Conviction

by Jane Henry

  Today’s my first day on the job.

  “What’s up, Myers,” I say, hailing a cab myself to get to my place so I can get myself together before I meet up with Myers.

  “Can you come in earlier?”

  “How earlier?”

  “Like now.”

  I blink. I’m still in the rumpled clothing from last night, since I’m not one of those guys who keeps my belongings at Verge. I mentally kick myself for being a dumbass.

  “Now?”

  “Yeah. Blythe got called in to get his kid at school, and I need someone to handle a client that’s on her way in. Can’t do it, I’m already off site and won’t be back in the office until later.”

  We haven’t talked about much of anything yet, not salary or hours or responsibilities.

  “Dude, I’m not sure I’m ready.”

  “This is just the intake. You meet with the client coming in, you get her information, and you feed that intel to us.” He goes on to make me a salary proposition so generous my mouth drops. I’m paid well at Verge but even that pales in comparison.

  “No shit?” I ask him, still incredulous.

  He chuckles. “No shit.”

  “Well, yeah, alright. I’m on my way.”

  “Call me when you get there.”

  Instead of my home address, I give the taxi driver the address of Myers’ private office building, but the whole time I’m wondering if I’ll get a text from Zoe. I stare at my phone. Zoe was supposed to call when she arrived safe and sound at home, but the only notification I get is a text from Devin’s mom, Nichole. I respond to her as we head to Myers’ office. It takes a while to get there as we’re now in rush hour NYC traffic.

  Zoe doesn’t text.

  Finally, we get to the office and I’m starting to feel irritated. I’m pissed she didn’t even call me, starving since I didn’t have breakfast, and really in need of a shower and change of clothes.

  We pull up to the massive building, a huge skyscraper with mirrored windows and a doorman. Shit, I don’t look like I belong here. I pay the driver, get out of the car, and when my phone buzzes, I look like a kid at the screen, hoping it’s Zoe.

  Dammit. Nichole again.

  I really need the child support early.

  Frowning, I reply. Why? You get it the first of the month and that’s in two weeks.

  No response at first. God, I hate this. Nichole and I hooked up when I was still practically a kid myself, and the only good that came out of the whole shit-storm was my beautiful blonde-haired, blue-eyed spitfire of a daughter. Nichole holds the power in this, knows she’s got me by the balls because I’ll do fucking anything for my kid.

  Expenses came up. You have no idea how expensive it is raising a kid in NYC.

  I have no idea? I’m the one who buys her clothes and shoes and pays for her dance classes, not to mention the child support. Since Nichole lives with her mom, I know she pays hardly anything for rent.

  This isn’t about expenses for Devin, but likely something else Nichole wants to buy. But fire curls in my gut at the thought of my girl going without and Nichole knows how to play this card well.

  I’ll call you tonight. I have an appointment.

  I need the money NOW.

  Jesus Christ.

  I shove my phone in my pocket and stalk into the building when the doorman holds the door for me. When I enter the lobby, I call Myers.

  “Hey, man. I’m here.”

  “Perfect. Thanks for pinch hitting.”

  “Yeah. Didn’t do this out of the kindness of my heart, man.”

  He huffs out a laugh on the other end of the phone. “I get you. Ok, so you know you’re going up to the twelfth floor.” I nod and punch the number. “Yep.”

  “When you get there, Tamara will let you into your office. I’ve already left her instructions. There’s an intake form on the iPad, and I want you to record your entire conversation with our client. The office is totally secured and soundproof, so you have privacy, but use the app I have listed on the intake form to record her so we don’t miss anything. Name’s Mary Webster.”

  “Got it.” Seems straightforward enough. I didn’t know I had an office.

  “Then after you meet with her and get her story, you tell her I’ll be in touch this afternoon. Okay?”

  “Yep.”

  I disconnect the call as I get to the twelfth floor and the glass doors to the elevator slide open. The only person here is a young woman with thick black hair tucked into a bun at the nape of her neck. She’s got to be barely out of college, but she looks serious and staid, round glasses perched on her nose. She’s wearing a white, button-down blouse, and when she sees me, her eyes go wide, and she gets to her feet.

  “Mr. Cannon?”

  I extend my hand. “Call me Brax. Tamara?”

  She smiles, revealing perfectly white teeth, craning her neck up to see me. I’m a big guy, and easily a foot taller than she is. “Yes, sir. Follow me, please. Your client already arrived and our space here is limited, so I’ve seated her. You spoke to Stefan?”

  “Yep.”

  She slides from behind the desk, and gestures for me to follow her down the hall. This place is small and clean, carpeted in beige, devoid of any decorations.

  I’d been working on Stefan’s cars in my body shop for over ten years, and we became friends. I trust him and know that this business he’s got is thriving.

  Jesus. Talk about being thrown to the wolves. I have literally no idea what I’m doing yet, and I’m already meeting with a client. For a brief minute, I wish I was back at Verge. When people call me sir there, it feels natural and right, reminding me that I’m the man in charge, making sure everyone’s playing safe. Here, it feels odd and out of place, like I’m pretending to be something I’m not.

  But as a dominant, I’ve learned to get my shit together and keep my head on straight. Staying cool, calm, and collected is part of the job. I’m not pretending anything. I was hired to protect people. This is white collar and not as fun as the kinkier job I have protecting people, but it can’t be that different. Be aware of danger and keep the innocent safe.

  She opens a door, and a petite woman gets to her feet, her back to us.

  “So then you should have everything you need. Please dial thirty-three on the in-office line if you need anything.”

  “Got it.”

  The door shuts and the woman turns, startled at the sound of my voice.

  Christ.

  I know those wide blue eyes and pinked cheeks. They were in my bed this morning.

  “Brax?” Zoe is still wearing the light blue dress, though her hair is fixed and her make-up impeccable now. One hand clutches her throat, but it doesn’t mask the way she swallows nervously. “What are you doing here?” Her eyes narrow and she takes a step back, hitting the desk with her ass. “Wait. Did you follow me?”

  “Nice to meet you, Mary,” I say, prowling in the room, surprise melting to anger now that she’s got the nerve to accuse me of following her. What the hell is this? And who the hell is she? “Sit.” I deliver the order sharply. Eyeing me, she obeys, folding herself into a chair.

  “What are you doing here?” she asks, cheeks flushed. She grabs her bag and holds it so tightly between her hands her knuckles are white.

  “I’ve been hired to do private investigative work by Stefan Myers,” I say. If she’s sitting here, she’s come as a client, and I have nothing to hide. “I wasn’t supposed to start until later today, but something came up and they needed me.” I look around the room. It’s simple and clean, the same beige Berber carpet in here as the hallway, a plain mahogany desk with a phone, a computer, and a few other devices I’m not yet familiar with, pens and paper, and a large, black leather swivel chair. I take the seat, lean back, and clasp my fingers together. “I think it’s time you tell me who you are and why you’re here. What’s the truth? Zoe or Mary?”

  She swallows and looks away but doesn’t answer at first, her lips adorably pouty wh
en pursed like she’s got them now. I remember what those lips tasted like. I remember how they parted when I pulled her head back and made her moan. She was as pliant as putty then. She doesn’t answer.

  “My name is Braxton Cannon,” I say, keeping my eyes trained on hers. “Now tell me your name, please.” Though I ask her politely, my tone brooks no argument.

  She blinks, swallows, then lifts her head high. The phone rings just before she speaks, and she winces, reminding me that the girl’s hungover. I feel a pang of remorse, but I can’t help her if she isn’t honest with me.

  “Zoe,” she says. “My real name is Zoe.” She juts her chin upward in defiance. “You can ask Beatrice if you don’t believe me.”

  I nod. “So you gave a fake name to a private investigation company? How does that make sense?”

  Her eyes narrow and she sits up straighter in her chair. “Only on the phone, Mr. Cannon.”

  I remember then that this room is soundproof, and Stefan says no one can hear anything until I record. I push my chair up to the desk, lean in, and give her the full effect of my glare. God, how I want to teach her manners with the palm of my hand against her ass.

  “Drop the attitude, Zoe,” I order. “You raced out of my bed this morning to this meeting which, as luck would have it, happens to be with me. I’m here to do your intake and report back to Myers. This isn’t the time to stonewall me. Yeah, we spent the night together. Now we move on.” I try to ignore the way she flinches when I say that, but I feel it straight to my heart. “But now, I have a job to do.” I lean forward and get her full attention. “And the only way we move on is with full transparency.”

  She swallows hard and wipes her hands nervously on her knees. “Okay.” She nods. “Yeah. Okay, alright.”

  The irritation I felt now wanes. She’s here because she needs help, and hell if I don’t want to help her. “Your real name is Zoe.”

  “Yes,” she says with vehemence, as if pleading with me to listen, and just that quickly, the anger fades and I realize how vulnerable she looks now. There are circles under her eyes that tell me she’s not sleeping well. “I’m not lying, Brax. I’m here to get help and I had every intention of telling the people I hired my real name.” She takes a breath, then exhales it slowly. “As I said, I just didn’t want my name on record.”

  That makes sense. I lean back in my chair and eye her. I believe her. She breathes in deep, her chest rising, then her shoulders slouching before she continues. “I had no idea you worked with Myers.”

  “Until this morning, neither did I.”

  She laughs, a pretty, musical giggle that pokes fun of the whole thing. Then I remember my gripe with her.

  “Why didn’t you call me when you got home?” I fix her with a stern look that makes her squirm in her chair, but her gaze doesn’t waver.

  “You told me to call you when I got home,” she reminds me, her voice dropping to a husky, low tone. She swallows. “And I haven’t been home yet.” Fuck. I’m getting hard just thinking about her being with me last night. She was so damn responsive, it was gorgeous. She clears her throat, and I realize I’m leaning closer to her, as if my body needs to feel her heat, breathe her air.

  I blink. I need to get it together.

  I pull up the iPad and lay it on the table. “Okay, Zoe. I’m going to hit this button and we’re gonna record what you need to say. Myers’ orders.”

  She shakes her head wildly, beautiful eyes wide and fearful. Her hand clutches her throat. “I can’t do that,” she whispers, and her eyes flutter closed. She takes a huge breath, and her hands begin to shake. I watch in surprise as she flushes pink and shakes her head. “I can’t. No way can you record anything.” She gets to her feet, wobbly and scared and heads to the door. “This was a mistake,” she gasps, and heads for the door.

  Oh hell no.

  I push back from my chair, and in two long strides I pass her, blocking her exit. Her jaw clenches and she tries to push past me, but I take her wrist between my thumb and forefinger, holding her tight. Her nostrils flare, but before she can speak, I do. “Go sit back down, Zoe,” I tell her. She stares at me but is frozen with her wrist held in my hand, unsure of what to do. I gentle my voice, since it’s fear that’s causing her to act defiantly. I remind myself that this is my job, and she’s not my sub, but hell if I don’t automatically slip into my dominant headspace. I can’t help it any more than a father could stop himself from being paternal. This part of me flows through my veins, my purpose clear, underscoring my conviction to help her.

  I wanted her last night before I even knew she was in danger. Now? I don’t want to let her out of my sight.

  She still doesn’t waver, though. I gentle my voice. “Zoe, you’re safe here. Please. Go sit down.” Though I ask her softly, I’m applying gentle pressure to her and leading her back to the chair. With a sigh, she walks back to the chair and then folds herself in it gracefully, eyes never leaving me.

  I wait until it looks like she’s not going to leave before I take my position behind my desk.

  “Alright. Now tell me why you’re here.”

  She swallows. “I dated a police officer,” she begins. “He and I were… close.” Her eyes don’t leave mine, and I try to hide any reaction to what she’s telling me. I hardly even know her, and I don’t want to hear about whoever she was with before.

  I nod, encouraging her.

  “I was in grad school at the Academy.”

  She swallows, then continues. “And we got to know each other. I… well, we started dating,” she says, her eyes looking away from me. I wonder how much she remembers from last night. Clearly, something. “We dated for a little while,” she said. “I mean, I’d somehow managed to convince myself he was The. One. But… something was off. Something wasn’t right. He didn’t do things I thought, like, a cop would. I mean, he had the uniform and handcuffs and the badge. But he did… concerning things.”

  My eyes quickly look at the recording. It’s going, and I don’t want her to focus on that, so I shift my body closer to hers. Right now, I have to listen and not act. Is she just a girl who’s overreacting? Is she the type who’s overdramatic and sees ghosts where there are none? Or does she have a legitimate complaint here?

  “Okay, Zoe. Details. What kinds of things did he do that concerned you?”

  “Jesus,” she whispers, pointing to the recorder. She frowns and makes a slashing sign with her fingers. I look at her quizzically, but she pulls out her phone and rapidly types something. She hands me the phone and points a finger at the text screen.

  Shut the fucking recorder off and I’ll tell you everything.

  My gaze wanders from the recording to Zoe. Her voice rises, and she speaks loud and clear. “I am not sure I’m comfortable sharing anything else, Mr. Cannon.”

  I weigh my options, then with a shrug, I put hit the off button on the recording.

  “Alright, Zoe. Now it’s time you tell me the truth.”

  Chapter 4

  Zoe

  I don’t know what it is about that recording. I shouldn’t trust Brax. I mean, I just met the guy. But somehow, already, I’m feeling that I can trust him more than these men I’ve hired to be my private investigators. I obviously didn’t know Brax worked for them when I hired them. And Jesus, I need to get everything off my chest. I need to tell someone. I can’t stand this anymore, holding everything in. I didn’t go home last night because I was with Brax, but that was only part of the reason. Ben Hoffman’s onto me, and I don’t feel safe unless I’m surrounded by a crowd of people.

  It all comes tumbling back when I’m sober.

  I know too much.

  Brax is looking at me across the table as if he isn’t quite sure what he’s going to do with me. I have to tell him everything. Jesus, I have to tell someone.

  “Are you sure we’re safe here?” I ask him. “Seriously, I just…” I shake my head.

  “Hold my hand.” His low, even tone sends a shiver down my spine. Without cons
cious thought, I reach out and place my hand in his. I don’t realize it’s shaking until both of his larger, warmer hands envelop mine, the warmth seeping through my skin. I don’t know if it’s because we shared a night together, or there’s something about Brax that makes me feel safe, but in that moment, I don’t want to just tell him why I’m here, like he’s some sort of confessor. I want to give it all to him, and not just what’s threatening me now. Everything.

  The upbringing I had being passed from one foster home to the next. The abuse I suffered under the hands of the people who were supposed to be my protectors. The way I drank myself into oblivion and lost my virginity to the linebacker on my college football team, and the awful, painful, tragic way that ended. I close my eyes briefly. I can still remember the positive pregnancy test, followed by excruciating pain when I lost the baby the following month. No amount of alcohol blocks out shit like that.

  “Hey.” His voice sounds distanced, as if he’s speaking to me through a tunnel, and I realize I zoned out there. His hands tighten on mine. “Zoe.” His deep voice almost startles me. I blink, looking up at him. Those eyes that danced with laughter and lust the night before now look on me with a tenderness that’s almost too painful to bear.

  I don’t want his pity.

  The pulse on my wrist taps against his hand.

  “You ready to talk?” he asks.

  I nod and swallow. I’m strong. I’m capable. I dug myself out of misery and rose to where I am now. I won’t cave when I need to stay strong.

  And I need to tell someone.

  “I dated an officer, Ben Hoffman, when I was taking a grad school at the Academy a few months ago,” I explain. My voice strengthens as I continue. “We really shouldn’t have been together. It’s really frowned about to date at the Academy. Anyway, I suspected things were off with him from the beginning, but I ignored my gut instincts. He was extravagant, pretty pushy, and very secretive. I ignored all those things, though. But one night, things happened that made me realize he was into things he shouldn’t have been.”