Beneath the Scars

by Cherise Sinclair

  She should have worried.

  The ugliest part was the statement she’d been with “numerous boys”. Everett knew he’d been her first. He’d gloated about it.

  Legal action. She’d been so stupid, so naïve. A terrified teenager. Otherwise, she’d have known the legal action taken should have been hers. She’d have known to demand a paternity test and gotten child support. Instead, when he’d threatened her with legal action, she’d panicked.

  She swallowed. The pain of that letter still lingered, like an open wound in her chest.

  The paper shook in Carson’s hand as he stared at her with his big brown eyes—his father’s eyes. “Is he my father? Everett Lanning?”

  She’d dodged this day for years, even while telling Carson the truth—that his “father” hadn’t wanted to be a parent. That they did fine on their own. “Yes, he is.” Her voice sounded dry as the dust covering the box lid. “He was—”

  “You were—you fucked—a married man?”

  The coarse accusation made her flinch. Because she had…oh, she had. How could she tell her little boy that infatuation didn’t look for the lies beneath the words? That hope swept uneasy doubts away. Everett had treated her like someone special and said he loved her. Back then, she’d yearned for kindness and love with all her heart.

  “I’m afraid so.” She pulled in a breath. “He told me he was getting a divorce.”

  “Oh, please.” Carson’s voice cracked and dropped to a baritone that sounded like Josie’s father—scorn and all.

  When she’d told Pa that she was pregnant, he’d gone into a rant over her ingratitude and lack of morals…and over the damage to his reputation. He’d given her an hour to pack and leave—and told her never to come back.

  She’d driven straight to St. Petersburg, certain Everett would take care of her. He loved her, after all.

  Looking back at that time, over a decade ago, she could forgive herself. She’d been awfully young.

  Well. Young or not, she’d learned how the world worked. And, as she often told Carson, life lessons tended to be the ones that hurt. She’d discovered how quickly a man—father or lover—would jettison an inconvenient woman. She’d also found out she could make her own way, even as she raised a child on her own.

  Knees shaking, she sat on a box. Where were all the calm, reasonable explanations she’d practiced for this moment?

  “Yes, I was stupid, Carson. However, your birth father”—damned if she’d call him a real father—“lied to me, got me pregnant, and then wanted nothing to do with me.”

  Carson’s gaze dropped to the note. “But he didn’t believe you. Didn’t believe you were pregnant.”

  In hindsight, she could see how carefully Everett, an investment banker, had tried to cover his ass. How could she explain that to her son? “He knew I wouldn’t lie—and knew I hadn’t been with anyone else.”

  “He was, maybe, really mad. After I was born, did you go back and tell him he had a kid? Try to talk with him?”

  “No, Carson.” She nodded at the paper. “His opinion seems rather clear, don’t you think?”

  Carson looked away.

  She bit her lip. Her tone had been too harsh…because she hurt. After this many years, her wounds had healed, but her son’s disbelief was ripping the scars open. She held her hand out. “Honey, I know this is hard.”

  He pushed her hand away. “You didn’t even try. Didn’t try to get my father to want me.”

  The stubborn set of her boy’s chin—something she saw in her own mirror—let her know any explanations at this point wouldn’t be heard. Her arm dropped.

  He shoved to his feet, kicked the box over, and ran for his room. The door slammed with a finality she could hear echoing in her heart.

  Closing her eyes, she pulled in a despairing breath through her nose and tried not to cry.

  Tomorrow. Surely, he’d be ready to listen to her tomorrow.

  * * * * *

  “Oh, Master Holt, your poor face.”

  The submissive’s gooey sympathy set Holt’s teeth on edge, as did the way she stared at his scars. She wasn’t the first. A shit-ton of the Shadowlands members—especially the younger women—acted this way.

  “It’s healing.” He forced a smile and patted her arm.

  As he turned away, he noticed Nolan and Beth nearby. They’d undoubtedly overheard.

  Nolan pointed to a chair. “Sit with us and take a load off.”

  “I look that bad?” Holt sat and hated that it felt so damn good. Then again, he’d insisted on taking a dungeon monitor shift and had been on his feet for far too fucking long.

  “Not bad, just tired,” Beth said in her soft voice. She shook her head. “I know it’s draining when people get all focused on the damage instead of seeing…you.”

  The pretty redhead would know. Her psycho ex-husband had left scars all over her body. Holt’s anger rose on her behalf. Sure, he didn’t like people staring at him, but he could take it. No one should treat sweet Beth that way.

  After a calming breath, he gave her a rueful smile. “Not to be conceited, but when I was younger, I made a ton of money because I had a pretty face. It’s disconcerting when a subbie bursts into tears on seeing me now.”

  Nolan took Beth’s hand before running a finger down the scar on his own cheekbone. “Yeah, the reactions can be a pain. On the upside, a nice long scar is handy when you want to scare li’l submissives.”

  Beth snorted, and then grinned at Holt. “When we met, he had me so terrified I almost puked.”

  Yet she’d married the Dom. The tension knotting Holt’s shoulders eased away.

  “The scars fade so they’re not as noticeable,” Nolan said. “People who aren’t shallower than a puddle will notice the scars and see past them.”

  “So I’m finding.” It also seemed there were a lot of shallow women in the world—like his girlfriend who’d walked out of his hospital room. Holt leaned back. “Our new bartender’s reaction was unique. She’s my neighbor, saw my Harley and these scars, and decided I was some murderous biker and should stay far away from her son.”

  Ignoring Nolan’s burst of laughter, Beth turned an angry red and pushed to her feet. Her hands were fisted. “I’m going to have a chat with her.”

  She got one step before her Master yanked her down onto his lap. “Uh-uh, sugar. Holt’s problem.”

  Beth’s fury on his behalf was heartwarming, but no longer needed. “It’s all good, sweetheart. When Josie found out the truth, she came straight to me to apologize. Was damn upfront about it, too.”

  “Oh.” Beth’s frown faded. “Well, all right.”

  “Seems like Z warned you about fighting in the Shadowlands, didn’t he?” Nolan asked her.

  “He knew I was protecting my Master from a nasty she-predator,” Beth muttered. “It’s not like I punched her or anything.”

  Damn. Holt wished he’d seen that altercation. He grinned. “You’re a lucky guy, King.”

  Nolan’s instant “damn straight” made Beth smile.

  “I should head on home.” Holt gave them a smile, started toward the locker room, and found himself detouring toward the bar.

  Josie wanted to be home and talking with Carson about Everett’s letter. She tried to focus on dispensing drinks, but worries kept bubbling to the surface. Surely time would heal the breach between them.

  It helped to remember that her boy wasn’t one for holding on to his anger.

  Okay, then. She took a long, slow breath to get her mind back into the proper workspace. At least this shift was going better than last night’s. Or maybe she was adjusting to the strangeness of her surroundings. The costumes—fetwear—weren’t as startling, although she was still wincing at the sight of clamps and leashes attached to balls and cocks, nipples and labia. Sheesh.

  She definitely liked the music. The songs had a pronounced beat that kept her feet dancing, her hips swaying, and she had to remind herself she was at work and shouldn’t be adding in a s
himmy now and then.

  Of course, her added comfort level meant she watched more of the scenes and now totally wanted to participate. The thought of being on the receiving end of a sexy—not a punishing—flogging made her insides all quivery.

  Don’t be foolish, Josephine.

  One: She worked here.

  Two: She didn’t have anyone to wield the flogger.

  Seriously, this wasn’t anything she wanted to get into. Heck, she didn’t even date. What kind of disaster would she make out of a BDSM scene?

  As she looked out over the room, she glimpsed Holt…and a zing shot straight to her girl parts.

  Again. Surely those electric zaps should have stopped, as often as she’d seen him tonight. Okay, she had to admit she’d watched for him as he went about his monitoring rounds. Honestly, what woman wouldn’t watch him? Every time he moved, muscles rippled under his sleeveless, black T-shirt. Would his biceps be as hard as they looked? It was insane to have such a craving to touch.

  To be touched.

  Such thinking was simply crazy. Even if she dated and even if she was into the serious Dominant/submissive stuff—and she wasn’t—Holt was out of her league. She was pretty…in a healthy sort of way. Master Holt looked like he should be on a magazine cover.

  True, he did have scars, the dark red one running from his temple to his jaw and a more jagged-looking one under his chin. It hurt to see them—to think of the pain he must have endured, to see the perfection of his face marred. Yet the scars added a deadly edge to his appeal. He’d been in a knife-fight and survived.

  With a huff of exasperation, Josie yanked her gaze away. Bad Josie. No leering at Master Neighbor. Unfortunately, returning her attention to the bar meant she saw who was at the barmaid station. Amber.

  Josie gave a quiet unhappy sigh. Most of the volunteer barmaids were friendly and fun. However, Amber was making it clear she blamed Josie for her punishment last night and had grown increasingly rude.

  Josie smiled politely and held her hand out for the tickets.

  Amber tossed the tickets, scattering them over the bar, then slapped down her tray. “Hurry it up, would you?”

  Somebody should have had more time-outs as a child.

  “I’ll have these for you in about five minutes.” Josie kept her tone even and started working her way through the list.

  Amber’s sighs of impatience grew louder. Her fingernails drummed on the bar. “I don’t have all day.”

  Josie tilted her head in acknowledgment. Early in her bartending career, she’d learned that reacting to rudeness only escalated the unpleasantness. Bartenders who lasted soon developed armor impervious to insults, aggression, and leering.

  As Josie set the last drink onto Amber’s tray, the blonde snapped, “Finally. I’ve never seen anyone so slow. Who hired you anyway?”

  “That would be me.” The darkly resonant voice held an edge of steel.

  The barmaid spun. At the sight of Z behind her, she went pale. “Master Z!”

  “I’ve been quite pleased with how efficiently our new bartender fills the drink orders.” His icy expression contrasted with his measured words. “The only complaints I’ve heard are from the submissive who stole a drink from the private stock.”

  Amber sank to her knees.

  Master Z looked down at her. “After being punished, a submissive is forgiven and her slate wiped clean. It seems you haven’t extended the same courtesy to the person you attempted to wrong. Rather than trying to make amends, you’re taking out your resentment on her.”

  The woman’s head bowed until her forehead touched the floor.

  “I’m disappointed in your behavior, Amber. If your discourtesy loses us the bartender, the Masters will have to resume tending bar, and none of them will be pleased with you. Neither will I.”

  The submissive’s squeak was like a tortured sparrow. “Oh God, oh God, I’m sorry, Master Z. It won’t happen. I’m sorry, I’ll behave.”

  There was a long silence before he spoke. “You’re normally a good girl, one a Dom could enjoy. Before you leave tonight, I want you to write an essay explaining why a submissive should release all the anger in her heart after her punishment. Just as she hopes her Dom will do.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Very good. Continue.”

  Master Z nodded at Josie and strolled away as if he hadn’t just reduced a person to a quivering mess with a few words. He hadn’t even raised his voice.

  Amber scrambled to her feet, saw Josie, and grabbed her hand. “I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry. It wasn’t your fault, and I shouldn’t be mean to you, and I’m sorry. Please don’t quit. Oh God, don’t quit.”

  Good grief. The woman sounded so much like Carson that the annoyance drained out of Josie’s heart. With her free hand, she patted Amber’s arm. “It’s all right. Shhh. I’m not quitting—it’ll be fine.”

  Tears filled the blonde’s eyes, and she whispered, “Thank you. You really are nice, aren’t you? Thank you!” Grabbing her tray of drinks, she hurried away.

  Josie stared after her and then scrubbed her hands over her face. “Sheesh.”

  A low chuckle resonated up her spine, and she turned.

  On a barstool, Holt sat close enough to have heard the whole show. “You look shook up, sweetheart.” When he smiled at her, a sexy dimple appeared in his left cheek.

  The easy affection added to his melted-chocolate voice made her knees weak. “This place sure has some strange…customs.” With a towel, she restored the bar top in front of him to the proper gleam. “What can I get you, Sir?”

  Amusement glinted in his steel-blue eyes. “Did you just call me sir?”

  She had, hadn’t she? Why in the world had she done that? “Um…I guess all this military lingo is catching.”

  “You do it very nicely.” As his eyes held hers, the floor sank a few inches under her feet.

  When he finally released her gaze, goosebumps covered her arms.

  “Holt, I do believe you’re looking better today.” Master Marcus sat down beside him.

  Turning away, Josie busied herself with tidying up the drink well…and tried to get her wayward responses under control. What in the world was wrong with her?

  When Master Holt returned his attention to her, the intent look in his eyes set up a flutter in her stomach. “I’ll take a Mountain Dew if you have one on hand.”

  “Coming right up.” This time, she managed to bite back the sir that wanted to follow. He was her neighbor. They weren’t even friends, although she found his presence oddly reassuring, like she wasn’t alone amidst strangers. Only, really, he was a stranger, too.

  As she went through the sodas to find a Dew, she took a few glances at him. Tonight, she could finally see the tattoos covering his very ripped biceps. A dark dragon on one arm, a red and black phoenix on the other. Beautiful work. Destruction and rebirth.

  When he leaned his forearms on the bar top, she saw more slashing knife scars marked his golden tan, starting at his wrists. The sight made her eyes burn with tears. No, you can’t go give him a hug, Josephine.

  Instead, she turned her attention to finding the right can of soda. After opening it, she held up a glass. Glass or straight from the can?

  He nodded, accepting the glass. As a bartender, she had a well-tuned antenna for facial expressions and body language. While he wasn’t snooty or rude, it was clear he was accustomed—and comfortable—with being served.

  Why did that seem sexy, too? Yes, she was being silly.

  As she poured, a man in a black vinyl tank and black jeans approached the bar. Medium height, stocky build, sandy hair and ruddy complexion. He looked like a sales rep who sold liquor to The Highlands.

  Wait… She took a second look. “Peter?”

  “There she is.” The rep took a barstool next to Holt. “Good evening, Holt.”

  Holt nodded. “Peter.”

  Peter grinned at her. “I was hoping to find our lost bartender from The Highlands. Quite
the change for you, isn’t it, Josie?”

  Wow, more people were into BDSM than she’d ever realized. “Sure is. Have you been a member here very long?”

  “A year or so. The newsletter said Z’d hired a bartender named Josie, so I decided to find out if he meant you.”

  “Well, as you see…”

  “It’s great to have you here.” His smile widened. “The Highlands regulars have been grumbling quite loudly about losing their favorite bartender.”

  “Really?” Smiling, she served him a drink and got caught up on the news. She had to laugh at his wry description of a lost sale. He was a sociable guy, always polite, and had asked her out a couple of times in the past. When she told him she had a child and didn’t date, he’d taken the refusal good-naturedly.

  He took a sip of his drink. “What do you think of the Shadowlands?”

  As she considered her answer, she noticed Master Holt had stopped his conversation with Marcus and was openly listening. Her cheeks heated. “It’s different, but I’m enjoying the change. I hadn’t realized how nice it is when no one gets drunk.”

  “What about the kinky stuff going on all around you?”

  She avoided looking at Holt. After a night of dreaming about him, she felt off-balance seeing him in person. Especially in the Shadowlands. “I can see why 50 Shades was so popular. I’ve never… Well, it’s…interesting.”

  “Good.” Peter leaned forward and put his hand over hers. “You know, we should play a bit on your break. I could give you an idea of what it’s like. Nothing intense.”

  She stared at him. And hated—hated—that she wished Holt had made the offer. What in the world was wrong with her? “I…um, surely that’s not allowed. I’m here to work.”

  “Josie.” Master Holt broke in. “Did you sign membership papers and get the physical and background check?”