“He’ll whip her. Hurt her.” Josie shook her head. After a second, she remembered the question she’d been planning to ask. “As long as you’re here, what’s wrong with Holt? I noticed—” She stopped abruptly, noticing the southern, suit-wearing Dom—Master Marcus—had returned.
“Josie, I’m relieving you for a half hour. You take yourself a break now and get off your feet.” He nodded to the front corner. “There’s some fine food over there.”
She realized she totally needed to pee. “Awesome, thank you!”
As she slipped through the bar flap, she grinned at Uzuri. “I’m going to visit the ladies’ room and then will you visit with me for a bit?”
Uzuri pointed to the corner. “I’ll find us food and a table.”
A few minutes later, Josie found Uzuri in the munchie corner with Max. Josie dropped into a seat, considered, and put her legs up on an adjacent chair. Her feet seemed to give a happy sigh.
Max smiled. “Sore feet?”
“Always.” She glanced at the people still around the bar. One was naked. One on a leash. “This sure isn’t like any bartending job I’ve had before.”
Uzuri laughed and handed over a bottle of sparkling water.
Grinning, the big cop pushed a plate across the table. “Zuri got you food.”
“Thanks, Uzuri.” Josie picked up a stuffed mushroom. “I’m starving.”
As she chewed, she studied Uzuri’s Dom. Max was dressed much like Holt. All in black—jeans, boots, heavy leather belt, and a tight T-shirt. He’d pulled his shoulder-length brown hair back in a tie. His masculine good looks with the square jaw and high cheekbones reminded her of Holt, too. Max was…powerful, with solidly packed muscles. If he was a hero in her books, she’d make him a sword-fighter. Considering Holt’s steely, rippling muscles and how he moved with such breathtakingly, deadly grace, she’d give him knives—lots of finely balanced, lethal knives.
Scary Doms, really. Both of them. And Josie decided questions about her biker neighbor would wait until she had Uzuri alone.
Unfortunately, Uzuri hadn’t forgotten. “You were asking me about Holt?” She waggled her eyebrows.
“Uh, right. I just wondered if he’d gotten hurt in some big biker brawl or something. He’s pretty beat up.”
Max’s mouth pressed into a line, and Uzuri’s smile died completely to be replaced by pain.
Josie froze. “Uzuri, what-whatever I said wrong, I’m sorry.”
After a second, Uzuri shook her head. “I forgot your great-aunt went into the hospital around then. You wouldn’t have heard what happened.”
“Honey, whatever it is that makes you look like that, we don’t need to talk about it.” Josie’s head was filling with all sorts of ugly conjectures.
“No, you should know. Holt lives next door to you.” Uzuri curled her fingers around Max’s hand as if for strength. “See, I had a stalker who was crazy. When I went to live with my dragon Doms, Holt stayed in my duplex while his apartment complex got renovated, and the stalker thought I was with him, and he ambushed Holt at home and cut him up with a knife.”
The words flowed by so fast Josie needed a bit to process the meaning. A stalker? Her hands closed into fists. Was that why Uzuri had always seemed nervous? The bastard had attacked Holt? There’d been no biker brawl. Oh my God. A knife. Those scars.
“Last night, Max told Holt not to lift the chair.” Josie’s words emerged as a whisper. “How badly was he hurt?”
“Stab wounds in the stomach and back,” Max said in his rough, deep voice. “Nicked an intestine. He had surgery and was in the hospital on antibiotics for a while.”
Uzuri’s face was haunted. “He—”
“He’ll be back at work soon.” Max squeezed Uzuri’s hand.
No wonder Holt had been home when other people were at work. No wonder he didn’t offer to help with her groceries. That was why he walked slowly. She’d been appallingly wrong about him. Remorse ran over her, through her, making her sag in the chair.
“My fault.” Uzuri stared at her hands. “It was—”
Josie blinked then scowled. She’d heard this taking-on-the-guilt crap before from all too many women, especially after they’d had a drink or two. “Excuse me, but did you ask that guy to stalk you?”
Uzuri blinked. “N-no.”
“Right. I bet you told him to go away, and the asshole didn’t, right?”
A nod.
“If you can’t control what other people do, you’re hardly to blame for their actions.” Josie threw up her hands. “Next, you’ll be taking on the guilt for all the squirrels that get run over, right?”
When Uzuri looked pole-axed, Max laughed.
Josie shoved to her feet. “I need to speak with Holt before I return to work. Is he still here?”
Max pointed toward the rear of the room. “He was watching a waxing scene in the left corner.”
Crossing the room, Josie collected friendly nods. One Dom said to his male submissive, “Sexy outfit. We should do a bartender-biker roleplay sometime.”
People here were sure different. Spotting Holt, Josie stopped.
Drink in one hand, he sprawled on a long leather couch, idly watching the cleanup of the nearby scene.
Guilt constricted her lungs.
His gaze landed on her, and his expression went flat.
Her chest felt as if someone had thumped her with a mallet. Holt had been friendly when they met, when he’d helped her at the bar. No longer.
Biting her lip for courage, she walked over and motioned to the couch beside him. “May I?”
He moved his legs. “Of course.”
What did the pretty bartender want?
Holt was fucking exhausted. He’d aided a new Dom who’d hit a submissive’s trigger and needed help with getting her settled. After that, everyone he knew had wanted to talk and see how he was doing. His intended brief visit to the Shadowlands had turned into a marathon.
Now he had to deal with a woman who disliked him for some damn reason. He kept his voice level with an effort. “Is there a problem I can help you with, Josie?”
She sat down beside him on the couch. In the short time he’d known her, she’d always been remarkably self-possessed—even when dealing with a pissed-off Edward—but right now, she looked shaken.
He softened his tone. “What’s the matter, sweetheart?”
“I was dreadfully wrong. I’m sorry, Holt; I’ve been so rude to you.”
Had he missed something? He breathed out slowly and gathered energy…because dammit, he was too tired to deal with this. She wasn’t his submissive. In fact, might not be submissive at all. Only, yeah, she was. And she needed help, which put her squarely into part of his Dom’s duties.
All right then. “You have been rude,” he said evenly. “Perhaps you’ll share why?”
Her gaze dropped. “I thought the damage to your arms and face was because you got in a knife fight.”
“I did.”
Looking up, she put her hand over his. “No, you were ambushed. By a crazy stalker. I thought you… You have a Harley and a black leather jacket and a friend with a bike. And you’re always home. I thought you were unemployed and in a gang and were fighting and brawling and…”
He eyed her, realization dawning. “You figured I was some worthless biker in a gang.” Relief trickled through his veins. Her antipathy to him wasn’t from his scars but the conclusions she’d drawn about them. Come to think of it, he did look damned disreputable. He hadn’t even shaved for weeks.
Amusement rose. “Were you thinking Carson’d be hanging out with me, learning how to pick up biker chicks, and doing drugs?”
Her coloring made for gorgeous blushes. Gaze tipped down toward her lap, she nodded. “He’s at the age where he’s looking for a male role model, and you’re right next door. I was scared.”
He put his fingers under her stubborn chin and lifted, forcing her to look at him. Distress filled her gaze, her expression. She was more upse
t over hurting his feelings than she had been when Edward gave her hell. What kind of a woman got this upset because she might’ve hurt a guy’s feelings? “No worries, pet.”
Unlike Amber and her fake apology, Josie showed true repentance. The sheer honesty of her emotions pulled at the Dom in him. What she felt clearly showed in her big eyes and soft mouth.
Holt brushed her bangs out of her face and continued, “Although I ride a bike, I don’t belong to any motorcycle gang or club.”
“Oh.”
The skin under her chin was like silk. And her mouth was damned appealing, the top lip sweetly curved. Unable to resist, he stroked his thumb over her lower lip. So fucking soft. Quivering slightly.
Her breathing changed…as if she’d become aware of him as more than someone she’d insulted.
Be good, Master Holt. He dropped his hand.
She cleared her throat. “Um, right.”
Her color had risen. Yeah, she definitely was looking at him differently.
“Max said you’d be back at work soon.”
“Yes. It’ll be a relief since sitting at home is driving me nuts. Unfortunately, the chief benches both firefighters and paramedics until they’re in fighting trim.”
“I was rude to a firefighter—a hero?” She closed her eyes. “Just shoot me now.”
She was damned cute.
“Josie.” He waited until she opened her eyes. “You weren’t that rude, and it’s not a problem. Carson’s lucky to have a mother who worries about him.”
“He might do better with one who doesn’t jump to idiotic conclusions.”
When she bit her lip, his gaze dropped to her mouth. Color flooded her face again.
“I—uh,” She jumped to her feet. “I need to get back to my bar. Thank you for being so understanding.”
“Sure.” Sipping his warm drink, he watched her walk away.
After hearing she’d fucked up, she’d come right to him to apologize and confess. Repentant. She really was a sweetheart, wasn’t she? But no matter how cute and honest, she wasn’t a Shadowlands member. And she was his neighbor.
Nope, not going to go there.
Chapter Five
On Saturday evening, Josie scowled at the words on the computer screen. Her heroes might have magical powers, but they were still teenagers, and she could swear that her son’s new I’m-being-put-upon attitude was showing up in two of the team members. You guys are supposed to be better than this, she told them sternly.
Even worse, Tigre was still flirting with Laurent. No, no, no. Maybe she should turn his attention to a buxom milkmaid and give Laurent a life lesson about the duration of a man’s “love”.
With a sigh, she pushed the keyboard away and rose from her desk. Enough frustration. Time to dress for her second night in the Shadowlands.
As she wiggled out of her ragged jeans and into sleek black pants, anticipation uncurled inside her. The club was unlike anywhere she’d ever been. Everything had tugged at her senses.
The groans and screams and the sounds of flesh being struck in innumerable ways blended with the ominous bass-heavy music.
The scents—sex, leather, citrusy cleansers, all mingling with the aroma of beer and wine at the bar.
The sights—the darkly attired Doms and the brighter, scantily clad or naked submissives.
The majority of nightclubs catered to young, slender, heterosexuals. However, the Shadowlands’ people came in all sizes and shapes, all gender identities and preferences. She loved the variety.
Even so, she’d had a few moments.
When she’d seen a Dom sticking needles into a woman’s breasts—in a spiraling pattern no less—her breasts totally shriveled up inside her bra.
One person, attired head-to-toe as a pony, had been led around on reins. She couldn’t see herself in that kind of costume, but the pony’s shoe-hooved feet had been dancing with delight. Go, pony!
The evening had been a constant immersion in sensual sounds, scents, and sights. Honestly, she’d had sex and been less aroused. Truly, spending hours with—she rolled her eyes—with a damp pussy was most disconcerting. Was the Shadowlands truly a place she wanted to work?
And yet… And yet…
She could do the work. Check.
She liked the people. Check.
The pay was excellent. Check. Face it, she needed the money.
If only she didn’t have this unwelcome desire to participate.
Her inner kinkster was struggling to emerge, wasn’t it? Part of her attraction to Carson’s father—may his testicles shrivel and drop off—was how he’d taken charge. The day before she and her father had returned to Texas, Everett had tied her up and spanked her. She’d been horrified. Cried. And orgasmed.
In fact, she’d dreamed about that spanking for years afterward, albeit her hero sure hadn’t been Everett. Aragorn had starred for a while. Ironman should be called Ironhand. The various King Arthurs—yep. Always someone from books or movies. Until last night.
She shook her head and felt her face flush. In her dreams last night, Holt had been the one spanking her. Kissing her.
Dominating her.
But, honestly, fantasies were one thing; real life was a whole different kettle of fish.
The security guard named Ghost had called her submissive. She scowled and yanked a brush through her short hair, then fluffed the ends. She might be a bit kinky in her dreams, but submissive for real? Doubtful. After all, she ruled this house and the youngster in it. Single mothers didn’t have the liberty to be submissive.
Any woman—not just a submissive one—would enjoy watching the Shadowlands Masters. Wasn’t it funny how different they all were? Sam, the rancher sadist, had dressed in jeans and a regular shirt, whereas Master Marcus’s suit must have cost a pretty penny. Cullen had worn brown leathers. Holt went with all black, but nothing fancy. There was no relationship between attire and Master status.
Then—since she wrote about superheroes—she’d rather hoped their esoteric Master powers would hum or something. Nada. None of them had cool glowy auras either. Talk about a letdown.
Despite the lack of glowy auras, the power was there. Whenever one of them gave a command, she’d obeyed without thinking. That had been…strange.
It was even more unsettling to learn her new neighbor was a member of that club. Of course, she’d gotten the job because Master Z had been at his house. But still… Holt was not only a member, but also one of those super-powerful Masters.
When he’d touched her, lifted her chin, run his thumb over her lip, she’d forgotten how to breathe. Why did he have to be so devastatingly gorgeous? And kind. When she’d confessed to her rudeness, he’d been sympathetic. Even a bit amused.
He sure hadn’t been amused about Amber’s behavior. His anger had been scarily impressive. He’d never raised his voice, but boy, he’d sure dealt with the problem.
Well, no matter how gorgeous, he was her neighbor and a member of the place where she worked. She wasn’t foolish enough to trespass over those lines.
Eyeing herself in the mirror, she ordered, “You will stick to your bartending, Josephine, and ignore the scenes and your neighbor.” Right. No problem.
She glanced at the clock and winced. Time to get Carson ready to spend the night at Oma’s.
As she crossed the room, she tripped over a box and pain seared her toes. Hopping on one foot, she tried to catch her balance. “Dammit!”
She glared at the box and the others stacked along the wall. Every room still held unpacked boxes. On the last day of moving, they’d abandoned organizing and labeling. Everything left in the apartment had been tossed willy-nilly into whatever box was closest.
With a grin, Josie recalled Carson’s appalled expression when he’d realized an unlabeled box must have the TV remote. Her boy was turning into such a guy. He’d immediately started unpacking boxes.
“Hey, Carson.” She entered the living room. “Did you find the TV stuff?”
The room
was empty. He wasn’t in the backyard. Frowning, she checked his bedroom, bathroom, then heard noise from the fourth bedroom, currently being used for storage.
There he was, sitting on the carpet beside a box, its contents spilled over the floor.
Seeing her own face on a beach photo, she realized Carson had knocked over her memory box. It’d been filled with old photos, her diaries from teendom, her high school writing awards.
Carson was perusing a paper.
As Josie moved closer, a chill ran up her spine. That was Everett’s office paper with the dark blue logo and font…and his harsh handwriting. The blood drained from her head and left her without two thoughts to rub together, let alone explanations.
Because, even after a decade, she recognized what Carson held.
Giving in to Josie’s begging, Everett’s receptionist had hand-carried Josie’s note into his office. Her note had said she was over four months pregnant. Carson was reading Everett’s response. Oh, God.
Josie.
You must surely know I’ve been avoiding you. Since you can’t take a hint, I’ll be blunt. As you know, I’m married. Happily married. With a child whom I love. I never did anything to lead you to believe I held feelings for you—or to have you accuse me of being the father of your child. If you are truly pregnant—which I doubt—I’m certainly not the father. Look to one of the other numerous boys you’ve been with.
If you persist in harassing me, I will be forced to take legal action.
Everett
Josie closed her eyes. Reading the letter had been like being on the receiving end of a beating. So many blows straight to her heart, driving her back, hurting her. Bam, bam, bam.
He’d been “avoiding her”. She’d told herself he was busy. After all, he’d told her repeatedly how much he loved her. He’d said he couldn’t wait for her to return to St. Petersburg.
He was “happily married”? Then why had he said he was separated and getting a divorce from his hateful wife? He’d sure never mentioned a child.
“I’m certainly not the father.” Her teeth gritted together. He certainly was Carson’s father. During her high school Christmas break, her father had taken her to St. Petersburg so he could go deep-sea fishing with his friends. He figured she’d enjoy the beach. Seeing her sitting alone, Everett had flirted with her, charmed her, and then banged her every spare moment of every day. He’d taken her more than once without a condom. “I’ll pull out, sweetheart. Don’t worry.”
Beneath the Scars Page 7
