Beneath the Scars

by Cherise Sinclair

  Under her bright porch light, Z leaned against the wall as she opened the door. She stepped inside and smiled at him. “Thank you for the escort.”

  “My pleasure. In fact, your timing was convenient. I want to ask you a question and didn’t want to put you on the spot.”

  She stiffened. Seriously? He was going to proposition her?

  “No, I’m not making an advance,” he stated, although she hadn’t spoken a word. “How familiar are you with BDSM, Ms. Collier?”

  “What?” And he wasn’t making an advance? Right. “What kind of a question is that?”

  Even as she tried to formulate a refusal, heat swept over her face. When Carson’s father, Everett, had done kinky stuff, she’d been too timid to say no. And, despite being ashamed of herself, she’d enjoyed some of what he’d done.

  But…still, how dare this stranger ask her about something so intimate.

  “Ah, I framed that poorly. Forgive me.” Z tilted his head. “However, you didn’t cringe, which is a start.”

  She frowned. There was absolutely no appropriate response to that observation.

  His lips quirked. “As it happens, I own a BDSM club that is open only on Fridays and Saturdays. Since the club is private, alcohol is provided as part of the membership fees. Previously, one volunteer handled most of the bartending, but he recently married. Right now, we’re coping with a number of members who don’t enjoy the work.”

  Wait, what? “Are you offering me a job? In a BDSM club?” Her voice came out sounding like someone had smacked her in the throat.

  “That’s exactly what I’m proposing.” He had a lethal grin when he chose to use it. “Most BDSM clubs don’t allow alcohol on the premises. On the other hand, I wanted the Shadowlands to be a community as well as a place to scene, and people enjoy socializing over drinks. However, since alcohol can adversely affect BDSM play, the club has a two-drink limit, and my preference is that those two drinks happen after a scene. Most people are quite careful about indulging, however…”

  “The world abounds with idiots,” she finished for him. “I understand. The bartender would have to monitor that. Why me?”

  “I watched you work at The Highlands. You have an excellent memory for customers’ likes and dislikes. You’re polite, friendly, and careful. I saw how you assured yourself that our women weren’t driving themselves home.” He regarded her, his tone serious. “A BDSM club can be somewhat overwhelming. Our members, however, are more polite and less…aggressive…than a bar’s clientele.”

  A BDSM club. Oh. My. God.

  Yet it was a job. After years of working in bars, she had a good instinct for people—at least when they didn’t look like a Hell’s Angels’ version of Thor. This Z had been polite and straightforward. Uzuri and her men were friends with him. He wasn’t giving her any iffy vibes.

  She pulled in a slow breath. “Friday and Saturday?”

  “Exactly. The club opens at 8 pm and, since it’s not a bar, we remain open as long as people are playing. Although scenes are generally finished by three or so, there have been occasions when we closed at dawn.”

  “Wow.” On the other hand, she’d get in a lot of hours.

  “You wouldn’t collect tips. Drinks are part of the membership fees, and no one carries money in the club.”

  Oh no. Tips were where she made her money. “That wouldn’t—”

  He held up his hand to cut in. “The club will pay you thirty-five an hour.”

  She blinked and multiplied hours in her head. There had been a few busy nights at the Highlands where she’d made that amount…but not many. “You’re on.”

  His smile grew. “I’m pleased. However, hear me out. There is more.”

  Hasty. Don’t be hasty.

  “Since the members indulge in unusual practices, so to speak, you will be required to read and sign the membership agreement—your fees are waived, of course. There is also a background check and physical.”

  A physical and background? “But…you’re serious?”

  “Quite. The members rely on the club to ensure their privacy and safety.”

  “Oh.” Then again, what did she care? She was healthy and law-abiding. Sheesh, she didn’t even get parking tickets. “Sure, that’s not a problem.”

  “Good. Now, since the club is outside of your comfort zone, you may consider next Friday and Saturday a test. We’ll talk afterward.”

  She let out a relieved breath. “That’s more than fair. Thank you.”

  “In that case, you’ll have the terms, the application and membership agreement, and an appointment for the doctor’s visit in the morning.”

  Good grief, he moved fast.

  This was good, she told herself. She couldn’t afford to be out of work long. “All right.”

  “I look forward to seeing you this Friday. The previous bartender’s name is Cullen, and he’ll handle your orientation.” He smiled and tapped her door. “Lock that before I leave.”

  He was one bossy boss, wasn’t he? She shut the door, flipped the lock, and heard him stride away.

  She blew out a breath. She hadn’t even been unemployed for two hours.

  But…a BDSM club? Lord help her.

  * * * * *

  Next door, Holt settled back in his chair and smiled at his remaining three guests. Wasn’t it amazing how happy Zuri appeared? When he saw her last, she’d been terrified of meeting Max and Alastair’s family. “Did you enjoy your Thanksgiving in Colorado?”

  Her face lit up. “Oh, Holt, you should see the Drago ranch. The Dragos were incredibly nice. I even learned to ride.”

  “Mmm, I see.” Holt lifted an eyebrow.

  Snickering, she threw an ice cube at him. “Ride horses, you pervert. Get your mind out of the gutter.”

  When Max simply snorted and Alastair’s lips curved up, Holt was relieved. He and Zuri had originally played together in the Shadowlands, but their relationship had changed into that of siblings. She was the little sister he’d never had.

  Working in the peds ICU, he ran into Alastair now and then, and knew the doc was extremely even-tempered. The cop, Max, on the other hand, carried a weapon. So, it was nice that Zuri’s two new lovers weren’t threatened by the past. The little subbie’d chosen well.

  “Your new neighbor seems quite nice,” Alastair commented.

  Holt nodded. Although Josie didn’t seem to like him much, she’d charmed everyone. He glanced at Zuri. “Did you get to know her at the Highlands?”

  “No. When I lived here, she’d visit her great-aunt in the other half of the duplex. I guess when Mrs. Avery sprained her ankle last month, Josie wanted to live closer.”

  “She found a house for rent right next door? That’s luck,” Max said.

  Zuri snorted. “It’d been for sale for ages. The place is a dump, and they had no takers.”

  Alastair turned to eye the house. “That’s a big building for one person.”

  “There are two of them. She has a kid,” Holt said. “Maybe ten or eleven or so.”

  “Carson’s eleven,” Zuri said. “He’s a sweetheart.”

  “An eleven-year-old?” Max frowned. “Unless I’m off base on her age, she’d have been a youngster herself when she had him.”

  A youngster? Holt considered. Josie was late twenties, maybe. Twenty-eight minus eleven…ouch.

  “A teenage pregnancy. I bet that was rough.” Zuri curled deeper into her chair and leaned her head against Max’s arm. “She didn’t seem very comfortable with you, boo.”

  Trust Zuri to have noticed. Holt’s jaw tensed. “Guess some people aren’t comfortable looking at scars.”

  “What?” Zuri said.

  Oh hell, he shouldn’t have said anything. The guy who’d knifed him had been after Zuri, and she still felt guilty. Even worse, she and the Doms knew Nadia had dumped him because of the scars. “It’s no big deal. I—”

  Zuri straightened. “Josie’s better than that. She wouldn’t—”

  “Easy, princess.
” Max gave a tug on one of Zuri’s corkscrew curls.

  “But—”

  “She might have other reasons for being uncomfortable.” Alastair set his hand over hers. “Perhaps she’s uneasy around men?”

  “Pffft. She works in a bar, and men are always coming onto her. That shouldn’t bother her.” Zuri shook her head.

  A bartender. That was a unique profession. He had to say, in her tailored black vest and white shirt, she’d looked both sexy and professional.

  However, she didn’t want to be around him. “How she feels is how she feels, Zuri. If I make her uncomfortable, I’ll keep my distance.”

  Zuri’s eyes narrowed. “I have trouble believing Josie’d be like that, but we’ll see. However, if I ever run into Nadia, I’ll give her a smackdown she won’t forget.”

  “A girl fight?” Max turned to Alastair. “My money’s on our subbie.”

  Zuri choked on her drink—then scooped ice out and shoved a handful down Max’s shirt. “Cool off, dude.”

  His outraged shout split the night air.

  Holt smiled. His fun-loving Zuri hadn’t been curbed by her Dom lovers. And the contentment they’d found together made him envious. That kind of love was what he wanted, what he had hoped to find with Nadia.

  But life went as it went. A firefighter should be accustomed to getting burned, even if he hadn’t expected it from a lover. He wasn’t giving up on finding himself a sweetheart like Zuri, but no hurry. In a while, when he didn’t feel quite so singed, he’d try again.

  Maybe next year.

  Chapter Three

  Oh wow. Eyes wide, Josie stared through the encroaching darkness at a looming, three-story, stone mansion. Shades of Victoria Holt and Gothic romances. Only a formal English landscape was lacking. Instead, the long curving driveway was lined with stately palm trees.

  She eyed the huge dark oak doors. Intimidating much? Bet the appearance of this place discouraged anyone handing out religious tracts. Her too. Tiny chills tiptoed up her spine.

  She’d already been on edge because, face it, no matter how many bars she’d worked in, starting a new job was always scary. Could she do the work? Would the people she served be nice? Would they expect—and prefer—the showy, garrulous kind of bartender rather than a quiet, efficient one?

  The door was as massive and heavy as it had looked—as if to warn, Your doom awaits. Damn imagination. Huffing a laugh, she stepped inside.

  Huh. No depravity. Instead, the quiet entry was an austere room with two men in blue button-up shirts and jeans behind a desk. The clean-shaven, gray-haired man was tall and lean with a military straight posture. The other man was massively built and at least six feet five. Leather-bound light brown hair revealed a brutal-looking face.

  Both frowned at her.

  “Club’s not open yet, miss,” the biggest man said.

  “I’m… Z told me to come now. I’m the bartender. Josie.”

  “Are you now? Welcome then. I’m Ben.” He rose and held his hand out. “I used to do security here. Ghost here replaced me, at least until things quiet down at home.”

  “Hate to tell you, Longshot, things at home will get even busier after your baby arrives.” Ghost stood. “Good to meet you, Josie. Sign in here, and we’ll go get you a staff locker.”

  “Thank you.”

  With the slightest of limps, he walked out from behind the desk. “You can leave your belongings in the locker and”—he turned to Ben—“do bartenders get to leave their shoes on?”

  “My shoes?”

  “Her shoes?” Ben frowned. “But she’s probably not even submissive, so—”

  “She is. That wasn’t my question.”

  “I’m what?” Josie took a step away from Ghost.

  Ben scowled. “And you know that how?”

  “Because Ghost is far more experienced than he’s shared.” The rich smooth voice came from behind Josie.

  She spun and saw Z in the inner doorway.

  “Josie, welcome. Let Ghost show you the lockers, and I’ll meet you at the bar. Shoes are fine”—a corner of Z’s mouth curved up—“when you’re working.”

  She blinked. What else would she be doing here but working?

  As the door closed behind her new boss, Ghost motioned toward a door. “This way.”

  Still behind the desk, Ben was sputtering. “Ghost, what exactly did he mean…experienced? Ghost?”

  After stowing her purse and jacket, Josie pulled in a breath. Okay, here goes nothing. A BDSM club. Truly, she was out of her mind. That paperwork she’d been given had been unsettling. The first forms were normal for a new job. Income tax. Direct deposit. But then there were club rules and something titled “Limit List.”

  Honestly, by the time she’d finished that form—and looked some of the activities up on the internet—she felt as if she’d watched a scorching hot movie. In between giggling like a maniac. Since a bartender wouldn’t be playing, she’d had an urge to check YES to the terrifying, unusual options—like asphyxiation and infantilism and branding. Then she reconsidered. What if the owner actually noticed her answers?

  So, she’d answered honestly and found herself embarrassed in a whole different way. Who knew she had so many…odd…interests? Thank God the damn thing would get buried in her employment file and never be seen again.

  Ghost was waiting for her, leaning against a wall by the sinks. “Ready?”

  No. Not in the least. “Sure.” She followed him out a different door.

  “This is the main clubroom.” Ghost patiently waited as she turned in a circle to take everything in. Clusters of leather couches and chairs ranged outward from a dark oval bar in the center. Around the perimeter of the room, roped-off areas held all sorts of strange devices.

  So this was what a real BDSM club looked like. She’d spent the last few days researching BDSM, so she knew the X-shaped, black leather padded devices were called St. Andrew’s crosses. That the sawhorse looking thing was a version of a spanking bench. That there were Masters—or Mistresses—and slaves, Tops and bottoms, Dominants and submissives. Admittedly, she didn’t have them all quite straight in her head yet.

  Wrought-iron sconces kept the roped-off scene areas fairly bright yet left the conversational areas in shadows. In one front corner, a caterer was setting food out on long tables. To her right was a small dance floor.

  The unpopulated room smelled of leather and a citrusy cleaning agent.

  Ghost nodded toward the bar where a man as big as Ben was talking to Z. “There’s your destination.”

  “Right. Thank you.” She didn’t move. The entire room felt like a strange land, full of unfamiliar furnishings, behaviors, and danger. What if…”

  Ghost frowned down at her, glanced at the bar, and snorted. “Come, lass. Let’s get you settled.” A hard hand curled around her upper arm.

  “I…” She felt like a big baby and was more relieved than she could say. “Thank you.”

  “No thanks needed. My job is to keep the scary world at bay.” He gave her a level look. “Those are two of the finest Doms you’ll ever find, and oddly enough, this is one of the safest places on the planet; however, you don’t know that. Yet. Until you do, I’ll provide escort services.”

  The quivery feeling in her stomach settled.

  When they arrived at the bar, he gave her a mock salute and headed back out without stopping.

  She smiled at Z and the other man behind the bar.

  “Welcome to the Shadowlands, Josephine,” Z said.

  Josephine? Oh, great, she’d had to use her legal name on the application. “Josie, please.”

  He smiled. “I dislike the propensity of the world to shorten names, as if an extra syllable or two is too much trouble to speak. Josephine.”

  “This, coming from a person everyone calls Z?”

  The booming laugh came from the big guy behind the bar. “She’s got you there, boss.”

  “She does indeed.” Z chuckled. “I’ve been waiting years fo
r someone to call me on that. Josie, it is.”

  Whew. Her boss had a sense of humor—and she wasn’t fired.

  His grin was a flash of white in his tanned face. “However, just so you know, Z is less of a nickname than a scene name.”

  Oh, that made sense. She’d read about using an alias in a BDSM setting. “I understand.”

  “Good.” Z motioned toward the big guy behind the bar. “Josie, this is Cullen. He’ll show you where everything is and explain the protocols we have in place.”

  As Z strolled away, Cullen lifted up the hinged pass-through, and she walked into the space enclosed by the bar. She ran her hand over the gleaming mahogany of the bar top. “This is beautiful workmanship.”

  “Aye and it is.” A faint Irish accent lilted his words as he leaned against the bar top. “Let’s start with the rules.”

  She nodded and leaned her elbow on the bar.

  “First, the only people allowed behind the bar are you, Z, and the official Shadowlands Masters and Mistresses.”

  “Um. Aren’t a lot of people in a BDSM club called Masters and Mistresses?”

  He had a big easygoing grin. “Yes, but the club awards its “official” title to the most experienced members, ones who are willing to give back to the community. Z insists the Masters and Mistresses wear gold armbands so people can find us.” He slapped the one on his massive biceps to show her what he meant. “You can consider the Masters to be Shadowlands staff. If you get swamped, someone will pop in to help. They can bring their submissives behind here to assist. Otherwise, this space is off limits.”

  That sounded good, both restricting the area and knowing there was help around. “Got it.”

  “Let’s get you acquainted with where things are. Z stocks the speed rail with the standard liquors, and if a regular favors something unusual, he might add it to the stock. There’s also private stock. We’ll go over that later.”

  She nodded. “All right. So…let’s start at the top so I can suck up properly. What do you and Z drink and where is it kept?”

  Yeah, the guy really did have a great laugh.

  * * * * *

  The weekend had arrived, and Holt was feeling pretty good as he walked with Anne and Ben up the sidewalk to the Shadowlands. The beautiful early December evening made him regret having to drive the SUV rather than his Harley. Then again, the surgeon had a point. Bumpy roads, motorcycles, and surgical wounds might not be a comfortable combination.