Wicked Lust

by Sawyer Bennett

  "I wanted to, tried to really, but Brant threatened my mom," I murmur. "I didn't put that in the letter because I didn't want you to think it was an excuse. I wanted you to know I took responsibility for my actions, and I wanted you to know before I left town that this was all on me."

  "Threatened your mom how?" Bridger asks, his head tilted in curiosity.

  "My father is Jared Preston," I say simply, and Callie gasps.

  "Who the fuck is that?" Woolf asks.

  "A United States senator from Tennessee," Callie says as she turns to look at her husband. "Forced out of office about five years ago after using federal funds to perpetuate an affair he was having with an Argentinian woman, I think."

  "Brazilian," I clarify.

  Callie gives me an apologetic smile and continues, "It was a huge scandal. There were impeachment hearings, and he left in disgrace. And if I recall, he left his wife, son, and daughter, married the Brazilian woman, and now lives life as a beach bum with new twin daughters, right?"

  "That's the gist of it," I say bitterly.

  "But what's the connection to your mom?" Bridger asks.

  "Everything I told you about my mom was true. The surgery, the painkillers, the suicide attempt. She's been in and out of mental hospitals since then. What my dad did destroyed her. Her first attempt at suicide was when she found out about the affair. It hit the news channels."

  "Fuck," Woolf says, and the sympathy in his voice is clear.

  "Brant tried to blackmail me. He said if I didn't produce the story, he was going to run a follow-up piece to the Senator Preston scandal and focus on my mom's most recent hospitalization, which coincided with the anniversary of their divorce."

  "Fucking prick," Woolf growls as he shoots off the couch.

  "Oh, Sloane," Callie says as she reaches out to take my hands again. "That's terrible."

  I pull my hands quickly away and step back from her. "Don't," I say forcefully. "Don't you dare feel sorry for me. I made my bed and now I'm lying in it. Yes, he was blackmailing me and I eventually didn't cave to it, but I considered caving. I could have told him to kiss my ass days ago, and I didn't."

  "Because you were trying to figure out a way to protect everyone," Bridger says, his tone matter-of-fact.

  "Doesn't matter," I say as I fold my arms across my chest. "I just wanted to explain everything. I'm going to catch a flight out of here tomorrow."

  "What about Cain?" Bridger asks.

  The tears well up in my eyes again, and I blink hard to make them go away. "Let's just say Cain didn't want to listen to my explanations."

  Everyone is silent, not sure what to say. Finally, Bridger clears his throat and stands up from his desk. "Callie... Woolf. Why don't you two head home? It's late, and I want to talk to Sloane for a bit."

  Callie looks like she wants to argue, but Woolf puts his arm around her shoulders, intent on ushering her to the door. She pulls free and throws her arms around me. Giving me a fierce hug, she whispers, "I forgive you and thank you for telling me the truth. It was very brave."

  "Thank you," I choke out, the tears now breaking free. I squeeze her back briefly, and then Woolf is pulling her out the door. He gives me a curt nod of his head, and then they're gone.

  I'm really going to miss her.

  I turn to face Bridger and it occurs to me that I hadn't considered being intimidated by him at all this evening, but now that I'm in the room alone with the big man, I'm feeling slightly overwhelmed.

  "Want something to drink?" he asks.

  "No thank you," I say almost primly. "I'm tired and need to get to my apartment. I want to get an early start tomorrow."

  "Don't leave," he says as he takes a few steps toward me. I resist the urge to back away from him, because although he's seemed to accept my story and apology, he hasn't quite said those words. For all I know, he wants to pound me into the ground. Hell, maybe he had Callie and Woolf leave so he can kill me and dispose of my body in secret.

  Plausible deniability.

  "Don't leave?" I ask as he takes another step toward me.

  "Don't leave," he says simply and stops. "Give Cain a chance to cool down. Did you write a letter explaining everything?"

  I nod.

  "Then give him a chance to read it."

  "He didn't want it," I say adamantly, because I'm afraid to believe there's still a chance with Cain. If I believe, then I hope. If I hope, then I hurt when he snubs me again.

  "Look," Bridger says softly. "You two clearly have something deep. It's new, but it's tangible. I could fucking see it a mile away. So stay and give it a chance."

  I refuse to hope. "I don't think that's a good idea. Besides, I'm not sure I want to be with someone who wouldn't even give me the courtesy of listening. You, Callie, and Woolf listened, but he couldn't?"

  "You're on the verge of falling in love with him," Bridger says so confidently, I almost believe him. I hadn't thought of the "L" word when it comes to Cain before, so I refuse to give it credence now when I have one foot on my way out the door.

  "I am most certainly not falling in love with him. He's too closeminded and stubborn. In fact, I'm lucky I'm rid of someone like him." All lies, but Bridger doesn't know that.

  "You truly don't have feelings for Cain?" he asks skeptically.

  "Not really," I say, the words tasting bitter. "He was a good time and I became fond of him, but that's about as deep as it got."

  He takes one last step so he's almost toe to toe with me. His hand comes up, and it curls around the back of my neck. When he pulls gently, my body falls into his and his other hand wraps around my back, pressing me in tighter.

  "Then stay with me," he says in a low, seductive voice. He bends his head, putting his lips near my ear. "I loved fucking you that night and since you don't care about Cain, stay here and be with me."

  My entire body tightens with refusal and I jerk away from him, taking two large steps backward. He is not the one I want.

  Bridger just gives a husky laugh and cocks an eyebrow at me. "Don't tell me you weren't just now thinking to yourself that Cain's the only man you could want."

  Clearly, he was just trying to make a point to me, but I don't want to accept it. I start sputtering. "Well... that's... the point is... I mean..."

  "Sloane," Bridger says, cutting me off. "Stay and try to work things out with him. If your feelings are that deep, then do something about it and don't give up. He's a stubborn fuck, but he'll cool down eventually."

  "I can't," I say automatically, but I'll admit... Bridger now has me hoping. "I just lost my job. My savings aren't all that great, and Stephenson doesn't pay me enough to cover my bills. I'm going to head home to Tennessee and I have about enough in savings for a plane ticket."

  "Have you ever bartended before?" he asks bluntly.

  "Um... yeah. A lot actually while in college."

  "Then you can start tomorrow at The Wicked Horse. That will be a prime opportunity to put yourself in Cain's line of sight. Remind him why he's being pigheaded."

  My head spins with the possibility. Should I do that? Is it even possible for him to forgive that type of transgression, especially as the other woman he loved betrayed him so badly?

  Then a thought strikes me.

  I narrow my eyes at him and ask, "Why do you believe me? Why did you so willingly accept my apology?"

  "Because you were remorseful," he says simply, as if it was the dumbest question ever. "Anyone could see the truth in that. And you took full responsibility. Didn't even try to pin it on the blackmail until you were asked about it. It takes a lot of guts and fortitude to do that."

  "But you don't know me," I argue, because I just can't believe that this is happening to me. The man I tried to screw over by outing his secret sex club is offering me a job.

  "But I do," Bridger says with a knowing smile. "You are driven by a sense of justice, I'm guessing because of what your father did. In fact, I bet you probably had some lame-ass degree planned in college, but cha
nged over to journalism so you could have a vehicle to expose corrupt politicians. Probably had all these altruistic ideas about bringing scumbags like your dad to justice and helping to clean up our system of the frauds. You came here with a fire in your belly to nail your first big target to the wall, and then you ran into trouble when your heart of gold got in the way. You ended up attaching yourself to a good man who showed you there's more to life than vengeance, and you realized wonderful women like Callie Hayes exist in this world. Even with your mother threatened, you ultimately did what's right, so that tells me your moral compass needs no fine tuning. And let's be honest... I know how fucking good your pussy feels, so I know without a doubt that Cain is probably already thinking twice about his decision to cut you loose so fast."

  I stare at him, jaw dropped and mouth wide open. "You're... um... really weird."

  "I'm intuitive and that freaks people out sometimes."

  "If I work for you, you don't have any expectations that you and I will..."

  "Relax, darling," Bridger says with a chuckle. "I just expect you to be a good bartender."

  "Then I accept," I say, suddenly filled back up with a renewed passion to make things right. I'm going to get Cain Bonham back, no matter how long it takes.

  "Be here tomorrow at noon," he says with a nod as he turns back toward his desk. "I'll have someone ready to train you."

  "Thank you, Bridger," I say softly as I turn toward his office door.

  "And Sloane?" he calls out.

  I stop with my hand on the doorknob, turning to look at him over my shoulder. "Yes?"

  "I'll still most gladly fuck you any time you and Cain want to invite me into your bed." He gives me a Cheshire Cat grin, and I feel something tingle between my legs.

  That man is serious trouble, but I can't think about him now.

  My mind is on another man who is far more troublesome at this minute.

  Chapter 27

  Cain

  I open the door to my truck and step out, right into a fucking mud puddle.

  Figures.

  I'm surprised it isn't a pile of shit the way my life has been going the past... I look down at my watch... oh, twenty-one and a half hours, give or take a few minutes.

  Slamming the door angrily, I step out of the puddle onto dryer gravel and trudge my way toward the front doors. The last thing I want is to be here. I'd much rather sit at my house and polish off a fifth of booze, preferring to numb my mind to thoughts of Sloane and all the ways in which she betrayed me.

  My mood is black as I walk toward the nightclub. It's been black since last night when I walked in on Sloane talking to God knows who on the phone about... I'm still not even sure what the fuck she was doing. My rage was so consuming that I'm not sure I understand what she was telling me, but I got the general idea.

  I got the important parts.

  Undercover reporter.

  Using me to find dirt on Callie and her father.

  Fucking bitch was using me to get into The Silo. I think about her dirty fantasy I made come true and realize I was being played right from the start. Every single time I made her come, and every single soft touch or sweet word she gave me... all fucking calculated to lead me by the short hairs down a very defined path.

  And when I think about the fact that just last night, I had made the willing and conscious decision to change my life so I could be with her, my black mood gets darker and colder. I nearly gave up everything for a woman who was using me.

  I nearly lost my heart, but at least that's now firmly back under lock and key.

  Stomping onto the long, wooden walkway that borders the front of the club, I about jerk the doors off the hinges as my fury is projected into my actions. The club is just about deserted at this early hour, usually late stragglers who just came in for a few drinks or some pub food after work. The music is turned down low, and I can hear the chatter of some of the bartenders and waitresses as they prepare for the bustle to start in about an hour.

  "What's up, man?" Tank Godwin says from his perch on the end of the bar. He's one of the Double J hands, and I've known him for going on forever.

  Giving him a curt nod, I head toward the back of the club. I need to check in with Bridger and let him know what's going on. While I'm guessing Sloane Meyers or Preston or whatever the fuck her name is, is probably long gone if I can believe what she was saying--and I probably can't--I need to give him a heads up about the breach. That makes my black mood start to burn within my veins like acid... knowing I inadvertently put Bridger and this club at risk simply by trusting the wrong person.

  Just as I hit the hallway that leads to the back exit as well as Bridger's office, I'm brought up short when his office door opens. I fully expect one of the waitresses to walk out with a satisfied smile on her face, but my knees nearly buckle when I see Sloane step into the hall.

  Bridger comes out behind her, murmurs something that I can't hear, and then gives her shoulder an affectionate squeeze. My eyes take in the fact she's wearing a pair of skintight jeans, black boots with neon blue spurs, and a black Wicked Horse t-shirt with the logo over the left breast.

  I take all of that in, and yet my mind doesn't process what it means. Instead, my rage, which had been on a low simmer all day, fires up and bubbles, frothing to a point that my vision almost goes red. In three long strides, I'm on her.

  My hand goes around the back of her neck, and because it's so slender, my fingers curl all the way around in a hard grip. She gives a terrified yip as I turn her toward me, pulling up so she goes to her tiptoes. Leaning down, I get my face in hers and snarl, "What in the fuck are you doing here?"

  "I work here," she squeaks at me, her eyes round and fearful. I suppose my fingers digging into her neck aren't helping.

  "Like hell you do," I growl at her.

  "Let her go," Bridger says in a deadly calm voice.

  Ordinarily, I jump to do Bridger's bidding. He is, after all, my boss. He's the leader of our kinky pack when it comes to the sex club, and I usually fuck the way he tells me to fuck when I'm in a group.

  But right now, at this moment, I rebel against his order and tighten my hold on Sloane's neck. "I think you need to know what this bitch has done--"

  "I'm well aware of what she's done," Bridger says, his voice just as calm but with a deeper rumble of authority. "Now let her go."

  My hand falls away from Sloane, and she actually falls forward into my chest. Her hands come out and inadvertently balance against my chest. It feels like I've been burned. My body instantly becomes attracted to her touch. At the same time, it's being repulsed by it. I practically jump backward, slamming my back against the wall.

  Sloane straightens herself and takes a step backward as well, eyeing me with a mixture of sadness and fear.

  My head swivels to Bridger, and I try to maintain some level of respect. "You know she was working as an undercover reporter to expose The Silo, right? Was targeting Callie... probably fucking Woolf too. She's a snake in the grass and can't be trusted, so I assume you're going to fire her ass now that you know all of this, right?"

  "I knew it all when I hired her," Bridger says, and then slides his gaze to Sloane. "Go ahead and find Francine behind the main bar. You'll shadow her tonight."

  My eyes narrow as I watch Sloane give an unsure nod. She drops her face so as not to look at me and scurries past. My fingers itch to grab onto her again.

  To throw her out of here.

  Or maybe pull her to me and kiss the hell out of her.

  Or maybe, just a good hard fucking, then I can toss her aside.

  My head is so fucked at this moment that I don't know what I'd do, so it's a good thing she's gone.

  "In my office," Bridger says and turns to walk back in there. I follow him in dutifully.

  Once I close the door behind me, I say, "Come on, man... you cannot seriously think to give her a job here after she tried to screw you over."

  "You'd be wrong about that," Bridger says as he walks a
round his desk and sits down in his chair. "I did give her a job, and you're also wrong. She didn't try to screw me over."

  "I overheard her talking to someone about the club... and Callie. She admitted to me she works for a magazine."

  "All true and she told me the same," Bridger says, his voice level and matter of fact. "But she did not try to screw me over. She didn't try to screw you or Callie over, for that matter. She did the right thing and dumped the story, turned over all the evidence she had to Callie to destroy, and she quit her job. Seems to me, she's the one who got screwed over."

  "But her intent was--"

  "And furthermore," Bridger says, talking right over me. "You have no right to judge her until you know all the facts. I assume you haven't bothered to read the letter she wrote you."

  That stupid fucking letter.

  I left it laying on the porch last night.

  I thought about it all night.

  Obsessed about it really, but I refused to read it. I left it there and I hoped it would blow away, just as I hoped these terrible feelings would go by the wayside. I stayed in my house all day today, not having anywhere I needed to be and preferring to sulk alone in my misery. When I stepped out on my porch to head to work, my eyes were helplessly drawn down to where the envelope had been when Sloane left last night.

  And it was gone.

  For a brief moment, a stab of regret pulsed within me. It was followed immediately by a sense of final loss... my last true tie to Sloane was gone. My eyes roved the area, figuring the wind took it since we had a rainstorm in the early morning hours. I saw it immediately about ten feet off the side of my porch on a patch of damn grass.

  My relief was intense, and just as quickly, I cursed at myself for my weakness.

  I called myself a motherfucking dumb motherfucking moron for even having a care in the world for that stupid letter. Really, what could it possibly say? How in the world could it ever excuse or make better what she did? What carefully thought out words by a known liar would ease the anger I had?

  "What difference would it make?" I say bitterly. "She used me."

  "That may have been her original intent," he says with a careless shrug. "But I guarantee you that's not what she was doing in the end."

  "What the fuck ever, dude," I sneer as I cross my arms over my chest. "She's bad fucking news. You cannot let her work here."