by Lynda Aicher
And this time, Taylor was the one paying for Seth’s failures.
With effort, Seth pried his fingers from the plastic, crossed his arms over his chest and forced his attention outward. The low sounds of weeping from the woman across the room mixed with the background chatter of nurses and the intermittent swoosh of the doors opening and closing—the din of a hospital that seemed to go hand in hand with the smell. Another brutal reminder of how much he hated the place.
His legs ached from sitting, or maybe it was impatience. He wanted to pace, vent and howl at the injustice—all ineffective actions. The small, cramped waiting room wasn’t the place for any of that. His frustrations were his own, not something to be displayed to others. That included the woman sitting next to him. Allison English.
Her hands were folded in her lap, displaying burgundy nails and a professional manicure. Long legs were crossed at the knee, a pointed heel bobbing a slow rhythm. Her eyes were focused on the floor and combined with calm features to present a facade of indifference. But he doubted her mind was that quiet.
Even at two o’clock in the morning, she maintained the cool, collected image of the lawyer she was. But he’d seen her curiosity, the desire and interest that had flashed in her eyes on Mardi Gras night. She was a beautiful woman who would be positively stunning if she ever let her passions out. What would it take to make that happen?
Shifting his thoughts, he broke the silence that had extended between them since their arrival. “Why’d you call him Tyler?”
She looked up, the sharp jerk of her head causing her curls to sweep down her shoulder. Her expression gave away nothing. But her silence did.
He wanted to smile, almost did, but managed to restrain the urge. She was a challenge. One he’d love to tackle. He’d expected an instant barrage of questions or accusations the second Taylor had been taken to a room. Instead he’d received icy silence, which only intrigued him more.
“I didn’t do that to him.”
She blinked, her thinning lips giving away a small hint of her irritation. “Maybe not. But you let it happen to him.”
His chest constricted, the tightness threatening his ability to breathe. He looked away, his sharp inhale sucking a rush of needed air through his nostrils. He swallowed down the bitter hit of truth behind the tight clench of his jaw. “I didn’t let anything happen to him. We stopped the Scene as soon as it went beyond consent.” The low timbre of his voice simmered over his anger. “What happened to him is not what The Den is about.”
“But it did happen.” She leaned into him, bracing her hand on the armrest. “To your sub.” Her eyes were narrowed in censure, the dark brown color deepening to almost black.
It was sheer determination and years of practice that enabled him to keep his reaction hidden. He met her stare and her challenge. That her assumptions were so wrong only fired his resolve to show her the errors in her thinking. Despite her exposure and the close friends who were in it, she still had no clue what BDSM was really about.
With slow calculation, he curved his lips in a half smile. “Your naïveté is showing.” He mimicked her move, leaning in until her face was just inches away. Her eyes widened, but she held her ground. “If Taylor was really my sub, then nobody would touch him but me. I don’t share. I don’t exploit. And I definitely don’t beat and fuck a sub until they bleed.”
The short inhale was her only giveaway that his words had penetrated her defensive shell. Her faint floral scent broke through the rank hospital smell, enticing him closer. He leaned back an inch, purposely scanning her face and noting the pursed lips—lipstick long ago faded. The deep scowl tugging her sculpted, but not overly plucked, brows together. The long lashes and expert makeup that made her eyes look bigger without being blatant. The small mole by her ear that peeked out from behind a curl and dared someone to kiss it. Everything about her spoke of a perfected image.
And he knew just how fake images could be.
“Submission is a gift of trust,” he continued, his voice lowered to a near whisper. “I would never abuse that gift.”
She studied his face, absorbing his words before she eased away. “The Den is covering his medical expenses.”
“Of course. I already told him we would.” The quick change in topic was a familiar game that he was an expert at playing, in both business and the Dungeon.
“Then why did you ask me to come tonight?”
“To represent Taylor.” She flashed a smile, a hint of amusement at his expense, he was certain. Obviously, Taylor wasn’t the man’s real name. Irritation at his ignorance made his voice aggressive. “He should press charges.”
“A lawyer isn’t required for that.”
“But it helps. And in this case, it will be needed.”
She raised her brows. “Why?”
His jaw clenched at the thought of the pompous city council member responsible for the crime. “Our confidentially agreements prevent me for saying more.” Even if the member was a slimy, married asshole who didn’t deserve Seth’s loyalty. Actually, ex-member. There was no way the scumbag would be allowed back in The Den.
A twinge stabbed at his cheek and Seth flexed the muscled to release the ache. He rubbed a hand over the tightness, the beard-roughened skin chafing his fingers. “The man needs a guaranteed person on his side. The Den supports him, but he doesn’t trust us and I don’t blame him.” His jaw twinge again. “We’ve done nothing to earn it.” When she didn’t respond he added, “If you’re worried about the money, I’ll cover it.”
“I’m not worried about the money, Mr. Mathews—”
“Seth,” he cut in.
“Seth,” she repeated, pausing to clearing her throat. “I’m concerned about my client.”
“Good. I want you to be.”
“Why are you so worried about him?” Her voice was lined with the doubt that showed in her eyes. “If he’s just a visitor, not your sub or even a member, why are you so concerned? Is it just a front to keep him from suing the club?”
“You really think I’m that much of an asshole?” The tightness stretched from his jaw to circle his throat before stretching down to grip his heart. He looked down, careful to keep his emotions hidden. He didn’t want to analyze why her opinion of him mattered. “We have insurance to cover that.”
“But it would be bad for the club’s image, right?”
He glared at her. “And having a sub assaulted and beaten beyond consent isn’t? I don’t care if he sues the club. Hell, he probably should.” Their lawyer would strangle him for saying that. But it was the truth.
“Then what do you care about?” she asked, increasing the pressure while showing nothing. A part of him admired her tenacity even as he resented her accusations.
Internally he seethed; externally he matched her calm. “I thought that was obvious by now.” He paused to ensure she understood. “I care about him.”
Her eyes flickered, a second of question showing before she blinked it away. “Why?”
“Why not?”
“Mr. Mathews, Ms. English,” a nurse called, halting their argument.
Allie jerked around then stood. She hurried toward the woman clad in pink scrubs and wearing a weary expression.
Seth pulled back his anger and followed Allie’s swaying hips as her heels clicked over the tile floor. It shouldn’t matter what she thought, but her doubt in him stung. He was a Dom, not a coldhearted ass. They weren’t synonymous with each other. And damn him if he didn’t want to prove that to her.
The nurse gave them both a glance before looking at her clipboard and gesturing to the door behind her. “Follow me, please.”
* * *
Tyler hugged the pillow under his chest and drifted in the pill-induced haze. Thank fuck for prescription painkillers. Their numbing effect seemed to work on his mind as well as his body. Somehow they’d managed to chase away the overwhelming embarrassment at having stitches placed in his asshole. The guffawing, belly-roll laugh of his father bounced
around his brain, shadowed by the cutting dig that always followed. It’s what a queer deserves for taking it up the ass.
He squeezed his eyes shut as if that could wipe away the ridicule. His old man would’ve never let him live this down. Thank fuck the fucker was dead. Fuck. That seemed like the best word for the moment. Yeah, he really liked that word. It pretty much summed up his situation. And his life.
The clatter of the curtain being jerked aside, followed by the murmur of voices, alerted him to company.
“Tyler,” the nurse said beside him. “I brought your friends. The doctor will be back in a moment.”
He managed a small nod and barely withheld the cynical snort at her assumption. To say the two people he assumed were in the room were friends was a huge stretch of the imagination. But they were still here, and both had insisted on bringing him to the hospital. Did that mean something? Yeah, right. Must be the drugs making him think that.
The firm stroke of a palm at his nape sent an instant string of goose bumps down his arms. “How are you doing?” The deep voice of Master Seth sent another rash of shivers over his skin.
Why did Tyler want to sink into that touch? He flashed on the memory of the Dom helping him stand. Of being held and comforted by the powerful man, if even for a brief moment.
“Tyler?” The soothing voice of the lawyer eased over him. There was a gentle touch on his arm, so different than the firm grip of the Dom. She stepped closer, and the light scent that surrounded her overrode the sterile order of the hospital. He inhaled, absorbing the enticing smell as his brain attempted to identify the flower. “Are you awake?”
He exhaled, the identity of the flower lost. He should answer. “Yeah.” It sounded more like a grunt than a word. He cleared his throat and winced. How could that hurt? Oh, yeah. It was probably from the cock that’d been crammed down there before he was strapped to the cross.
“You don’t have to talk,” she reassured, giving his arm a squeeze. “We’ll take care of everything.”
How? How could those two possibly take care of everything? The thought was so ridiculous he almost laughed. They had no clue.
He turned his head and stared at her. She gave him a smile, her curls falling across her arm as she bent to see his face better. She was really attractive. He could appreciate that, even though he usually swung the other way. Usually. There was something about the way she looked into him, not at him, that kicked at his chest. Stupid thoughts, really.
The curtain was drawn aside again, and the doctor stepped in. He took a second to glance through the notes on the clipboard before looking up. He pushed his wire-rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose before nodding at the two new guests. His focus turned to Tyler, and the lawyer stepped back letting the doctor have her spot next to the bed.
“How are you feeling?” The doctor smiled a brief flash of teeth before his gaze shifted to Tyler’s back.
“Fine,” he grumbled. He appreciated the doctor’s brisk, efficient approach that had withheld obvious judgment.
The doctor looked back to Tyler. “Do I have your permission to discuss your condition in front of your guests?”
What the hell did it matter at this point? “Yes.”
“I’ll ask you one more time, Mr. Wysong, do you want me to call the police?”
“No.” Tyler wanted to close his eyes against the censure he knew he would see, but instead he bit his cheek and stared the man down.
“Tyler.” The lawyer stepped up, grasping his calf through the light sheet. “I think you should reconsider. You were brutally assaulted. The police can file a report and see that the person who did this is held accountable.”
Tyler glared over his shoulder at the ever-calm lawyer. She was all pristine in her beliefs of the justice system. He knew better. “I. Said. No.” His snarl conveyed the complete contempt he felt for the law. No doubt they’d blame him for what happened, especially when they found out who the perpetrator was and compared that to what Tyler did for a living.
The doctor sighed, an exhausted breath telling of the number of times he’d been through the same scenario. “If you change your mind about pressing charges, the collected evidence will be on file.” He paused, flipped some pages on his clipboard then pressed on. “You’ll be in pain for a while. The nurse will have your prescriptions and the instructions for keeping your wounds cleaned. You also have a minor concussion that should be monitored for twenty-four hours.” He looked up, he gaze shooting between the two guests. “Is one of you going home with him?”
“Yes.” The unison answer blended in the room in an odd harmony.
Tyler chuckled then cringed. Fuck, that hurt. Even with the meds.
The doctor nodded again. “Good. His back is going to sting but shouldn’t scar too bad if the medication is applied regularly. His other injuries are going to take time to heal. The tearing required stitches that will dissolve on their own in about a week. Until then, things are going to be tender down there.”
Heat flushed Tyler’s face. Evidently, embarrassment was still possible, even after all the shit he’d been through that night. So much for the drugs numbing his emotions.
After another shuffle of papers, the doctor removed a card from the pocket of his white lab coat and placed it in Tyler’s hand. “Here’s the number of a therapist who works with assault victims. I know you refused consultation and deny that this was rape, but I hope you’ll reconsider giving her a call.”
Tyler fisted his hand around the card until the paper crushed in his palm. Therapist? Not a chance. He wasn’t raped, no matter what the doctor tried to say. It wasn’t rape when he gave consent.
The doctor gave another sigh, his movements a series of seemingly repeated actions that were produced without conscious thought. “Right. I’ll sign your release papers. The nurse will be back in a moment.” He looked to the other two. “If there’s any sign of swelling or infection, bring him back immediately.”
Bile rose in Tyler’s throat and he swallowed repeatedly to keep it down. No way in hell was he letting anyone close enough to check that out.
An awkward silence settled over the space after the doctor’s departure. Tyler waited for the excuses to come. There was zero chance either one of them would stay with him. He was certain their agreement was for the doctor only. Not that he wanted them to see the dive he called home.
Tyler bit his lips to hold back the groan as he shifted to lie on his side. Strong hands were immediately on his arm, helping to steady him. He shrugged them off, ignoring the licks of pain that followed the action. It was time to get the hell out of there. “Did you bring my stuff from the club locker?” Taking the bus wearing hospital scrubs would be a bitch. Plus he needed his wallet.
“I’ll get your things when we get back to my loft,” Master Seth said from behind him.
The lawyer shot a quick glare at the other man before turning her smile at Tyler. “If you prefer, you can stay at my place until you’re healed.”
Tyler huffed out a tired laugh. “Right. Drop the act. I’m not gonna sue anyone, press charges or come after money. Stop pretending you care. Pay the hospital bill, give me my stuff and you’ll never see me again.” He closed his eyes, waiting to hear their retreat. He couldn’t watch them leave even though he was used to people doing that.
“I’m not leaving you alone.” Master Seth’s deep voice growled like he was angered by Tyler’s words.
“Me either,” the lawyer insisted, the determination clear in her tone.
Hmmm...right. Now two people were fighting over him? Not likely. The obvious tension between the two smelled of a dominance battle he wanted no part of. But then, maybe that was the way to get rid of them. The effects of the medication and long night made his head heavy with fatigue until somehow the fuzzy logic made sense.
Throw them at each other and watch them run.
“Sure,” he mumbled. “I’ll go to Master Seth’s if she comes too.”
Chapter Five
Al
lie ran her fingers through Tyler’s hair one last time before shifting back on the edge of the bed. The dim glow from the lamp on the dresser cast his face in hazy shadows. Relaxed in sleep, the sharp angles of his cheekbones and jaw appeared softer. Vulnerable. At this moment, he could easily pass for a college student. Yet his profession and defenses showed an aged bitterness based on hard experiences. He had a kick-before-being-kicked mentality.
There were many, many layers to the man before her, ones that intrigued her more than they should. But then, that was true for almost everyone. People usually didn’t take the time to discover all of them.
“Is he asleep?”
She glanced over her shoulder, unaware of when Seth had returned. He appeared as tired and drained as she felt. His hair was down now, his silk shirt rumpled with the top three buttons undone, revealing glimpses of toned chest beneath. His hands were jammed deep within the pockets of his black slacks.
“Yeah,” she answered softly. “He fell asleep right after you left.”
“Good.” Seth crossed the room to stand beside her. Both of them stared at the man who occupied the bed. “He needs it.”
Allie agreed silently. The quiet settled around them, their thoughts their own. She focused on the man she’d said she would help, not the disarming one who stood next to her. Tyler needed a lot of things. Only she didn’t know if she had anything he needed. The whole mess was complicated and filled with pitfalls waiting to suck her in. But she’d made a promise and she wouldn’t walk away. No matter how hard he pushed.
“Did you get his stuff?” she asked. Tyler had been insistent that his belongings be retrieved from The Den locker. He wouldn’t rest until Seth had left to get them.
Seth nodded. “They’re in the other room. I don’t want him sneaking out of here tonight.”
She gave a puff of agreement. “He’ll probably try anyway.”
