than ever. "I've got to get back to work, sir."

  Preston gave a curt nod, clearly choosing not to push the issue further. It took all of Zeke's control to not run from the damn room.

  ***

  Vivian Bennet pulled a tray of fresh bread from the oven as the back door of Divine Twins Bakery opened. "I'm back here, Lisa," she called over her shoulder.

  Lisa, her right-hand baker, smiled as she entered the kitchen. "You're up early."

  "Everyone's going to be looking for their post-Halloween hangover cure. I think baked goods are a great solution."

  "Is that why the daily special sign is already up?"

  "Yep."

  Lisa finished tying off her apron and reached for a pair of hot pads, already in work mode and focused on pulling out the rest of the bread. "Someday you're going to have to give yourself a break," she griped.

  Vivian agreed with a smile, mind drifting as they both focused on the tasks at hand. Lisa's suggestion was finally a viable one. Business was solid and Vivian's life was shaping up. To be honest, she wouldn't have been manically prepping for the day ahead, except she'd gotten another letter. It had been waiting for her at the back door, slipped in place just above the lock.

  The sight of the simple white envelope, unsigned, had sent her digging in her purse for pepper spray. Once she'd calmed down and reminded herself to breathe, it was clear there was no one hanging around. At some point she was going to have to get some security cameras installed. Then she could find out if the person leaving these letters really was a threat or not.

  Apprehension prickled in her gut. When phrases like "I'll love feeling your heart beat in my hand" and "Nothing will be able to keep us apart" kept appearing, it was probably a good sign that the writer's intentions weren't positive.

  The phone rang at 4:30. Lisa answered, but quickly turned to Vivian. "It's Yvette."

  She took the phone in time to hear a raspy, "Vivian–"

  She grimaced and held the phone away from her ear as a dry hacking emanated from the other speaker. "Yvette, what's wrong with you?"

  "I took Clark trick-or-treating last night and wasn't feeling too good when I went to bed. I woke up this morning with a cough and a fever. There's no way I can come in."

  "No, no, of course not! Stay home. I'll find someone else," Vivian assured her.

  "I'm so sorry, Viv. I know how busy today can get."

  "Yvette, honey, please don't worry. Is John back?"

  "He got back from the conference yesterday morning."

  "Good. Let him take care of Clark and you focus on getting better. Go back to bed. We'll be fine here."

  "Thank you, Vivian. I'm sorry," Yvette croaked.

  Vivian hung up and gave Lisa a dazzling smile. "Well, do you want the kitchen or the front?"

  "Can't you call Mariah?"

  "She already requested today off."

  "Natalie?"

  "She's already coming in at two."

  "Doug?"

  Vivian wrinkled her nose. "I fired Doug two weeks ago because he could never get here before ten. We're it until Natalie gets here."

  "I'll take kitchen then. I know how much you love working the counter," Lisa teased.

  Vivian quickly ran Lisa through the day's list and headed out front. In the darkness of the morning, a surge of possessive pride welled up. She loved her bakery and all the hard work it stood for. The street lamps outside threw glittering light over all the glass, from the pane windows to the counter that displayed the baked goods she cooked every day. She hummed to herself and took down chairs from the tables, appreciating the way the rich red cushions offset the stainless steel and wood tables she'd had custom built by a friend.

  She rechecked the coffee bar and headed behind the counter. With Lisa's help, they filled the case to brimming with a wide variety of delicious treats, most of them local favorites. She got the coffee brewing, filling the carafes as it finished, and glanced at the clock. About time to open. The regulars would be showing up any time.

  Like clockwork, Mr. Di Pasqua waited near the door at 5:45. He smiled at her when she unlocked the front door for him and held it open. The tapping of his cane on the tiles was a familiar sound that continued to reminder her all was right with the world.

  "The usual, Mr. Di Pasqua?"

  "Please."

  Vivian smiled as he hobbled his way toward his usual table. Every day, the same routine. A cup of coffee, black. A cornetto, filled with a light custard. A napkin and a smile.

  Mr. Di Pasqua had refused to move into an assisted living home when his wife passed away; he wanted to live out the rest of his days in the neighborhood they'd made a life in. Vivian loved the romance of that choice. Maybe someday she'd find her own true love and, if she was lucky, he'd be as devoted as her favorite customer.

  The old man handed over his money when she brought him the coffee and simple white plate that held his breakfast. Like every morning, he leaned in and took a deep whiff of the pastry, sighing in contentment. "Just like my nonni's."

  Yes, there was safety in routine, Vivian told herself as she began to serve the steady stream of customers. She gave each of these people some of that stability she'd always loved so much growing up. The familiar tart burst of blueberries in a fresh muffin, the buttery sweetness of shortbread, the scent of coffee and fresh bread wafting outside onto the street every time the door opened or closed. Those were things her customers could count on.

  Just like you're beginning to count on seeing those letters every morning, a quiet part of her whispered.

  She ignored it. Later, once Natalie was here, she'd finally be able to go back into her tiny broom closet of an office and read the damn thing. Only then would she know if she'd need to make another trip downtown to the police station or not. Until that mo
ment though, there was no point getting distracted by it. There was too much work to do and too many people counting on her to let her creepy admirer ruin her day.

  Chapter 2

  "Come on, man," John said, his voice loud from the phone's speaker. "What do you mean you can't come?"

  "I'm sorry," Zeke apologized as he got out of his Charger and locked it, hefting his duffel more comfortably over his shoulder. "But I've got shit to take care of and then I'm back at work."

  "Look, Harding, I'm serious about this one. She's incredible. I want you to meet her."

  Zeke grinned and headed toward the building the Suits used as their base of operations. He was working a swing shift tonight, heading in now so he could leave early in the morning and catch a few hours of sleep before driving out to meet his dad and mom. He would willingly kill a man if he could get out of that cheery family reunion and go hang out with his former brother-in-arms John Walsh, but Preston had already approved the shift swap. There was no way out.

  John must have sensed the coming argument. “We’ve been together for months now and you still haven’t had a single day off to meet her. She’s starting to think you don’t exist.”

  Zeke laughed. "Look, I promise I'll meet the girl. We'll go out to dinner, make a night of it."

  John sighed deeply, but there wasn't any true irritation in it. "Fine," he grumbled.

  "Talk to you later, brother."

  The jingle of keys hitting the pavement drew his attention. He shouldn't have looked. Every visceral, possessive, horny-as-fuck, alpha instinct rose with a vengeance. The sweet curve of her ass made his groin tighten. He fought down the groan that rose unbidden. Fecking hell, it had been far too long since he'd thrust into a woman's welcoming heat, feeling her pussy tighten around him. Standing here ogling a perfect—or at least, perfect assed—stranger was proof of that.

  As if she could feel his eyes on her, the woman straightened, keys dangling from her fingers, and glanced over her shoulder.

  There was no goddamn way.

  It was her. The woman who owned Divine Twins Bakery. She'd been torturing him for months. They always seemed to cross paths and it was wearing him down. She arrived at work when he was leaving. The first time he'd seen her a few months ago even that wide expanse of pavement between sidewalks hadn't been enough distance.