Dark Consequences (Club Risque Book 4)

by Poppy Flynn

  Yes, he could admit that now, too. It was the very thing that had been at the crux of all his difficulties. The fact that he had been falling in love with a woman who embodied the very things he was trying to escape and distance himself from. It had been that dichotomy which had sent him hurtling, at breakneck speed, to the very edge…and almost over the edge.

  He wasn't entirely certain what his feelings were for Laurel at this precise point, but he knew he needed to work carefully through the swirling morass of emotions that had been shaken at seeing her that way.

  God! Why did all this happen when his therapist was a thousand miles away? Perhaps a telephone call was in order…or maybe he should bite the bullet and approach Micah.

  Whichever option he chose, Connor's first priority was to get out of here and dissect exactly how he felt and work out what he wanted to do about it. Only when he was clear about those things would he be able to approach Micah, which meant the call to his therapist was his first course of action.

  Of course, Connor should have known that was when it was all going to go wrong—the best laid plans and all that!

  The next thing he knew, the shit had hit the fan, big time, and any thoughts he had on taking things easy with regard to Laurel went completely out of the window, just two days after Logan and Luanna's wedding.

  Connor had taken the decision, after talking to Dr. Schwartz, to keep a low profile and pay his respects from the back of the church, avoid the wedding celebrations, and offer his private compliments to the happy couple.

  The whole point of all those sacrifices was so that he could meet up with Laurel on his own terms and not be pressured by outside factors. That went for both of them. He wanted them to sort things out, and a friend's wedding was neither the time nor the place to do that. Seeing her there would just have been awkward and uncomfortable for both of them.

  Once the wedding was over, Connor had planned to go see Micah and get his friend's advice on what the hell was going on with Fluff and ask him the best way to proceed.

  He never got that opportunity.

  Logan and Luanna had just left for their honeymoon when Charlotte had ended up going into premature labour. Thankfully, both mother and baby were fine, but Jake had ended up taking paternity leave three weeks earlier than anybody had expected.

  The real bomb came when Desi was rushed to the hospital, suffering a suspected miscarriage. No one had even known she was pregnant. She and Joel had yet to make that announcement, having not wanted to steal the limelight from either the wedding or the new baby celebrations. Now everything hung in the balance for them. The hospital had managed to stabilise Desi's condition, but she was on enforced bed rest and Joel wasn't taking any chances and refused to leave her side.

  All of which, of course, threw Connor well and truly back into the thick of things rather before he was ready. There was no choice, of course. Connor sure as hell wasn't going to let any of his friends down by refusing to take the helm when each of them had another focus in their life. But it did mean that he and Laurel were thrown together in very much different circumstances than he had hoped for.

  Looking at her now as she sat working at her desk, Connor felt his heart squeeze at the shell of a woman she had become, a shadow of her former self both in the way she looked and the way she behaved.

  Her hair had grown longer but looked scraggly and uncared for, a lacklustre mousy brown without the benefit of her usual blonde highlights. And, without meaning to be nasty, she looked like she had barely eaten for the past six months. She was scrawny to the point of appearing malnourished, and her skin was sallow and dull. She wore no makeup, not that she needed it, but the Laurel he had known had always taken a certain pride in her appearance that was missing from this pale imitation of a woman that sat before him. Her clothes hung off her frame as if she'd made no effort to update her wardrobe after the shocking amount of weight she had obviously lost. But above all else was the noticeable lack of spark in anything that Laurel did. There was no smile and no animation. This was a girl who appeared old before her time and looked like she didn't have the first clue how to have fun. The very sight of her was like a fist in Connor's gut and he was wracking his brains about what he could do about it. His first thought was that Laurel must be ill, suffering from some kind of debilitating, wasting disease which had left her wrung dry. But if that was the case, then what the heck was she doing at work and not in convalescence?

  Connor sighed. He might be on the wrong foot and he might not know everything that was going on, but he couldn't avoid Laurel all day. He took a deep breath, and bracing himself, he strode into her office to face the music.

  Connor was here. Laurel knew that she'd come face to face with him at some point during the day. Did she even care? Maybe. She wasn't really sure. Nothing new there. She had very little interest in anything these days. She just couldn't be bothered to dredge up the effort to even have an opinion, and that was true for everything in her life right now. But Connor…

  She'd been given a choice, of course, such as it was. But, really, it was no choice at all. Her boss had just had a threatened miscarriage. Even in the wretched state Laurel was perpetually in, there was no way she was going to bring any extra stress down on Desi's head by refusing to work with Connor. She knew just how difficult that would make things for everyone, with Joel and Jake both taking unexpected leaves of absence to care for their respective wives. That pretty much left herself and Connor holding the fort since Logan and Luanna were on their honeymoon.

  She was touched that they had even given her a thought when all of them had so much more to think about than whether or not she was comfortable with the situation she found herself in. Laurel almost wished she cared enough to be grateful, but while she might balk at making anything more difficult, she was still, mostly, just numb about anything that went on around her. And she guessed that's why she wasn't concerned about working with Connor.

  Well, she hadn't thought she was, anyway. Until that time when he finally came strolling into her office.

  It was almost lunchtime. She had diligently continued with whatever work she had on her schedule and not been at all tempted to go looking for him. She didn't care anymore. She didn't care about anything. Or so she thought. The first sight of him proved her wrong.

  Laurel just stared, her face blank and her thoughts coming from far, far away. It was strange feeling anything at all after all this time. She had honestly thought she was inured to everything around her and that there was nothing at all that could pierce that hardened shell. But seeing Connor after all this time caused a shift that was almost seismic in its intensity. Her face might be blank from the force of the shock, but she could feel the ripples all the way down to the tips of her toes—concentric circles that radiated out from the knife that twisted right inside her heart. Or that's what it felt like, anyway.

  She watched him, unblinking, her face frozen in a granite mask that gave nothing away of the seething mass of unwanted feelings that were struggling to break free. She had been numb for so long now that she didn't think she could tolerate their onslaught. They would surely break her. And that was when the anger kicked in, thundering up behind and overtaking everything else that was heaving and undulating and pressing at the confines of the bubble she was trapped in.

  Laurel got to her feet and shuffled some paperwork together, putting it into a folder as Connor stopped beside her desk and then offering it to him.

  "Here are the details of the Parsons' account. I've just finished preparing it for the next board meeting." Huh! Her voice sounded just the same as usual. No inflection, no real interest, nothing to belie the volatile morass of reaction that seemed to have found a crack in the dam she had built in front of her emotions. How strange. Her fingertips tingled, but there was no giveaway tremor in them.

  "Thank you," Connor replied as he took the folder from her and flipped through the contents. So polite and so reserved. Almost as if they were two strangers thrown together
to do a job and having to make the best of things. Hardly even any awkwardness. Who'd have thought?

  She was tempted to look at him, but she didn't want to do it. It was a strange juxtaposition as if two parts were…not arguing, just having a small discussion on the pros and cons.

  Connor didn't know what to do or to say. There were very few times in his life when he had been lost for words, but this was one of them. He didn't quite know what to make of Laurel, either. Her face was so blank and passive, it was almost as if she was under the influence of some kind of drugs. She seemed almost to look right through him, and Connor found that irked him more than he wanted to admit. For all the times that he had wished that she would just back off and give him a little bit of space, now that he stood before her and she treated him with all the detachment of a complete stranger, talking to him carefully and reservedly, he found he resented the distance that stretched between them as if they were both standing on opposing sides of a yawning chasm with no clear way to cross.

  Professional courtesy won out, of course. "This looks very thorough. I appreciate your efforts."

  And nothing, no acknowledgement, no pleasure in the praise. She just nodded her head and said, "Let me know what else you need. You can just add it to the online schedule."

  And just like that, he felt like he had been dismissed. She sat back down in her office chair and consulted said schedule to find out what her next obligation was. She swivelled in her seat slightly, turning to check a large day by day wall calendar. That's when he saw it.

  Connor felt his blood run cold, swiftly followed by the blasting heat of outrage, when he noticed the distinctive, tell-tale sight of two bloodied lash marks seeping through the stark white of her plain cotton shirt, starting at her shoulder and arrowing towards her spine.

  Fury thundered through him and Connor clenched his fists in rage, willing himself to calm and taking a bolstering breath before he dared to speak.

  "Laurel!" Despite his best efforts, her name left his lips like it had been fired from a gun, and the sharp sound of it reverberated around the silent room.

  Laurel swivelled her seat back unhurriedly, not reacting in the least to the urgency and anger in his voice. Her head lifted to his in what seemed almost like slow motion, and she blinked slowly as she tilted her head questioningly.

  "You seem to have injured yourself," Connor said tightly, gesturing to her shoulder.

  Laurel slowly moved her eyes to where he pointed. "Oh," she intoned. Then turned back to her work as if nothing was amiss, ignoring both him and the bloodstained mess on her blouse.

  "Laurel!" Connor prompted once more, frowning at her indifference.

  She stared at him blankly. "What?"

  "I think you need to take care of that."

  Laurel just shrugged. "It's nothing."

  This time, Connor couldn't contain himself. He grabbed Laurel's arm and pulled her from the seat. "You're hurt!" he insisted. "We need to get you seen to."

  Now Laurel's eyes had widened, but there was still that blank, guileless quality about them that had Connor's gut clenching with its emptiness.

  "My Master will treat my wounds later," Laurel murmured tonelessly. "He takes good care of me." Then, for the first time in this whole surreal interaction, she offered her very first autonomous exchange, even though it was stated mater of factly as if she were reciting nothing more important than a grocery list. "You should take your hands off me now. Only my Master can approve contact or interaction outside the workplace."

  She sounded like an automaton, and for some reason, the delivery, just as much as the words, lit a fuse of Connor's anger.

  "This is the workplace," he reminded her critically.

  "But this is not a work matter," Laurel replied evenly. "I am going to take my lunch break now, if there is nothing pressing you need me to deal with. I will return at precisely 2:00 pm."

  With that, she shrugged into her suit jacket, hiding the offending stain, picked up her bag and walked measuredly out of the office, without so much as a backward glance, leaving Connor staring, in shock, at her departure and at a loss as to what he should do.

  Despite his workload, Connor left the office at 5:30 pm on the dot and drove straight to Club Risqué. He had already sent a terse message to Micah, informing the psychologist that he would be there to see him before the evening activities began. Connor wanted some answers, and Micah was the one person who might be able to give them to him. Scratch that. There was no way Micah wouldn't know exactly what was going on. There was no way Laurel would be allowed to play at the club without Micah's explicit approval and whatever was going on with her. Connor didn't doubt for one second that his club manager had his finger right on the pulse.

  Marching into Micah's office, Connor didn't beat around the bush. "What's the deal with Laurel?"

  Micah was quiet for the longest time, steepling his fingers and contemplating Connor.

  Connor just sat back and stared, never breaking eye contact, just waiting him out. If Micah thought for one moment, he could fob Connor off, he'd soon realise different.

  Of course, Micah wasn't one to be rushed or intimidated, either. He contemplated Connor for the longest time and then seemed to come to some kind of decision.

  "In a nutshell, Laurel is suffering from severe MDD, or what you would probably be more familiar with as clinical depression," Micah confided, ignoring Connor's indrawn breath as he continued.

  "She has all the classic symptoms—depressed mood, lack of interest in activities normally enjoyed, change in weight, feelings of worthlessness and guilt…" He paused and took a deep breath, pinning Connor with the intensity of his gaze, so that Connor felt a trickle of apprehension trickle down his spine. "…she's also borderline suicidal."

  There was no mistaking the shock and fear that grabbed Connor by the throat or the choking noise that emanated from him and made him sound like he was being throttled. Whatever he had been expecting, it had certainly not been this.

  "How long?" he managed to grate out.

  It was telling that Micah looked away when he gave the answer, "About six months."

  "What!" Connor shot up from the chair like a cork from a bottle that had been under pressure. He dragged his fingers through his hair and pulled on the strands at the crown of his head as the chair shot back behind him on its castors. "You're telling me that I'm responsible for the shape she's in?" he uttered in disbelief.

  Micah hastily stood now, too. "I didn't say that, Connor," he placated, his hands reaching out in supplication.

  "You didn't have to," Connor rasped. "I'm perfectly capable of reading between the lines!"

  He paced across the floor and crashed the side of his fist against a bare expanse of wall, making Micah's framed doctorate rattle from the force.

  "Damn it all!" he exploded. "Why didn't anybody tell me about this?" he demanded, whirling around and pinning Micah with a death glare.

  "You had your own shit to deal with at the time," Micah stated with infuriating calm. "You weren't in any fit state to deal with what was going on with Laurel. In fact, the guilt would have probably pushed you over the edge."

  "Goddamn! I had a right to know!" Connor spat, rounding on Micah and invading his space with a ferocity that didn't have one iota of effect on the calmness exuded by the psychologist.

  "No, Connor. You didn't," Micah declared firmly, placing a strong hand on Connor's forearm. He might have the edge on the other man in sheer size, but Micah was bulked out to body builder proportions, and there was no doubt who'd win out if things were to get physical.

  Not that this would ever go that way, Connor was just blowing off steam and trying to find an outlet for the shock and disbelief—and the guilt—that was eating him up. The aggression was aimed at the situation, not the man, and Micah was experienced and professional enough to know it.

  "You had no contract of any description, and your association, outside the club, was tentative and casual, to say the least," he reminde
d calmly. "And Laurel had taken a step back from that relationship, herself, before you returned to the south coast."

  "And why was that?" Connor demanded, still furious and unable to see past the crushing pressure of the guilt he was feeling. "What was the very last thing that happened before all the shit hit the fan?"

  Connor paced from one side of his manager's office to the other and then back again in a desperate attempt to burn off some of the nervous energy that was making him so twitchy.

  "I was here!" he exploded. "I knew she was upset that night when Charlotte ended up having to take her home. I thought she was pissed off about the scene I had taken to keep that client happy, but I thought Trinity had explained everything to her and she was just pulling one of her usual snits at not being the centre of attention. Things had been intense the past few scenes we did together. I had edged her the evening before and deliberately left her hanging for twenty-four hours. She needed my attention that night. I needed to finish what I had started and that's exactly what I had planned to do. What the hell got into her to take it all so badly?" Connor yelled, unable to keep his growing frustration inside any longer.

  Then he stilled just as suddenly, his voice quiet. "Because that's what all this is about, isn't it? Tell me I'm wrong, Micah," Connor challenged.

  Micah sighed and collapsed back into the seat behind his desk, rubbing his hands across his face before he answered. "You're not wrong," he confirmed quietly. "But that doesn't mean this is all your fault."

  Connor couldn't even bring himself to answer. The guilt had just about engulfed him.

  "Yes, it is," Connor returned quietly, levering himself back into his seat like he was an old man. He felt like an old man, the guilt weighed so heavily upon him. "That past week at work had been a nightmare, hostile. We just kept sniping and arguing until things got physical."

  "You hit her?" Micah asked, clearly shocked.

  "No! Of course not!" Connor defended indignantly. "How could you think that?"