by Jane Henry
She did, she really really did. Tears pricked the back of her eyes and her nose stung.
“You know what I like about this?” His deep voice had dropped to a whisper, as he gestured one broad finger to the drawing.
“What?” she whispered back.
“You don’t see the end,” he said. “There’s no mouth of a river. It’s not just a little pond. The water keeps going, past the page, and you don’t know where it goes to. It could go anywhere.”
“Yes,” she whispered.
“It doesn’t have to stay here. And I think that water runs deep, doesn’t it?”
She could only nod.
He got it.
“I’ll tell you what, Gracie,” he said, reaching a hand and tucking a stray piece of hair behind her ear in a gesture that made her legs wobble beneath her. “You let me keep this one, and I promise you. I give you my word. I’ll not only let you sit on my bike, but some day, when it won't get you locked up and me murdered, I’ll take you for a ride on my bike and we’ll find this brook.”
“Deal,” she whispered.
She’d relived the memory so many times over the years, that thirteen years later she could still remember every vivid detail. The way he’d shooed her back into the house before her father had caught her. His threat to spank her, which had become the central focus of her fantasies over the years. How he’d taken the paper reverently and thanked her. The way the cicadas had buzzed along with the tempo of her heart, as she’d raced up the stairs back to her bedroom.
One little moment on the Fourth of July thirteen years ago that she’d never forgotten.
He had never taken her to find the creek, and today was the first time he’d taken her for the promised ride.
I had to go to some ridiculous lengths to finally get on the back of his bike, she thought. He took a left turn down a narrow, deserted street. She leaned in closer to him, inhaling the scent of leather and musk that made her toes curl.
She sobered, held on tighter, and took in her surroundings. She’d known where she was and why, held hostage in dirty Joe’s near-vacant house, before Mikey Nolan’s henchman would come and take her to auction. Fucking auction! As if she were a piece of real estate or a vintage car. Donnie’d gone north, then south again, to lose anyone tailing them, weaving in and out of traffic expertly. They were on the Zakim bridge now, lit up with lights against the evening sky, so lovely she’d have enjoyed the sight if the circumstances had been any different. For all she knew, the sons of bitches that had sent her to Joe’s were pursuing them, and this was no joyride. Still, the feel of Donnie beneath her hands and pressed up against her chest, the wind that whipped her arms and legs, and the feel of the too-big helmet he’d insisted she wear, exhilarated her. She wasn’t being held in a tiny prison-like room, prepared to lose her virginity to the highest bidder. She was on the back of Donnie’s bike. He’d saved her.
But where were they going?
After they got off the bridge, they flew through a tunnel, road signs flashing past them. They were south of the city now. She had no idea where they were going, but had a vague recollection that Donnie lived south of Boston, somewhere near the ocean. The city behind them was alive with lights, traffic heavy, as he signaled and slowed, getting off at an exit.
Welcome to Quincy.
He said nothing as they cruised to a halt at a traffic light, but merely glanced to his left and right, likely making sure they weren’t being followed.
She wasn’t that important, was she?
Apparently, Donnie thought so.
He cruised down a road that led to an intersection, and as she took it all in. The restaurants, convenience stores, and homes that clustered the streets of the city had her realizing he was pulling onto the road that led to the beach. She breathed in the distinctive smell of the ocean, the salty breeze permeating her senses. Though it was dark, the streetlights illuminated the walking paths, where people on bicycles and joggers took a late-night ride or stroll. She heard the crashing of waves on sand, but had little time to take it all in before he was careening down a small, narrow street that was no doubt a back road. He slowed, taking one final turn onto a street marked with a green and white road sign that read Harbor Road.
The tempo of her heartbeat accelerated. Was he taking her to his home? She couldn’t help the thrill that rippled through her.
Donnie’s home.
When he pulled his bike to park, she wondered why he’d pulled up to a large brick building. It looked more like an office than an apartment complex. But she had little time to dwell as he parked. “Hold my shoulders and swing down while I hold the bike steady,” he commanded. She obeyed, her hands on his broad, leather-clad shoulders as she got off the bike and stood. He dismounted, taking her helmet in his hand and gesturing for her to go up the back stairs. She tried to take a look around, and thought she saw what looked like the bar and dance floor of a club, but he didn’t allow her to stop and sightsee as he hurried her along.
“Third floor,” he ground out. “Go.”
As she walked up the stairs, she saw drops of blood in front of her, crimson stains on the light woodwork. Bile rose in her throat. God. What had happened? But she couldn’t think on the details, as he was following behind her like the hounds of hell were on her heels. One step after another, and finally he pulled a large key ring from his pocket, shoved a key in the door in front of her, and pushed her through. “Get in,” he growled.
Both hurt and anger stung her as she obeyed. Where was her knight in shining armor, and who was this rough, angry man who now loomed over her in the dim light of the tiny kitchen? He shut the door behind them, locked it, and threw the deadbolt, before shrugging out of his leather jacket. He reached his hands to her, and before she knew what he was doing, he deftly removed her jacket as well.
Slinging both jackets on the back of a chair, he took her by the hand and pulled her through the small, spartan kitchen. Before they exited she got a glimpse of a gleaming Keurig in the corner, and a row of little coffee pods ready to go, and a small bowl of fruit, but nothing else.
Directly adjacent to the kitchen, to the right, was a tiny bathroom. She caught a glimpse of a mirror and sink before he yanked her hand harder, and she had to practically jog to keep up with him. A small sitting room housed a loveseat and flat-screened TV mounted on the wall in one corner, and in the other corner was a weight bench and a stack of free weights. To the left was a doorway she assumed led to a bedroom. He smacked it open with the flat of his palm.
God almighty.
Donnie’s bedroom.
In her wildest fantasies as a teen and then young adult, she’d imagined being brought into the sanctuary of Donnie’s bedroom, but the circumstances had always been wildly different.
He released her hand and pulled her to his bed, pushing her so she was seated and he stood towering over her. His eyes flashed, the brows drawn together, and she noted not surprisingly that the years they’d been apart had aged him well… very, very well. His hair was still long, dirty-blond, and sun-streaked, but his beard was fuller. His eyes were still… Donnie—kind, intelligent, but ruthless, with the scar above his left eyebrow he’d have until the day he died. She knew how he got that scar, and the memory pained her. He was broader now, his wide shoulders stretching the thin cotton of his t-shirt, tats now trailing along his neck, across both shoulders, tucked under his t-shirt, then gracing both biceps and forearms. He stood with his feet apart, hands on hips and he looked fucking pissed.
What had she done? What had she ever done to deserve him looking so furious? “Where did they touch you? Are you hurt? How long have you been gone?” he said through clenched teeth, breathing deeply in, his chest heaving as his eyes raked over her, from the top of her head, down over her face, and she was pleased to note they momentarily halted over the expanse of her chest before taking in the rest of her body with an appraising but fairly appreciative glance.
“It’s hard to remember everything. My head hur
ts,” she said, putting one hand out with her palm facing him, trying to calm his fury. “They came after dark yesterday and took me from my home. Mama was at work, so I was alone, sleeping. I have a shift at work tomorrow.” She knew she was babbling, but couldn’t seem to stop. “All I knew was there were three masked men who bound and dragged me out, and they must’ve drugged me or knocked me unconscious, because the next thing I knew I was in that bed at your brother’s house. There were men there, and they were scary, so I didn’t fight. I couldn’t win, just me against a bunch of guys with weapons.”
One curt nod, and he stepped toward her, leaning one knee on the bed as his big, gentle hands probed her head. His voice had softened when he spoke. “You had a shift tomorrow.” She didn’t respond, not knowing what to say, as he continued. “Where exactly does it hurt, Gracie?”
She closed her eyes momentarily and swallowed. Gracie. No one had called her that in years. As she pointed to the back of her head, his tenderness caused a lump to rise in her throat.
“You’ll need ice,” he murmured. “And I’ll get you some pain meds. They didn’t touch you anywhere else?” Though he wore a mask of self-control, the forced tightness in his voice betrayed him. He hadn’t been mad at her. He’d been mad for her. God, he still cared. After all these years, he still cared.
Then why had he left her?
“Nowhere else,” she whispered.
His hands rested on her shoulders. “Nowhere else,” he repeated. “Sons of bitches. I’d kill them, Gracie, every last motherfucker. They’ll never lay hands on you again.”
She suspected she knew what it cost for him to say it. He’d moved on, no longer a part of the family who bullied and took over all of South Boston. He’d moved past this life, and now he was being dragged back in. For her.
“They didn’t, Donnie,” she whispered, laying a hand on one of his. “I’m fine.”
“Yeah,” he said. “And I’m gonna make sure you stay that way.” He sighed and pushed himself to standing. He paced the room, running his hands through his hair, and she took the moment to observe her surroundings. She was on a king-sized bed, but the size of the bed was the only thing in the room even slightly decadent. In the left corner of the room stood a bureau, as tall as she was, with four drawers, plain, utilitarian light wood. No mirror, nothing on top. A door to a closet was to the right of the bed, but it was shut tight. To the right of the bed, a nightstand flanked the bed, with nothing but a lamp and a small basket filled with coins. There was nothing else in the entire room. No pictures were on the walls, no books on a shelf or shoes pushed up against the wall.
He was like a golden-haired, tattooed, muscled monk living a spartan existence.
Was this his home?
“I’m gonna lay it all on the line with you, Grace,” he said. “Pedro came by earlier.”
Pedro. Her mind immediately went back to the drops of blood on his stairway. She’d suspected somehow Pedro was behind this.
Donnie continued. “He told me they had you. Do you have any idea why?”
She shook her head. “I know he’s in debt with Mikey,” she said. Mikey, Donnie’s cousin, the low-life asshole who preyed on young women, and made his living off pawned possessions and broken dreams. He’d grown so rich while trampling on those under him, he thought he ruled the world. She didn’t want to discuss more with him, not after he’d tried so hard to shake off everything he grew up with.
He crossed his arms on his chest and raised a brow to her. “That the truth, Grace?” The stern look made her insides quiver as she shifted on the bed, immediately reminding her of the scene she’d played over in her mind hundreds of times, his threat to take her over his knee. He was strong, dominant, the most alpha of the bunch she’d grown up with, and she’d wondered what he’d do if she pushed him.
She swallowed. “That’s the truth.”
His eyes narrowed. “You do not want to lie to me, Grace.”
She shifted on the bed, again, feeling the implied threat right between her legs. Fuck, she was still hot for him.
She swallowed. “Nothing else,” she said.
Donnie nodded again. “I’ll take care of this,” he said. Her heart twisted, and she briefly closed her eyes. He was in, and he didn’t want to be.
“Okay,” she whispered. “You wanna fill me in on where we are?”
In response, he sat next to her and lifted one boot-clad foot to his knee, untying the laces as he looked down, not meeting her gaze. “I work here,” he said. “We have security cameras, bouncers, and you’ll be under my protection. It’s the safest place for you.”
Warmth spread in her chest, and she was almost glad she’d been in danger.
Under my protection. It’s the safest place for you.
But hold the phone. He worked here? At a club? She’d assumed he only rented the apartment.
“What do you do here?” she asked.
He cleared his throat, switched feet, and started unlacing the second boot. He didn’t answer at first. His reluctance to tell her everything made her uneasy. Was he afraid? What was he hiding? He didn’t trust her? God, did he have a girlfriend? Or a wife?
“So, great,” she said, feeling her heartbeat quicken and her temperature rise. “You want me to spill all, and you don’t even have the balls to tell me where we are?”
The second the words left her mouth, she regretted them. He gently placed his boot on the floor, and turned his body fully to face her, one brow raised in reproach as his lips turned down in a scowl. God, he could be scary. She squirmed on the bed, involuntarily pulling away a bit.
“Yeah,” he said. “That’s exactly right, little girl. I’m not telling you where we are because I’m afraid. Shaking in my fucking boots.” His gritty tone left no doubt his response dripped with sarcasm. Donnie Nolan was many things, but fearful was not one of them.
“I need to know,” she said, but her plea was weaker this time, losing the edge of reproach.
He sighed. “I know you do, and I’ll tell you. But I’m still not sure how much you need to know, and what’s safest for you. The less you know about some things, the better.”
What was that supposed to mean?
“Whatever,” she mumbled, earning her a second reproachful look.
Something in her response made his eyes narrow again, and he skewered her with a stern look, before he sighed. “Fine, Grace. It might help you a bit to know where we are, so I’ll tell you. This is The Club South, which I operate and manage. It’s a satellite location of The Club. Do you know what The Club is?”
She shook her head.
He sighed. “The Club is the largest BDSM club in the northeast.”
Her eyes widened. “BDSM?” Oh my.
He pursed his lips and nodded. “Yep. BDSM. Blake Coleman, Matteo Angelico, and Alex Slater are the owners, and I’m the operator. I oversee this location, after working for years at The Club in Boston. Blake taught me everything he knows, and after I tasted the scene, I wanted in. So I’ve got this club up and running, and I’m part of the operation team, too.”
“Operation team?” What exactly did that mean?
He smirked. “Yeah. Operation team. That means I work as dungeon master here. I do demonstrations.”
Her voice sounded unnaturally high-pitched. “Demonstrations?”
He paused a beat before answering, his brow quirked menacingly. “Yeah, Gracie. Demonstrations.” A slow, wicked grin, lit up his face. “That means I like to tie girls up and spank their asses. That means I call the shots, and I fucking love it. I like the control, and I fully plan on keeping it that way.”
Hoooooly shit.
“Well then,” she said, because she didn’t have a clue how else to respond.
He grinned again. “Not your thing, huh?”
Not her thing? She didn’t even know what it was or how one did things or what exactly was demonstrated in a demonstration, but if it involved Donnie? Then yeah.
It was her thing.
&nb
sp; She shrugged. “No idea,” she said. “But I think it’s sorta cool that it’s your thing.” The whole idea was sort of intriguing. “You gonna let me see you demonstrate?”
He shook his head. “No way.”
“Aw, c’mon, Donnie,” she said. “I want to… see that side of you.”
It all made sense. Of course he was into control. He thrived as the one in charge. He was a naturally dominant guy, and did not willingly submit to anyone’s authority. Hell, it was why he left school at the ripe old age of fifteen, and why he’d been promoted as the enforcer for his cousin the following month. No one fucked with Donnie Nolan.
“Not now, Grace,” was all he said.
“Makes sense, you know,” she said. “You never followed everyone else’s rules. You aren’t the kind of guy who does. And I could…” She faltered as the image of Donnie tying her up flew through her mind. She swallowed. “I could totally see you being the one in charge like that.”
To her surprise, he chuckled. “Yeah, well. Anyway, we weren’t followed.” He paused. “According to Joe, Mikey planned to stash you with him for a week. That gives us a few days to regroup and figure out how we’re going to play this.”
He stood, taking his boots to his closet and putting them outside the door. “Until then?” He turned around and pointed a finger at her. “You do not move.”
Wait—what?
“I don’t move?” she said, frowning. “Like, from this bed? Are you out of your mind? I have to, you know, at least use the bathroom or get something to eat.”
His brown eyes grew cloudy, brooding, as he stalked back over to her. When he reached her, he grasped her shoulders in his huge, hot, powerful hands, and shook her, not harshly, but enough that she stopped talking and looked up at him with wide, curious eyes. She swallowed.
“I mean this apartment. You’ll stay inside. Do not push me, Grace,” he said, and she wondered suddenly if this was his… master voice, or whatever it was called. His serious one.
