by Chloe Cox
“Your body language is loud and clear,” he said. “You don’t want this.”
Cate felt like she was shaking. She had no idea—no idea—why.
“But I did,” she said. “I don’t… What are you doing?”
Soren was staring at her with an intensity that she associated with their most incredible scenes, the ones where he said he achieved a kind of topspace to mirror her subspace. It had happened only a few times—he’d only let it happen a few times—but each time had been…beyond.
When he spoke, he used the voice.
“I’m deciding if this is something you need,” he said.
Cate let those words sink in, and she shivered.
If Soren decided this was something she needed to do as part of her process of discovery, or coming out, or healing, or whatever the hell they were calling it that week, could she do it? Even though the thought of all these people seeing her with Soren no longer excited her, but made her feel sick and sad? Could she do it if he ordered her to? Would she, believing there was a reason for it, and find a way to get into it?
Yes.
The answer stunned her.
She stood there, staring back at Soren, unable to understand herself—her new self? Was it her old self?—deaf and blind to the clinking of glasses, the shouts of passion, the laughter of a party. There was just her and him and the mind-blowing realization that she trusted someone that much.
Not just someone. Soren.
“Give me your wrists,” he said finally.
Slowly, Cate brought her hands up for him, palms up, wrists out. Soren took them in his own hands, bent down, and kissed them.
“Not tonight,” he said softly. “Maybe not ever.”
Cate felt her eyes well with tears and had no idea why. Instinctively she turned around towards the bar to hide it, but when Soren stepped closer, his body against hers, she leaned back into him.
Maybe that was compromise, of a sort.
“Want a drink?” he said from behind her.
The bar was crowded, but the bartender took one look at Soren behind her and made his way over.
“Why not,” she said, breathing out heavily. Apparently she was already in some weird headspace, feeling all…she didn’t even know what. Emotional. What was it about this fantasy that turned her off now? No, that was a disingenuous question. She knew what it was: it was the idea of making the experience public. Of sharing it. Of sharing Soren, of giving whatever it was she had to give to anyone but him, even indirectly.
Cate had never actually been very good at sharing anything. It was her only B in kindergarten.
And that was a problem. She was already hiding something fairly huge from Soren, no matter what rationalizations she told herself about it—she’d only ever referred, opaquely at that, to her ex-husband as though he were very, very ex, as though he’d merely been a bad relationship that had happened years ago. She never mentioned that she’d been married, and definitely didn’t mention that she was still, technically, married. That the whole thing was fresh, that she was only a few months away from being that person.
Which was the way she wanted it to be, and which was how it actually felt when she was with Soren. Except that now that there was this…sharing weirdness, another thing she had to hide from him, a real thing, because neither of them were supposed to get attached—and she wasn’t, honestly, probably—it somehow brought everything else she’d been hiding closer to the surface.
She’d been able to keep her concerns about Jason, about herself, about what any of it all meant at bay. Suddenly she didn’t feel quite strong enough to do that anymore.
It was a jarring change. And all because of some goddamn restraints embedded in a bar.
“You gonna tell me what’s bothering you?” Soren said.
“Probably not,” she said, and sipped at her white wine.
“No, Cate, you misunderstood,” he smiled at her. “It wasn’t a question. You will tell me. When and how is up to you.”
Cate took a deep breath and exhaled shakily, her body shuddering while she turned around and smiled back at him. Yeah, she should have seen that one coming. How would he react? If she told him she couldn’t do it because she was afraid her feelings for him might be more proprietary than he allowed?
Oh God, would he end it?
Cate swallowed her fear and pushed that out of her mind. That wasn’t going to help.
“Would it help you, Cate, if I told you I wasn’t as excited to do that scene as I thought I’d be?” Soren asked casually. “I wanted to give you your fantasy, but only because I thought it was what you wanted. It’s not a fantasy I share, at least not under these circumstances.”
She looked up at him sharply. He was, as always, gorgeous, his longish blond hair tied back and smoothed down, his face clean-shaven, his muscular, tatted, and tanned torso almost bared in only a leather vest and jeans. Only someone like Soren could pull off that look at an otherwise formal-ish event—a rock star, a movie star, someone whose physical presence always outshone their clothing anyway.
And those eyes. Calm and lucid and burning bright, so that she couldn’t look away.
So much that it took her a second to realize what he’d said.
“Wait, what?” she said. “You weren’t? You don’t? Why not?”
She almost got an answer, too.
Except at that moment, Cate recognized a voice on the other side of the bar, near one of the other restraint stations. A voice saying terrible things.
“Come on, don’t be such a bitch,” the voice slurred almost imperceptibly. “I see that wristband. Look, I have one too. I know what you want, you little slut.”
Patrick Cross again. The man who’d scared her that first day, the man who was friends with Jason.
Cate had talked to Ford ages ago, and she’d told him she didn’t trust Patrick, that the man might have gotten a probationary membership just to collect dirt on Soren for Mark Cheedham. She hadn’t mentioned the connection with her ex-husband, but Ford had assured her that they would recheck his references, even though Patrick had signed an ironclad non-disclosure agreement like every other prospective member. She hadn’t seen Patrick around since that first day, and she figured it was over with—but apparently not.
Cate hadn’t told Ford that she also suspected Patrick Cross to be both an alcoholic and an asshole. The latter, at least, seemed like a subjective judgment, and not really her place to say.
Now she was feeling more confident in her assessment.
Soren heard it, too. He drew his brows together and turned his head in the direction of Patrick’s voice, bringing one arm protectively around Cate as he did so.
“Oh, you think you’re too good for me, too?” Patrick practically shouted. Cate peeked while trying to hide her face as much as possible—Patrick was viciously berating a brunette with a white wristband, indicating she was a single sub, for having the temerity to refuse him. At least that’s what it sounded like. Cate recognized the signs she’d seen so often when Patrick had hung out with Jason—he was definitely drunk.
But that wasn’t what got to Cate.
“You’re fucking nothing,” Patrick went on at the brunette. “Just a little slut who…”
Cate turned away, blinking back tears. She knew some people were into verbal humiliation, though Patrick’s inebriated state made her doubt that this was consensual. But she wasn’t thinking about scenes, or kinks, or even Patrick, really.
She was thinking about Jason.
Every memory, every insult, every putdown. Every little pressure point that Jason found, every way he knew of to hurt her, every weakness he knew how to exploit: it all came rushing back. And suddenly Cate felt worthless all over again.
Soren was watching intently. “I don’t think this is a scene,” he said.
“It’s not,” Cate said bitterly. “He’s drunk.”
Soren looked at her. “There’s a two-drink maximum, strictly enforced.”
“He likes
to drink,” Cate said. “He probably drank before he came in.”
“You know him?”
Cate looked over at the brunette who, inexplicably, hadn’t said or done anything. Why wasn’t she defending herself? Instead Adra was there now, standing between them, trying to talk to Patrick. Tiny little Adra.
“You have to go over there,” Cate said, suddenly desperate. She didn’t want any woman to endure that.
“Do you know that man?”
Cate tugged at Soren’s vest. “Please. He is not a good guy. He’s my ex-husband’s friend; I know he’s not a good guy.”
It wasn’t until Soren had been staring at her for a long, long minute that Cate realized what she’d said.
“Your ex-husband?” Soren said.
One thing that music had trained Soren how to do was keep track of multiple threads at once. Harmonies and counterpoint and all that stuff were second nature to him now. So he comfortably had one eye on the belligerent drunk situation the whole time he was paying close attention to Cate and her reactions.
He knew which one he cared about more, that was for damn sure.
Besides, Adra was on duty tonight. It was her responsibility, and, especially given her situation with Ford at the moment, Soren wasn’t about to undermine Adra’s authority by stepping in unless he absolutely had to. Adra was more than capable of taking care of herself, and in the back of his mind, Soren thought it might be good for Cate to see that.
Because something had triggered a genuine fearful reaction in his sub, and he wasn’t leaving her side unless there was an actual fire he needed to put out.
An ex-husband? Not only that, but a mystery ex-husband? She had clearly avoided using the word ‘husband’ every time she referred to past experiences, even though they’d talked about how abuse had affected her. Soren had been circling slowly around the subject, gently probing Cate’s limits, helping her discover what would and wouldn’t work. But maybe the time for gentle prodding was over. Maybe she needed more of a push.
It scared him.
Not much scared Soren Andersson. The idea of pushing Cate to the point where she might decide to break it off scared him, even if he knew from experience that it was what she needed.
Jesus, what was happening?
“Your ex-husband,” he said again.
Cate looked terrified. He hated it.
He dipped down and kissed her, his mouth crushing hers in quick possession. She needed reassurance. And she apparently needed whatever was going on with this Patrick Cross person to stop.
“Don’t move,” he said thickly. “I don’t want you out of my sight. I’m going to go over there and deal with it, and then I’m coming right back.”
She grabbed at his vest again, her knuckles white.
“He can’t see me,” she said. “Patrick. He can’t see me here like this.”
Soren looked down, momentarily puzzled. Cate wasn’t provocatively dressed, at least by Volare standards—she was wearing a curve hugging backless black dress that made his head swim every time he looked at her, but she wasn’t even close to naked.
She meant she couldn’t be seen here. At all. By her ex-husband’s friend.
Ah.
“He won’t see you if turn around,” Soren said. “Do you want me to take you outside?”
Cate’s lips were pressed together so hard they were losing color. Somebody—this ex—had hurt her badly. Very badly. It made Soren want to destroy something. And if the ex wasn’t handy, Patrick Cross would do—if that’s what Cate wanted.
“No,” she said. “No, make Patrick stop. Get him out of here. Someone should take care of that poor woman…”
It was right about then that all hell broke loose.
Soren was still keeping a careful eye on Patrick and Adra, ready to move if the man got even a little bit aggressive. What Soren didn’t count on was that Patrick would take the opportunity to hit on a very annoyed Adra. Aggressively.
And apparently Soren wasn’t the only one watching.
Patrick touched her arm once and Adra pulled it away. Patrick then grabbed at it, trying to pull Adra toward him. And that was the last thing Patrick Cross did, because Ford came roaring out of nowhere and dropped him like a wet bag of cement.
Soren had never seen people clear out of an area so quickly. Ford alone looked like a destructive force of nature, standing over the crumpled Patrick in one of his impeccable suits, his hair falling forward in his face, his eyes blazing, his knuckles bloody. It looked like sheer force of will was the only thing keeping the man from pounding Patrick into a paste, and it wasn’t at all clear how long Ford would hold out.
Chance Dalton, one of the owners, got there just before Soren and pulled Ford off to the side. Adra looked too stunned to react for only a moment, and then she was all over damage control, herding the brunette sub who’d summoned her for help in the first place off to a private room. Soren had no idea what the protocol was for something like this, but he figured there would be hell to pay.
It had been a little bit of an overreaction on Ford’s part.
On the other hand, who gave a shit? Patrick Cross was a piece of scum and never should have been allowed into Volare. He’d never get back in—Soren would make sure of it.
After he took care of Cate.
Cate, who had flinched when Patrick grabbed at Adra. Cate, who had nearly been in a panic, Cate, whose loveliness, whose liveliness, seemed to fade as she listened to that kind of verbal abuse. Cate, who had clearly been triggered.
Soren looked at her standing by the bar, watching. Her hair down, her fists tense, her eyes determined. Not turning away. And suddenly all he wanted to do was take care of her.
“We’re leaving,” he said, putting his arm around her. It was all he could do not to pick her up.
Cate only nodded slightly, but her arm came around his waist and seemed to hold on. He had them out a side door and back in his car in under thirty seconds, and it still felt like too long.
Just being alone with her was a relief.
“Where do you want to go?” he asked.
Cate was leaning her head against the window. Some much-needed rain had come in off the Pacific, dotting the windows with distorting drops of water.
“Your place, I think,” she said.
As soon as she said it, it made sense to Soren. He had never been to her place, and that wasn’t an accident; she protected her space as much as she protected herself.
That was going to have to change, one way or the other. Soren knew from personal experience that she couldn’t live like this forever. She needed help moving on. That wasn’t unusual; most people did. But Soren wanted to be the man to help. No, he needed to be.
Just like he needed her to himself, not spread out on a goddamn bar for men like Patrick Cross to see.
“That got to you,” Soren said as he drove up the Pacific Coast Highway. “It set you off.”
She kept looking out the window, even though her side wasn’t the one with the view.
“I’ve heard it before,” she finally said.
“No shit,” Soren said. No point pussyfooting around. He wasn’t going to insult her like that. “Your ex-husband?”
“Among others,” she said. He could hear her smile a bit. Improvement.
“Parents?”
“Well, yeah,” Cate said. “And any other losers I picked up along the way. Dad was—is—a mean drunk, my mother is just mean. But not…I don’t know. I don’t think they’re bad people, I just think they’re unhappy.”
“And your ex?”
“Straight-up bastard. A messed up combination of my parents, actually, which…oh my God, that is just horrifying to think about.”
Soren laughed and looked over at her. Cate was hiding an embarrassed smile behind her hand.
“Can you believe I just now, right this second, figured that out?” She shuddered.
Soren grinned. “If this were a movie, you’d be all better now.”
This
time Cate laughed, and Soren didn’t know a sound could feel that good.
“Yes, I believe Hollywood has promised me catharsis and a handsome man. Now drive me off into the sunset, please.”
“It’s midnight.”
“You’d better get working on that sunset, then.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Soren looked at her. “Just know you’ll pay for it later.”
The smile that bought him was sweet.
They drove like that, in this relaxed silence full of shared understanding, until they were almost in Malibu. At least it started as a relaxed silence. If Soren hadn’t been driving in the rain on a weekend night full of tipsy drivers, he would have paid closer attention. He would have caught the shift.
Something had taken hold in Cate’s mind.
“Ask me,” she said finally.
Her tone had changed. Soren looked at her as closely as he could. He hated having conversations like this in the damn car, but he knew she needed the movement, the distraction. It was always easier to be vulnerable in a moving car.
And he knew what she meant.
“Did he ever hit you?”
“Yes.”
Soren stared straight ahead, his hands crushing the steering wheel, his blood pounding in his ears. He’d known the goddamn answer, and it hadn’t done anything to soften the blow. And he had to fucking shelve his desire to turn around and hunt the fucker down because he had Cate. Cate was more important.
“What did you do?” he said finally.
“Left.” She paused. “No, that’s not true. I left eventually. Which means that for a while I just took it. Because I was afraid, and because it was hard, and because…I believed him, I guess.”
Goddammit, he wanted to hold her.
“Jesus, that sounds pathetic,” she murmured.
“No,” he said.
“I don’t know, I might never know why. I’m tired of thinking about it. But eventually, I left. I left because it felt like…”
Cate paused, her voice catching. Soren waited. He’d wait for fucking ever.
“This is going to sound dramatic,” she said.
“Don’t apologize,” he said fiercely. “Don’t ever fucking apologize. It is dramatic. You don’t have to apologize, ever.”