What You See: Sons of the Survivalist: 3

by Cherise Sinclair

  It was the fastest end to a phone call on record.

  “What’re you laughing about, Ms. Boss?” Felix called from where he was waiting for a platter of nachos.

  “I was—”

  Shouting came from outside the kitchen, then a crash.

  Crashes were bad, very bad.

  Frankie hurried out and into the barroom. “No, no, no.”

  A fight, in her bar. A broken chair lay on a crushed barstool with a short, stocky man sprawled beside the mess.

  Gabe punched a bearded blond man who stank like dead fish, then shoved a lanky rat-nosed one at JJ.

  So many people—did they bring an entire fish camp here to brawl?

  Yelling, a barrel-chested, bald man raised a chair, planning to hit JJ from behind, then staggered back with a knife in his shoulder.

  Caz, seriously?

  When a thickset man with a receding chin lunged for Gabe, a heavy mug bounced off the guy’s forehead. Mr. No Chin landed on his ass.

  The glass mug shattered on the floor.

  Che palle! Frankie scowled as she looked around.

  Bull stood off to one side, two men at his feet. He’d probably thumped their heads together. At least, he’d been tidy about it. He smiled sweetly at her.

  She stomped through the battlegrounds, seeing how the regulars had simply moved their tables and chairs away, treating the fight like the best entertainment ever.

  Alaskans.

  The bald fisherman with a knife in his shoulder tried to stand.

  She grabbed his ear and twisted. “Sit. Back. Down.”

  When Caz pulled out another knife, she pointed her finger at him. “Basta.” Enough was enough. “You got blood all over my clean floor.”

  Caz sighed, and the knife disappeared.

  “Jesus.” The idiot whose ear she had grabbed shuddered and held his hands up. “You sound like my mama.”

  “I am far meaner than your mama.” Releasing him, she said without bothering to look. “Felix, the first aid kit, please.”

  “Yes’m, boss lady, ma’am,” he answered from beside her.

  “Tonto.” She slapped the back of his head affectionately, and he laughed.

  Felix wasn’t the only idiot—they abounded in this place. She eyed the shattered glass on the floor.

  Someone had thrown it. Someone with particularly good aim.

  Turning in the direction from which the mug had flown, she spotted Hawk at the hostess station with Aric in his arms. Whatever he was whispering in the boy’s ear made the child smile.

  “You’re a good boy, Aric,” Frankie called, then gave Hawk her meanest frown. “If it’s glass, it does not get thrown.”

  The bastardo grinned at her.

  She put her hands on her hips and surveyed the miscreants. “Who broke the chair and stool?”

  “He busted the stool.” The groggy chinless fishermen pointed to his stocky friend who sat beside the broken furniture.

  Gabe raised his hand like a grade schooler. “The chair.”

  The Chief of Police broke her chair? “Che schifo, that is absolutely disgusting. You are the law in this town, not some…some hoodlum. And those chairs and stools come out of my budget.”

  She heard a laugh, Bull’s very deep, resonant laugh. He’d been very tidy—and took two out. She would claim a kiss from her hero…later.

  “Right,” Gabe said. “I’ll pay for the chair. Bull can add the stool to the asshole’s bar bill.”

  The stocky asshole scowled at Gabe, then Frankie. “No fucking way. I’m not gonna pay for—”

  “Vai a farti fottere,” Frankie gritted out and glared at the man.

  His eyes widened, and he scooted back several inches. “Uh… Right. On my card. Sure thing.”

  She huffed in satisfaction. Men were so fragile. Tell them to fuck themselves, and they caved immediately…even if they couldn’t speak the language.

  Although Nonna would be horrified that her granddaughter sounded like a fish wife.

  Well, the fight was over, at least. She sighed, her anger cooling. “Do I even want to know what the problem was?”

  “We just stepped in to break the fight up, actually,” JJ said as she righted chairs and tables. “That one”—she pointed to the bulldog-jawed one Hawk had nailed with a mug—“he started it because the others said he hadn’t caught the biggest salmon.”

  “Seriously?” They messed up her bar for a fish? Frankie threw her hands in the air, then glared at the instigator. “Ficcati una barca in culo con i remi aperti.”

  “Dios,” Caz’s eyes widened.

  Gabe and Bull both edged closer to him. Bull asked in a whisper, “What’d she say?”

  “She told him to insert a boat…anally…with the oars out. Medically speaking, that is very…unhealthy.” Caz shook his head. “I think I’ll just do a bit of first aid now.” He knelt by the man with the knife in him.

  “Fuck,” Gabe muttered.

  And Bull, her Bull, started laughing—that infectious booming sound that had everyone in the place smiling.

  He walked over and put his arms around her. “I love you, New York. You fit in here like you were made for us.” He looked around at the room. “Yeah?”

  Cazzo, the entire bar was listening to them now, and the room roared back, “Yeah!”

  “But…see what they broke,” she protested.

  “Sweetheart, we can live without chairs and barstools. Beer, now that’s a necessity.”

  There was another chorus of, “Yeah!”

  Bull leaned down. “Have I mentioned how much I love you?”

  The last traces of her anger disappeared under the warmest of waves. “I love you, too, orsacchiotto.” Wrapping her arms around his neck, she went up on tiptoes and kissed him until hoots and whistles filled the room.

  “Go, Frankie!”

  “Atta-girl, New York!”

  Home is the place where you’re loved for simply being yourself.

  She was home.

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  How about more of Dr. Zachary Grayson?

  Have you tried the

  Masters of the Shadowlands?

  * * *

  Club Shadowlands

  “If you’re looking for a fast-paced, intelligent, character driven BDSM story, you need to pick up Cherise Sinclair’s Club Shadowlands. Reviewer’s Choice Award ~ Two Lips Reviews

  Her car disabled during a tropical storm, Jessica Randall discovers the isolated house where she's sheltering is a private bondage club. At first shocked, she soon becomes aroused watching the interactions between the Doms and their subs. But she's a professional woman--an accountant--and surely isn't a submissive . . . is she?

  Master Z hasn't been so attracted to a woman in years. But the little sub who has wandered into his club intrigues him. She's intelligent. Reserved. Conservative. After he discovers her interest in BDSM, he can't resist tying her up and unleashing the passion she hides within.

  “I only wished I could rate this stellar book a “10”!” Recommended Read ~ Blackraven’s Reviews

  Excerpt from Club Shadowlands

  An eternity later, Jessica spotted a glimmer of light. Relief rushed through her when she reached a driveway studded with hanging lights. Surely whoever lived here would let her wait out the storm. She walked through the ornate iron gates, up the palm-lined drive past landscaped lawns, until finally she reached a three-story stone mansion. Black wrought iron lanterns illumined the entry.

  “Nice place,” she muttered. And a little intimidating. She glanced down at herself to check the damage. Mud and rain streaked her tailored slacks and white button-down shirt, hardly a suitable image for a conservative accountant. She looked more like something even a cat would refuse to drag in.

  Shivering hard, she brushed at the dirt and grimaced as it only streaked worse. She stared up at the huge oak doors guarding the ent
rance. A small doorbell in the shape of a dragon glowed on the side panel, and she pushed it.

  Seconds later, the doors opened. A man, oversized and ugly as a battle-scarred Rottweiler, looked down at her. “I’m sorry, miss, you’re too late. The doors are locked.”

  What the heck did that mean?

  “P-please,” she said, stuttering with the cold. “My car’s in a ditch, and I’m soaked, and I need a place to dry out and call for help.” But did she really want to go inside with this scary-looking guy? Then she shivered so hard her teeth clattered together, and her mind was made up. “Can I come in? Please?”

  He scowled at her, his big-boned face brutish in the yellow entry light. “I’ll have to ask Master Z. Wait here.” And the bastard shut the door, leaving her in the cold and dark.

  Jessica wrapped her arms around herself, standing miserably, and finally the door opened again. Again the brute. “Okay, come on in.”

  Relief brought tears to her eyes. “Thank you, oh, thank you.” Stepping around him before he could change his mind, she barreled into a small entry room and slammed into a solid body. “Oomph,” she huffed.

  Firm hands gripped her shoulders. She shook her wet hair out of her eyes and looked up. And up. The guy was big, a good six feet, his shoulders wide enough to block the room beyond.

  He chuckled, his hands gentling their grasp on her arms. “She’s freezing, Ben. Molly left some clothing in the blue room; send one of the subs.”

  “Okay, boss.” The brute—Ben—disappeared.

  “What is your name?” Her new host’s voice was deep, dark as the night outside.

  “Jessica.” She stepped back from his grip to get a better look at her savior. Smooth black hair, silvering at the temples, just touching his collar. Dark gray eyes with laugh lines at the corners. A lean, hard face with the shadow of a beard adding a hint of roughness. He wore tailored black slacks and a black silk shirt that outlined hard muscles underneath. If Ben was a Rottweiler, this guy was a jaguar, sleek and deadly.

  “I’m sorry to have bothered—” she started.

  Ben reappeared with a handful of golden clothing that he thrust at her. “Here you go.”

  She took the garments, holding them out to keep from getting the fabric wet. “Thank you.”

  A faint smile creased the manager’s cheek. “Your gratitude is premature, I fear. This is a private club.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry.” Now what was she going to do?

  “You have two choices. You may sit out here in the entryway with Ben until the storm passes. The forecast stated the winds and rain would die down around six or so in the morning, and you won’t get a tow truck out on these country roads until then. Or you may sign papers and join the party for the night.”

  She looked around. The entry was a tiny room with a desk and one chair. Not heated. Ben gave her a dour look.

  Sign something? She frowned. Then again, in this lawsuit-happy world, every place made a person sign releases, even to visit a fitness center. So she could sit here all night. Or…be with happy people and be warm. No-brainer. “I’d love to join the party.”

  “So impetuous,” the manager murmured. “Ben, give her the paperwork. Once she signs—or not—she may use the dressing room to dry off and change.”

  “Yes, sir.” Ben rummaged in a file box on the desk, pulled out some papers.

  The manager tilted his head at Jessica. “I will see you later then.”

  Ben shoved three pages of papers at her and a pen. “Read the rules. Sign at the bottom.” He scowled at her. “I’ll get you a towel and clothes.”

  She started reading. Rules of the Shadowlands.

  “Shadowlands. That’s an unusual na—” she said, looking up. Both men had disappeared. Huh. She returned to reading, trying to focus her eyes. Such tiny print. Still, she never signed anything without reading it.

  Doors will open at…

  Water pooled around her feet, and her teeth chattered so hard she had to clench her jaw. There was a dress code. Something about cleaning the equipment after use. Halfway down the second page, her eyes blurred. Her brain felt like icy slush. Too cold—I can’t do this. This was just a club, after all; it wasn’t like she was signing mortgage papers.

  Turning to the last page, she scrawled her name and wrapped her arms around herself. Can’t get warm.

  Ben returned with some clothing and towels, then showed her into an opulent restroom off the entry. Glass-doored stalls along one side faced a mirrored wall with sinks and counters.

  After dropping the borrowed clothing on the marble counter, she kicked her shoes off and tried to unbutton her shirt. Something moved on the wall. Startled, Jessica looked up and saw a short, pudgy woman with straggly blonde hair and a pale complexion blue with cold. After a second, she recognized herself. Ew. Surprising they’d even let her in the door.

  In a horrible contrast with Jessica’s appearance, a tall, slender, absolutely gorgeous woman walked into the restroom and gave her a scowl. “I’m supposed to help you with a shower.”

  Get naked in front of Miss Perfection? Not going to happen. “Thanks, b-b-b-but I’m all right.” She forced the words past her chattering teeth. “I don’t need help.”

  “Well!” With an annoyed huff, the woman left.

  I was rude. Shouldn’t have been rude. If only her brain would kick back into gear, she’d do better. She’d have to apologize. Later. If she ever got dried off and warm. She needed dry clothes. But, her hands were numb, shaking uncontrollably, and time after time, the buttons slipped from her stiff fingers. She couldn’t even get her slacks off, and she was shuddering so hard her bones hurt.

  “Dammit,” she muttered and tried again.

  The door opened. “Jessica, are you all right? Vanessa said—” The manager. “No, you are obviously not all right.” He stepped inside, a dark figure wavering in her blurry vision.

  “Go away.”

  “And find you dead on the floor in an hour? I think not.” Without waiting for her answer, he stripped her out of her clothes as one would a two-year-old, even peeling off her sodden bra and panties. His hands were hot, almost burning, against her chilled skin.

  She was naked. As the thought percolated through her numb brain, she jerked away and grabbed at the dry clothing. His hand intercepted hers.

  “No, pet.” He plucked something from her hair, opening his hand to show muddy leaves. “You need to warm up and clean up. Shower.”

  He wrapped a hard arm around her waist and moved her into one of the glass-fronted stalls behind where she’d been standing. With his free hand, he turned on the water, and heavenly warm steam billowed up. He adjusted the temperature.

  “In you go,” he ordered. A hand on her bottom, he nudged her into the shower.

  The water felt scalding hot against her frigid skin, and she gasped, then shivered, over and over, until her bones hurt. Finally, the heat began to penetrate, and the relief was so intense, she almost cried.

  Some time after the last shuddering spasm, she realized the door of the stall was open. Arms crossed, the man leaned against the door frame, watching her with a slight smile on his lean face.

  “I’m fine,” she muttered, turning so her back was to him. “I can manage by myself.”

  “No, you obviously cannot,” he said evenly.

  Get Club Shadowlands now!

  Also by Cherise Sinclair

  Masters of the Shadowlands Series

  Club Shadowlands

  Dark Citadel

  Breaking Free

  Lean on Me

  Make Me, Sir

  To Command and Collar

  This Is Who I Am

  If Only

  Show Me, Baby

  Servicing the Target

  Protecting His Own

  Mischief and the Masters

  Beneath the Scars

  Defiance

  * * *

  Mountain Masters & Dark Haven Series

  Master of the Mountain

&nb
sp; Simon Says: Mine

  Master of the Abyss

  Master of the Dark Side

  My Liege of Dark Haven

  Edge of the Enforcer

  Master of Freedom

  Master of Solitude

  I Will Not Beg

  * * *

  The Wild Hunt Legacy

  Hour of the Lion

  Winter of the Wolf

  Eventide of the Bear

  Leap of the Lion

  Healing of the Wolf

  * * *

  Sons of the Survivalist Series

  Not a Hero

  Lethal Balance

  What You See

  * * *

  Standalone Books

  The Dom’s Dungeon

  The Starlight Rite

  About the Author

  Cherise Sinclair is a New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of emotional, suspenseful romance. She loves to match up devastatingly powerful males with heroines who can hold their own against the subtle—and not-so-subtle—alpha male pressure.

  Fledglings having flown the nest, Cherise, her beloved husband, an eighty-pound lap-puppy, and one fussy feline live in the Pacific Northwest where nothing is cozier than a rainy day spent writing.

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