by Jane Henry
He’d first noticed a change in her behavior a few weeks back, not long after she’d volunteered to participate in a Shibari demonstration with him. From his perspective, it had been a purely professional thing. Though he’d had to touch her quite a bit as he demonstrated the correct roping and knotting procedures, he’d remained as aloof and clinical as possible; his usual MO during demos. But despite his precautions, she’d somehow gotten the wrong idea. She’d started popping up wherever he was, calling him Sir in a breathy voice, and giving him shy smiles that seemed calculated to entice any dominant who was in the market for a long-term submissive.
Unfortunately for her, Donnie was in the market to rent rather than to own. All of his relationships could be better measured in hours than in years. But even if he had been looking for something more permanent, even if he weren’t her boss, Julie just wasn’t his type.
Donnie frowned and tried to put his finger on what bugged him about the girl. She was pretty enough, for sure, with long brown hair, brown eyes, and the petite, curvy figure he’d always enjoyed on a woman. But there seemed to be something hiding behind her eyes—a sort of calculation, like she was trying to project the image of the type of sub she thought he wanted.
Maybe some guys got off on the whole “I’ll be whatever you need me to be!” vibe, but Donnie wasn’t one of them. Christ, if there was one thing that he hated about the BDSM scene these days, it was the drama, the over-the-top fantasy that so many people seemed to be looking for. He knew that real dominant/submissive relationships, like the kinds that his friends Matteo, Slay, Dom, Tony, and Paul had with their partners required work and compromise, and he’d seen firsthand what it had taken for Blake and Elena to negotiate their rocky start.
Step one was to be honest with yourself and your partner about what you needed. If you weren’t ready and willing to do that—and God knew, Donnie wasn’t fucking ready to share his deepest, darkest desires with anyone—you had no business getting involved in anything complicated.
That was why, if Julie kept up with this shit, Donnie was gonna have to figure out how to say “No fucking way” in a diplomatic manner that spared her feelings, while leaving no doubt that they would never have an association beyond a professional one.
Words, diplomacy, feelings.
Fuck.
He’d rather beat the shit out of something any day.
There had only ever been one woman he could talk to without restraint, without the words getting twisted halfway between his brain and his tongue. Grace.
Jesus, Nolan, he chastised himself. Resurrecting ghosts twice in one night? Focus.
“So, um, have you eaten? Dinner, I mean?” Julie asked nervously, when it became clear that Donnie wasn’t going to pick up the conversation.
“Yep,” he confirmed. “A while ago. I’m getting ready to turn in.”
He folded his arms across his chest and waited for her to take the hint.
She didn’t.
“Would you maybe want to, you know, hang out?” she persisted. “I noticed that you hardly ever stop by the playrooms unless you’re giving a demo. We could maybe practice the cane thing you’re doing tomorrow night?”
Donnie sighed. No way to avoid it. He ran a hand through his chin-length blond hair and dove in.
“Think you got the wrong idea,” he said stiffly. “We ain’t gonna hang out. I’m your boss.”
“Oh.” She blinked. “But, um, is there a rule against employees hanging out? Because I heard through the grapevine that Slay was Alice’s manager and they, um… you know.”
Donnie suppressed a growl. How much clearer could he be? Yeah, everyone knew the story of how Slay had met and fallen hard for his wife, Allie, back when she’d worked the main bar at The Club, but that didn’t fucking matter.
“I’m not Slay,” Donnie said flatly. “I don’t get involved with my employees.”
“Oh,” Julie said again. She looked momentarily crestfallen, but then rallied and took a step closer to him. “Because I wouldn’t tell anyone…”
“Not the point,” he said, his low voice brooking no argument. “I need you to keep your behavior professional, or there will be consequences, up to and including termination.”
“T-termination?” she stammered, licking her lips nervously. “No! I can do professional. I, uh… I understand. I love this job. I need this job, Master Nolan.”
Donnie nodded and felt a faint stirring of pity. He knew what that felt like.
“Good,” he told her. “I’m relieved to hear that.” And then, something compelled him to add, “Listen, Julie, lots of the girls here, and at The Club Boston seem… nice. Friendly. If you need someone to talk to…”
Julie bit her lip and Donnie trailed off as someone started pounding on the door below.
What now?
He saw Julie’s eyes flash in surprise, and as he hurried down the stairs, she followed.
The banging had increased in volume and tempo by the time he made it to the first floor, and was accompanied by a man shouting in garbled English.
“Don! Open up, man! Oh, fuck, Donnie! Open the damn door!”
“Stand back,” he clipped at Julie, who nodded with wide eyes before moving around the corner into one of the demo rooms.
Once she was out of sight, Donnie unlocked the door and threw it open… only to have the guy who’d been shouting fall directly at Donnie’s feet.
The man pushed himself to his hands and knees on the hardwood floor and glanced up. Donnie automatically stepped back into a defensive position, reaching for the stupid keys in his pocket and wishing, not for the first time, that he hadn’t stopped carrying his Glock when he’d left his cousin’s employ. The dude’s face was a bloody mess. His nose was unmistakably broken, his mouth distorted, one dark eye swollen shut, and his clothes, which seemed to have started out as a high-end suit and silk shirt, were shredded, not like they’d been ripped or worn out, but…
Oh, motherfucker.
Sliced.
The man had been beaten and sliced, right through the fabric of his clothing, into his skin in dozens and dozens of places all over his body. With no more than a cursory glance, Donnie knew they were shallow wounds—bruises delivered by hand and cuts from a straight razor, precisely calibrated to scare, to scar, to hurt, but not to kill. And he knew, just as well as he knew the brown eyes he saw in the mirror each morning, that this poor fuck-up had been forced to count the strikes himself while a bunch of neighborhood punks who desperately wanted to be badasses had held him down by his hands and ankles. There would be one blow or cut for each thousand the guy owed. A gruesome, permanent accounting of his debt because that was the kind of twisted justice that Mikey Nolan found amusing.
Donnie ground his teeth together. His cousin had worked this guy over thoroughly, and Donnie couldn’t help but feel bad for the sap. But it had been years—God, more than a decade—since he’d had anything to do with Mikey’s shit. So why the fuck was this guy here? And how did he know Donnie’s name?
Donnie felt a sense of foreboding settle in his gut.
“Donnie,” the man pleaded, tears and blood making tracks across his skin. “Help me!”
Donnie narrowed his eyes and looked closer, beyond the bloody wreckage of his face, trying to place the connection. There was something… But it wasn’t until the man let his head fall forward with a sob, until a thick hank of dark brown hair fell across his forehead and obscured his swollen eye, that Donnie felt the flare of recognition. He knew that hair. He remembered eyes just like that…
“Christ. Pedro? Is that you?”
“Caillate, Gracia Maria! You’re not coming with us. Not today. And stop whining.” Donnie’s best friend propped his foot on the built-in seat of the scarred wooden picnic table and combed his fingers carefully through his mop of brown hair, his eyes trained on his reflection in the darkened window of Sully’s Grab ‘n Go next door.
“But why?” A little girl, whose dark, serious brown eyes took up nearl
y half her face, perched on the edge of the wooden table top, her short legs kicking back and forth. In truth, the girl never whined, but she also never gave in without a good reason. A fact which drove her brother crazy but made Donnie laugh.
“Because you’re too little, mija.”
“Little! I’m eleven! And I can help. I can carry things. I notice things! It’s not fair you guys get go places and have fun without me.”
“Donnie and I are seventeen. We’re men now. We’re gonna be working for Mikey, for God’s sake. You’ve gotta stop following us around like a puppy. It’s weird.”
The impatient, superior big-brother tone made Grace’s eyes narrow, and Donnie stepped in as he always did, pushing himself out of his slouch against the building and searching for the words that would make her understand.
“Gracie, there are different ways to be helpful. The place we’re going today, the guys we’re gonna meet… it might be dangerous.”
The full force of those shining eyes—eyes glowing with hero worship, and more excited than anxious at the prospect of adventure—swung toward him, and he found himself momentarily stunned. All he could think was, “Holy shit. Someday she’s gonna fucking OWN a man with those eyes. She’ll break hearts.” And he’d felt a quick, confusing clench of anger in his gut at the prospect of Grace ever bestowing that look on anyone but him.
“So what if it is?” Grace challenged. “You’ll protect me. You said you’d always protect me.”
Donnie nodded, because yeah, of course he would.
“But that’s why you can’t be there. The two of us would be distracted, worrying about you.”
He could see the lightning-quick calculation behind those eyes, and knew she’d reached the right conclusion when her shoulders slumped in defeat.
“When you give an intelligent explanation like that, I can’t really argue,” she sighed.
Intelligent explanation? Him? A weird, warm feeling curled in his chest, and Donnie absently tried to rub it away.
His friend hooted. “Right, Don’s Mr. Intelligent. So smart he didn’t need school no more.”
Donnie flipped him off behind the girl’s back.
“Maybe while we’re gone you could work on your drawing? I keep asking you to do a sketch of me,” Donnie teased her.
Her cheeks flooded with color and she shook her head. “No way.”
Her brother snorted, not looking away from his reflection. “Oh, bro, consider yourself lucky. She sucks. She did a picture of me the other night. Made me look like a fucking donkey, with this big, stupid smile.”
Grace’s eyes met Donnie’s, and she grinned. Donnie didn’t know shit about art, but he knew enough about Grace’s talent to be sure that if she’d drawn her brother like that, it was totally intentional. Donnie smirked.
“Time to get back inside the house, Gracia,” her brother said, turning away from the window. “We’ve gotta go, and if Papa catches you out here alone…”
Donnie frowned. They were in the Diaz family’s own backyard, but even so, Grace wasn’t supposed to be outside unsupervised. The nuns at St. Bridget’s had fewer rules and restrictions than Mr. Diaz did for his only daughter.
Grace sighed and jumped down from the table, looking so lonely and dejected that Donnie jammed his hands in his pockets and looked away before he did something stupid, like try to give the kid a hug.
But Grace had never let him off the hook that easily. She threw her arms around his waist and squeezed, pressing her cheek against his chest for the briefest of moments. The smell of her—the faint tang of cinnamon chewing gum that he always associated with his Grace—filled his nose.
“Come back safe, okay, Donnie?” she asked, turning those bright, solemn eyes up at him, and he was helpless to do anything but nod. Then, after a quick glance at her impatient brother, she turned back to Donnie, rolling her eyes as she pulled away. “And take care of Pedro.”
He’d pictured Pedro the way he’d always looked—perfectly mussed hair, round-cheeked baby face, laughing brown eyes, as tall and wiry as Donnie had been at eighteen. But in the intervening years, Donnie had grown, gaining several inches in height and at least forty pounds of solid muscle. Whereas Pedro, Donnie saw, as he helped the man unsteadily to his feet, seemed to have shrunk. He was skin and bones beneath his fine clothing, his shoulders were stooped, and he flinched when Donnie wrapped an arm around his waist and guided him into the bar area.
Donnie hadn’t seen Pedro Diaz in nearly a dozen years. Last Donnie had heard, Pedro had been middle management in Mikey’s “organization,” which was the highest rank Pedro was ever likely to attain, given that he wasn’t blood family. He’d assumed the guy was doing well—as well as a man who’d chosen to sell his soul could be—but even though Donnie lived minutes away from the old neighborhood, he’d made a point never to go back and check on them. He’d only set foot there once in the past decade. That was Mikey’s neighborhood, and always had been. It was safer for everyone who lived there if they weren’t associated with Donnie, the cousin who’d disgraced the family by walking away, and it was crucial to Donnie’s survival to forget they existed.
Didn’t mean Donnie hadn’t thought about his friends over the years, though. He’d imagined P getting married, maybe to one of Donnie’s own cousins. More than once, he’d forced himself to confront the fact that Grace was likely married now too, and he hoped the lucky fucker deserved her. He’d read in the paper that Mr. Diaz had died a few years back, and he’d grieved for Pedro and Grace. And right now, as he looked at the pathetic battered man, he could hear the echo of Grace’s voice in his head, telling him to take care of Pedro. So, whatever bullshit Pedro was involved in, however he’d incurred Mikey’s wrath, Donnie couldn’t bring himself to turn his former friend away.
“Sit here,” he said, heaving Pedro onto one of the wooden barstools. “Calm yourself. What do you need, man? Hospital?”
“No!” Pedro gasped, leaning heavily against the bar. “No hospital. No cops.”
Donnie nodded, not surprised. He ducked beneath the pass-through, collecting ice in a clean towel and opening the first aid kit they always kept on hand beneath the bar, before turning to assess the damage.
The lacerations on Pedro’s body would heal with time and some antibiotic goop. Ice would help control the swelling on his face, and it didn’t look like he needed stitches. The greatest threat to his health right now was in failing to pay back whatever debt he’d managed to accrue.
“Here,” Donnie said, holding out the makeshift ice pack, while he wet a second towel under the tap.
Pedro took the ice and gingerly held it to his swollen eye. “Don, I need your help,” he said, attempting to draw a deep breath against ribs that were probably bruised, trying to control the tears streaming down his broken face.
“Yeah. So you said,” Donnie agreed, cutting under the pass-through once more. “But, bro, if you managed to cross Mikey somehow… I don’t know how you think I can help you.”
He approached the other man and braced one hand against his back while grasping his nose with the other. He waited until Pedro gave the barest nod of assent, then set Pedro’s broken nose back into place with one deft movement and secured it with strips of sterile tape from the kit.
Pedro barely flinched. “Still got the touch with that, huh? Must be, what, the third time you’ve done that for me?” he asked, his voice thick with pain.
Donnie nodded. “Don’t get much practice anymore,” he said. And he hadn’t missed it.
He wiped his hands off on the towel and took the stool next to Pedro before continuing.
“You know better than anyone that I dragged myself out of Mikey’s shit, kicking and screaming. If I get involved again, it’ll be a death sentence. We’ve been through a lot, man, so if you need a place to spend a couple nights, you’ve got it. And if you need some cash—and by that I mean a couple of thousand, enough to get you out of town, not enough for… this,” he looked pointedly at the dozens of sma
ll cuts up and down Pedro’s torso, which had to sting like a sonofabitch. “I’ll get it for you. But, P…” He deliberately let his voice go lower, firmer, so there would be no confusion on this score. “There is not a single thing in Heaven or on Earth that will get me involved with Mikey again.”
Pedro’s eyes, stark with shock and misery, met his.
“They’ve got Grace, man. They’re holding her… until I pay my debts.”
And Donnie’s world turned red.
“Pick up, pick up, pick up,” Donnie muttered, as the phone rang inside his helmet. He was weaving the Valkyrie through the light city traffic in a remarkable impression of the douchebag on the Harley from earlier, and he couldn’t care less. He’d been hyper-focused since the moment P had spoken his sister’s name, and not a fucking thing existed but Grace and his need to get to her.
Now.
He’d barked orders like a sergeant, clearing away obstacles. He’d called in a favor from Lucas, a guy who worked with Slay doing what they called “off-the-books security jobs,” which seemed to run the gamut from global terrorism prevention to rescuing kittens from trees, and had found someone who could patch Pedro up and give him a place to crash until he’d healed. He’d gotten Julie, who had still been cowering in the demonstration room, out to her fucking car, and out of his hair. And he’d grabbed the wickedly sharp Ka-Bar knife from the box on the top shelf of his closet just in case. Its weight against his thigh felt comforting.
The one obstacle he hadn’t been able to surmount was finding out where Grace was being held… and how the hell he’d get her back.
“I fucked up, Donnie,” Pedro had admitted. “Moving money, making book, it got old. And I got greedy. I wanted to grab some money—enough to last me a good, long while—and get the fuck out. New guy started cutting into our territory, a young kid named Javi. I never got a handle on who he was working for, but shit started getting chaotic. I thought I could take advantage of it. I lied and told Mikey that Javi had stolen our money…but Mikey found out. I gave him back the money I stole, every penny of the 750 large. But he says he wants me to pay him back double, to atone for my sins or… forfeit Grace.”
