Scrupulous (An Affliction of Falling Novel Book 1)

by Canady, Kristina

  “Master Devon? I’d like to stop now before I get too carried away,” I admit, the visions in my mind screaming, No! Don’t stop now!

  “Would that be so bad?” he challenges and runs a hand down my tender rump. I swear I hear a low, decidedly pissed growl reverberate over from Gavin.

  “Not at all, but I would like to take this slow and build up my endurance,” I attempt to appeal to his rational side.

  “Of course. Can I show you anything else?” he eagerly asks, not wanting our time together to end.

  “Not at this time, but thank you very much for taking the time to attend to me. I really appreciate it.” I cheekily lean into him, knowing good and well what I might be doing to the looming figure a few feet away. “It is time for me go home. I have to work tomorrow and all.”

  “I understand. May I see you out?” he asks and offers his arm again.

  “Yes, thank you.” I take the offer and as soon as we approach the stairs, I throw a knowing glare back at the set of hot eyes tracking my every move. Gavin has temporarily abandoned his sub chained to the cross. It isn’t my style to play games, and that little jaunt was enough. I hadn’t intended for him to even be here as I explored, and seeing him with another did things to me that are hard to understand.

  Maybe the truth is right in front of me. This adventure proved little except my incessant growing desire and need to have that man in my life. Forgoing anymore cares on the matter, I shoot Samuel a scathing message for never getting back to me as my cab delivers me to my front door. Gavin wants to play games, then he can play by himself. I delivered my warning with as much tact as I could manage given the circumstances.

  Slipping into bed, I silently smile to myself. Pissing that man off after he pulled another disappearing act on me brought a sense of pleasure that I can’t describe.

  ∞

  Gavin

  Seeing straight red, I call Desiree over to see to my charge, who is still flying high, and head straight to my room. Throwing on my running clothes, I hit the back door and let the cool night air encompass me. Unexpectedly seeing Sorcha show up and allow Devon to put his hands on her gutted me. It set my heart on fire and made me burn with the pain of jealously. She isn’t really mine. I have no real claim to her. We agreed to have a loose arrangement and see others on the side.

  I run until my legs and lungs burn from lack of oxygen before collapsing against a brick wall. A rot sets into my gut and I realize that I have to let her go. She asked for no-strings-attached originally, and after last week, we agreed to a bit more formal yet open relationship. But I can’t keep my end of the deal. I cannot bear to see her with anyone else. Since neither of us are ready for a full commitment, I am going to have to step away.

  Sure, I have been pushing her for more and more, but in reality, I am personally only willing to give so much. Because I am a selfish bastard. And she isn’t ready for more. There is no way I will push her any further. If we end up together, it has to be mutual, not based on coercion. The thought of never seeing her again, never hearing her laugh, never holding her makes me want to puke and punch my fist through the wall. I’ve never loved before and now I see why. The pain that can accompany the trials and tribulations of that fucking emotion are more than this sadist can take.

  Sorcha

  Gavin never showed up or called, which was okay with me. My work followed the next night and consumed me as the holidays descended, demanding more and more time. As the days quickly passed, Gavin’s absence began to rot me from the inside. Even though I could feel his eyes on me, lurking in the darkness of his so-called security job, he never bothered to face me personally. We seem to be at a Mexican stand-off, neither wanting to give.

  The more time that passes, the more bitter I become. He wanted more than I could give him and I can’t come to terms with the fact that I wanted to give him more. Or is it that my pride is dueling with my desire to give him everything? The following weekend, almost two weeks after our run in at the dungeon, Samuel finally calls me out.

  “Sor, your mood is pissing everyone off. Even Daz, who normally doesn’t give a shit, is bitching about it. Please get it together. I have no idea what has gotten into you. Hell, I have barely heard from you, but deal with it before you lose your job!” he hisses as we set up shop, upset that I had just slammed a flat of top-end bottles on the bar.

  “That fucker never called or showed back up. I caught him Dom-ing another woman the next night, the very night you were supposed to call me back and give me the 4-1-1. I went to the club in an attempt to learn more in hopes of seeing if I could be what he needed and found him working over a hot-ass chick. I let some other Dom spank me in front of Gavin, and we haven’t spoken since. There! Every one of you has someone and I am the lone cat lady in this pitiful equation,” I gush in an over-emotional delivery, fat tears of frustration looming as I finally tell my friend what has been eating at me for weeks. It felt good to tell someone.

  “Damn, Sor, I’m sorry. I had no idea. Why didn’t you tell me?” Sympathy returns to my dear friend’s face.

  “Doesn’t matter. I will resume my shameless flirting, ensuring Daz’s bottom dollar.” I huff in disgust over my personal state and the idea of throwing myself at anyone else.

  “I’ve never seen you like this. Call him,” he gently pleads.

  “With what fucking number?” And why should I be the one to call him?

  “How do you not have his number after all this time? Want me to get it?” he offers.

  “How? Who knows? We are so wrapped up in one another when we are together I damn near forget my name. Forget it. How are you and Reed?” I deflect.

  “We are great, thinking of spending Thanksgiving meeting each other’s families,” he admits with a tinge of guilt.

  Thanksgiving is just around the corner; I hadn’t realized it was so close. “I really am happy for your, Z. That’s great, I mean it.” Truly, I do. Samuel is like a brother and I only want him to be happy.

  “Thanks, L,” he whispers back as our bar starts to fill up.

  “You ready for your event? It is just a few weeks away.” He squeezes in as our customers sidle up to the bar.

  “Yeah, almost ready. Been using this time to take my frustrations out in the studio. “

  “Good deal.”

  We fall into a unified trance, working the crowd as we make drinks, wowing a few here and there. It isn’t all flips and tricks─ our guests would grow tired of that. Our positive and very friendly attitudes as well as remembering even the most insignificant details of our regulars coupled with the atmosphere and seemingly ‘safe’ environment Daz manifests for these well-off creatures has always been the hooking factor. A flip of the bottle or magic wave of fire provides an allure for new guests who will hopefully become members. I used to enjoy all of it very much. But, in the almost two weeks since my run in with Gavin at the dungeon, his glaring absence from my life has become painfully obvious and taints all that I do. A fact that pisses me off to no end. It doesn’t help that the group crowded around the bar are starting to get particularly special tonight.

  “Yo, bar wench, two more of these concoctions, will ya?” a cocky suit calls out to me, hair slicked back and face pinched in a “get on with it, would ya?” appeal. He reeks of new money. His style and speak have no grace or eloquence; he has been overtly demanding and harsh all night to all the staff. He is too loud and boisterous, throwing his money around like his arse doesn’t stink. Bar wench is a step too far.

  “All right, you wretched bar rat. Hold your horses!” I holler back.

  “Excuse you? Do you have any idea who you are talking to?” He scowls at me as he leans over the bar and into my face. I cock my eyebrow and lean right back, unintimidated by him. “As a matter of fact, I do. An arrogant little shit who recently came into a rather large amount of money, so he now thinks he is entitled to come in here and throw around his pennies and stank ass attitude to validate his small wanker! I’ve got news for you, you ain
’t shit and your money is nothing compared to those around you here, and you don’t see them acting like fools!” I seethe right back, unintentionally causing a scene as many of the guests around us have fallen silent, many pretending to look away while they hang on my every word.

  One could probably hear a pin drop right now, even the DJ’s music seems to dim. The wanker’s face turns beat red and I see him haul back his hand to slap me. Samuel moves in slow motion to try to pull me out of the way, but I beat them both and punch the shit stain in the face with cat-like reflexes. The guy falls back on his ass, stunned and embarrassed in front of the hundred or so people in the private suite.

  “You fucking bitch, I will have your job and ruin your life!” he screams like a wounded five-year-old as he holds his bloody nose.

  “You shouldn’t have hesitated when trying to slap me, fucker. Now who is the sniveling bitch?” I am heated and pumped up on adrenaline, ready to jump over the counter for a good scrap if he were to come at me again. Asshole, trying to hit a woman. It’s a good job my daddy insisted his girls learned the basics of boxing to protect themselves. He may be a refined businessman himself, but my dad is a scrapper too. It’s no secret where I get it from. My mother hated the idea of her girls learning anything but proper feminine roles but had no choice in the matter.

  Gavin and Hank sweep in from nowhere, pick the weasel up off the floor, and assure his well-being before Gavin sees him out to talk more privately. Gavin never once looks my way. “This isn’t over, bar bitch!” the weasel screams absurdly as he straightens his jacket and Gavin hauls him out by the collar, jaw clenched in an attempt not to punch the guy himself.

  “Alright, everyone! Shows over and drinks for the last hour are on the house. We apologize for the interruption. L, Z will close up. Grab your stuff and come with me.” Hank informs us and motions to me with a look of regret in his eyes.

  “Leave her, Hank. She did nothing wrong, I saw the whole thing. That guy was out of line,” Burt pleads on my behalf, a longtime regular who likes to come and chat with me on the weekends to get away from his overbearing wife. Even people with money have everyday problems. His wife has been boinking her ‘yoga’ instructor for the last year but he remained faithful nonetheless, hoping she would get over her infatuation. He works so much as it is and has never given up trying to make the marriage work.

  “It is not my call, Burt. You know that,” Hank says as he hangs his head.

  “I will have a talk with Daz myself, L. Not to worry. That piss ant has been irritating the crap out of everyone all evening,” Burt asserts, crossing his arms, beaming with strength and seriousness. It is easy to see why he is successful but it makes me wonder even harder why he rolls over for the bitch he is married to.

  “Thanks, Burt.”

  “By the way, nice shot. Remind me not to argue with you over my Bloody Mary next time.” Burt winks at me and I smile as I allow Hank’s bulky frame to lead my walk of shame.

  The sound of clapping gently rises, causing my cheeks to heat under the pressure as Hank holds the door open. Daz is going to have my hide no matter how long I have worked for him. Probably will fire me too, best case a suspension so long I will be forced to find a new job.

  As we travel down the hall of the second floor to where Daz’s office and the security room sits, unease washes through the darkened, gloomy path, adding to the dreadful travels. I drag my feet at a slow pace, stalling for the inevitable. Finally coming up to the imposing door, Hank knocks and Daz’s “come in” booms through the closed piece of steel. Hank mouths “good luck” to me as I pass into the swank, dimly lit room.

  “Sorcha Quinn, what the hell am I to do with you now?” Daz’s deep, exasperated voice calls to me. His thick but squat build outfitted in a handmade Italian suit sits behind his rather large, mahogany desk. Daz isn’t particularly attractive but exuded a debonair power and confidence which had many a women eyeing him like candy. “You pissed off and physically assaulted an up-and-coming Wall Street tycoon who could close this club if he wanted to.” Daz rests his head in his hands in fatigue.

  Coming around to face him, I sit at the edge of the leather seat across the way but say nothing. An imminent bulk catches my eye as I see Gavin’s frame merge from the shadows by the bookcase to stand near me, arms crossed and a deadly gleam in his eyes. I have never seen him like this, in ‘work mode.’ He appears to be a straight-up killer in a nice suit. Crap, he looks hot.

  “What the fuck is going on with you lately? Your abnormally pissy attitude has been lighting up the staff for damn near two weeks.” A touch of concern barely peaks through his thoroughly inconvenienced tone.

  Refusing to acknowledge Gavin, the source of my mood swings, I look Daz in the eye. “Daz, I’ve worked for you for a long time, dealt with your mood swings and last-minute demands that consume my schedule at the whim of your bottom dollar. I bitch here and there but I come through, always. I apologize for upsetting you, but I do not apologize for hitting that ass hat. He had been upsetting our regulars all night, sexually harassed every waitress up there, and no one did a damn thing.”

  “Sorcha, Sorcha…” he trails off menacingly while in thought, butchering my real name beyond belief, making it sound all wrong. I try not to wrinkle my nose up at him. “Do you really doubt me after all these years? We had planned to simply revoke his privileges after tonight, using our…persuasive methods. I prefer to handle these situations with gloves, behind the scenes as to not interrupt everyone else’s good time. You know that though. Which brings us back to you. What do you think is an appropriate punishment for someone who may have compromised the favorite of my establishments?” His shadowed face set in a perma-frown waits patiently for a retort.

  “Well, Daz, I know you are not going to say ‘ a beer, a slap on the ass, and a raise.’ If you plan to fire me, get on with it,” I reply in defeat.

  “You are not going to beg for your job? Throw out some pitiful attempt at blackmail or call in a random favor you think I might owe you?” he asks in delight, having too much fun with me.

  “No, not my style, boss, but you already knew that too.”

  “I did. That is why Gavin here somehow found an incriminating amount of cocaine on the man in question, and in exchange for not reporting you to the police or pursuing any further corrective action, we will not report him either. You are one of the few I trust around here, even if you are a pain in my ass.

  “Now, get the fuck out of here before I change my mind and make an example of you. I can’t have the staff thinking they can go around and punch every asshole who comes in the door or every prominent man in this city would be suing me. Why do you think I overpay this piece of shit and all of his merry men? To handle these situations on a different level.” He haphazardly motions his cigar to Gavin. “Now go! Get the fuck out of my sight before I change my mind,” he demands with a twinge of jolly to his tone that adds to my suspicions that he may be watching the video replay of my handy work over and over tonight for amusement purposes.

  I nod to him and smile, the most of a ‘thank you’ that he knows he will get from me and head to the door. Men like him don’t respect weakness, so I have to be just as a hard. As I open the door, Hank steely yet aging face meets me with my forgotten jacket and a tender smile before trailing behind to see me out through the busy club. It never ceases to amaze me how many still come out on a Sunday night to drink with their friends.

  As the brisk, cool air hits my face, a sense of happiness overwhelms me. The sea-kissed air sings in my lungs as I inhale my freedom from the gloom of tonight. A hand suddenly catches my elbow, spinning me around forcing me to throw up my fists in surprise, ready to fight.

  “I am taking you home. Get in.” Gavin demands as he motions to the dark private town car waiting at the curb, in line with the cabs waiting for a fare. Hank is nowhere to be seen.

  “You’re talking to me then?” My rare Gaelic accent peeks through the stress of the night.

  He
holds open the back passenger door and wills me in with his rigid and dangerous eyes. Throwing my hands up in defeat, I ease down into the car and scoot over to make room. Gavin burdens the seat next to me and car dips in protest as he slams the door and mumbles my address to the driver.

  The driver takes off and we ride in silence the entire way as the man next to me mutely seethes. It doesn’t take long for us to arrive at my building. One glance at my companion tells me he isn’t open for conversation, so I pop my door and hustle to the curb, leaving him to sit and stew on his own. No need to wait around to watch paint dry.

  My front door opens with ease, and the peace of the little studio greets me at the end of a hard day like a long-lost lover. A yearning for the beast who saw me home seeds in my chest once more, trampling my typical self-assured stance. Un-warranted hope stops my hand from completely closing the door, choosing to leave a lifeline. Maybe he will surprise me. He doesn’t disappoint. Catching a glimpse of him sliding in out of the corner of my eye as I grab a beer; I get two. Gavin locks the door and we settle on my couch just as we had the first night he came here. The two hard heads have come full circle.

  “I was pissed that you risked yourself by punching that asshole. You’ve got a hellava right hook,” he says, attempting to break the ice.

  “Thanks.” I want to say more, but my thick skull and anger have me pegged.

  “Help me out, please. I don’t know where to go from here.” He shifts uncomfortably next to me.