Strong Hold

by Sarah Castille

  By the time my training day is over, I am more than happy to escape to Silicon Valley for my late shift as a security guard at Symbian Cloud Computing.

  After running from the nightmare that was my life in New York, Redemption was one part of taking back my life; training as a security guard was the other. It was as close to my secret childhood dream of becoming a police officer like my dad as I could get while still recovering from my injuries. Although there is no possibility of promotion, I can use my fight and self-defense skills, work the hours around my training schedule, pay all my gym and training bills, and I get along so well with my coworkers Joe and Cheryl, I haven’t looked around for anything else.

  Long rays of evening sun filter through causeways lined with trees as I pull my Volvo into the parking lot. The company compound consists of four two-story, T-shaped buildings that appear to have been haphazardly dropped in the middle of an industrial estate along with a smattering of trees and a circular flower garden. Our main security desk is in the central reception building.

  “Hey, Joe.” I take a seat behind the plexi-glass bulletproof barrier Symbian erected two years ago after spies from a rival software firm broke into the building and tried to steal company secrets.

  Joe Robinsky, age fifty-seven, widowed, no kids, no hair, one heart bypass under his tightly cinched belt, gives me a nod. “We’ve just got building three tonight. Management put extra security on the other buildings, because everyone’s staying late to meet some deadline.” He bites into what appears to be a mayo, butter, and processed meat sub on pure white bread.

  “I thought you told me the doctor ordered you to cut out white carbs and bad fats.” I pull out my plastic containers and show him my fight diet evening meal—steamed chicken and veg, and whole grain rice with a chocolate protein shake for dessert. “I’m happy to share.”

  “Can’t eat that shit,” Joe says. “I need real food.”

  “I don’t want to lose you.” I hand him one of my containers. “I was worried sick when you had your heart attack. What would Cheryl and I do without you?” Joe, Cheryl, and I have worked the evening shift together for almost two years. We make such a good team, Joe turned down an offer to take on the slightly higher paying late-night shift to keep us together.

  Joe waves the container away. “Don’t worry about me. It’ll take more than a sandwich to put me out of commission, and if it does, I’ll see my Lizzie that much sooner.”

  My heart squeezes in my chest. Joe’s wife died three years ago, and he still misses her something fierce.

  I strap on my utility belt and angle my cap to avoid the bump on my head. My uniform consists of a silver polo shirt bearing a Symbian Security badge, shapeless navy pants, a security belt complete with gun, Taser, nightstick, walkie-talkie, and cuffs, and an extremely unflattering blue cap. “Don’t say things like that. I like working with you. You know the last time you were in the hospital, they paired me up with Sol DeMarco. He spent half his shift hiding in the basement watching sports on his tablet and the other half telling people he could take me in the ring with one hand tied behind his back.”

  “Not a chance,” Joe says.

  “Definitely not with these pythons.” I mock a body-builder pose, flexing my biceps.

  Joe chuckles and then calls out as I leave the building, “Remind me never to get on your bad side.”

  My tension eases as I walk the perimeter of the building, enjoying the cool stillness of the night. Maybe I can take some extra shifts while Zack is around. Usually, recruiters only stick around for a couple of days, wining and dining potential new fighters or scouting for talent. I’ll just have to rejig my training sessions so I’m there when he’s not around, and then he’ll be gone and out of my life for good.

  I cross over to the parking lot, and something rustles the bushes in front of me. Heart thumping, I turn on my flashlight and push the branches aside.

  “Jesus Christ. Get that thing outta my face.” The throaty rasp of Cheryl Walker’s voice cuts through the night air. A botched thyroidectomy a few years ago damaged one of the nerves leading to her voice box, leaving her with what she describes as a “chain-smoking, phone sex hooker voice” but what Joe says is downright sexy.

  “I thought you were a raccoon.” I lower the flashlight and round the bush to the parking lot, where Cheryl is picking something off the ground.

  “You know many five-foot-three-inch raccoons with big boobs and a little extra junk in the trunk?” She pats her ample bottom and grins. Her curly, dark hair is even more wild than usual, and her green eyes are wide and framed in long lashes. I’ve never known anyone like Cheryl. She says what she thinks, and she lets it all hang out. Compared to her, I’m positively repressed.

  “Not personally. What are you doing in the bush?”

  “Dropped my keys.” She leans closer and frowns at my face. “Talk about raccoons. What happened to you?”

  “Bad fight on the weekend.”

  Cheryl snorts. “Welcome to my life. I had a bad fight with the damn ex, so he decided not to pick up Amber even though Tuesdays are supposed to be his daughter and daddy nights. I had to drop her off with my sister again.”

  “Report him to family services.”

  “Tried it.” Cheryl sighs. “He straightened up for about two weeks, and then he turned deadbeat again. I knew that about him when I married him, but the sex was so damn good. You know what I mean?”

  “Sure,” I say, although I don’t. As the ballet company’s artistic director, my ex, Damian, was creative at work, not so much in bed. It wasn’t until I’d moved away that I realized he had married me not because he truly loved me but because I helped his career and fed his ego. He liked that I was twelve years younger than him, awed by his power and reputation, and willing to do his bidding. He showed me off to his friends, boasted about our relationship, and used me as an adornment when he wished to impress. As I became more successful, I opened doors for him, giving him an edge over the new generation of choreographers who were snapping at his heels. In return, he gave me stability and security, helped me build a career, and made me feel wanted again.

  After I left Damian, I didn’t date for over a year, and when I did, it was just casual hookups with men who were friends of friends or part of my social circle. For the most part, they were uniformly dull, mild mannered, and totally unthreatening, which translated into lackluster performance in the bedroom.

  “I’m on patrol with you tonight,” Cheryl says. “I’ll let Joe know I’m here and we can finish patrolling the parking lot together.”

  She is gone no more than five minutes when my walkie-talkie crackles into the silence. “Got a guy in the front lobby who’s looking for you,” Cheryl says. “You want me to bring him out with me?”

  “I’m not expecting anyone. Who is it?”

  “He says his name is Grayson. Zack Grayson.”

  5

  Shayla

  “Are you kidding?” My breath catches in my throat. “Zack Grayson is at reception?”

  “He just showed me some ID,” Cheryl whispers in a pathetic attempt to keep her voice down. “Zachary Richard Grayson from Seattle, Washington. Age: thirty. Hair: dark, long, and curling deliciously at the ends where it brushes his shoulders—broad ones, I should add. Height: six feet, two inches. Weight: two hundred pounds of pure muscle. Eyes: melted chocolate with golden sparkles. He’s wearing a Led Zeppelin T-shirt, leather jacket, jeans low on his hips. And the package…” She exhales loudly. “Do you know him? Please tell me he’s not taken.”

  “Yes, I know him. And I have no idea if he’s taken, although going by his reputation, I would guess not. But I don’t want to see him. Tell him we aren’t allowed visitors at work.”

  Cheryl makes a choked sound over the walkie-talkie. “He’s not the kind of guy a single woman turns away.”

  “Please, Cheryl.”

 
; A moment passes, and the walkie-talkie crackles again. “Apparently, ‘no’ wasn’t the answer he wanted to hear. You want me to cuff him and call the cops, or maybe just take him home with me?”

  I tip my head back and groan. Cheryl may be tough, but maturity and years of experience as an MMA fighter have filled out Zack’s muscles, added character in the form of a few scars and imperfections to his still breathtakingly handsome face, and given him the force of presence to put fear into even the toughest of security guards. He is Slayer, and I don’t want Cheryl to get slayed.

  “Send him out front. I’ll meet you at building three.” I straighten my uniform and walk toward the front of the building. Zack is the last person I want to see, but damned if I’m going to run away.

  Fifty yards from the door, Zack emerges from the darkness. Raw power rolls off him with each stride of his long legs. My gaze drops down, taking in the faint ripple of his abs and the flex of hard muscle beneath his jeans. If I thought he looked hot in the gym, he looks even hotter in the semidarkness, where the shadows only add to his dark sensuality.

  He halts a short distance away, and his gaze travels from my face to my shoes and up again. When his chin dips for what appears to be another leisurely perusal of my body, I give an exasperated sigh.

  “Have you never seen a woman in a uniform before?”

  Zack doesn’t miss a beat, nor does he appear to be embarrassed. “I’ve never seen you in a uniform before. I like it.”

  For a moment, I lose the power of speech. With its shapeless, straight cut and heavy-duty polyester twill-weave material, the Symbian uniform is not made to show off a woman’s assets. “Very funny. I see you haven’t lost your sense of humor.”

  “You’re lucky I have a sense of humor. The last person who got a strike past my guard…”

  He trails off and my heart squeezes in my chest because we both know he wasn’t thinking when he spoke. The last person who hit him in the ring wound up dead, although it wasn’t Zack’s fault.

  “I’m sorry.” I’m not sure if I mean I’m sorry for what happened with Okami or what happened at Redemption, but his face softens just enough that I know he understands.

  “What are you doing here?” I fold my arms across my chest, bracing myself against the memory of the night I looked up an online video of his fight with Okami after seeing Zack’s name in an article about an event in which a fighter died. Even if the cameras hadn’t shown the devastation on his face, I knew in my heart he was in pain. “How did you know where to find me?”

  Zack stares at me, his lips tipping up at the corners. Of course he won’t say. One thing about Zack, he may have come from the wrong side of the tracks, but he was never the kind of guy who would rat someone out. He was loyal to people even if they didn’t deserve his loyalty, respectful even if they hadn’t earned his respect.

  Not that I really need him to tell me who gave my location away. “You talked to Sadist.”

  He gives a noncommittal shrug. “You don’t want to mess with a head injury. I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

  “I’m okay.”

  Zack steps closer, so close that I can feel the heat of his body through my thick polyester uniform, inhale the heady scent of his intoxicating cologne. “Then why are you wearing your hat to the side?”

  My hand flies up, and I push the cap straight. “I was going for a jaunty look.”

  “Jaunty?” Zack raises an amused eyebrow. “Never heard of a jaunty security guard.”

  “And I never heard of a top MMA recruiter driving out to an industrial estate on a Friday night for no reason.”

  “You’re hurt. I could see the bump on your head before you left the gym. How’s that for a reason?” He gently removes my cap, and his fingers run lightly over my head, sending a delicious shiver of memory down my spine.

  “This is where you bumped your head the first time I met you.” Zack slides his fingers through my hair, strokes my head so gently, it’s hard to believe he is one of the best MMA fighters in our local gym or that he has a reputation for getting into fights every weekend at the bars in town.

  “That was the best fall of my life.” I nuzzle his neck beneath the pale light of the moon. Behind him, the “Sweet Sixteen” banner my friends made for my birthday swings between two pine trees in the backyard, casting a faint shadow on the lawn. “I’m sixteen now, Zack.”

  He groans, wraps his arms around me. I can feel his erection, hard against my stomach. “Yes, you are.”

  “That’s the legal age of consent in Washington State,” I whisper.

  “Shay…”

  “Please, Zack.” I grind my hips against him, desperate to be close, to feel his skin against mine. “Can we go to your place? I want you to be my first. My only. I want you to be mine.”

  “I’ve been yours since the day we met.” He leans down to kiss my cheek, and I turn so our lips meet. Almost instantly, his arms tighten around me, and he invades my mouth like he needs to claim me. I’ve never kissed any boys except Zack, but I know nothing will ever compare. I feel his kisses deep inside me, filling my heart until I think it might burst with happiness.

  “You know what I mean.” I press my palm over his erection, run my fingers along the hard outline of his shaft. He rocks his hips against my hand, and a thrill of excitement shoots through me. Zack has never let me touch him there before. Maybe tonight…

  “God, I want you.” His hand hovers over mine, as if he’s torn between letting me continue and pushing me away.

  Heart pounding, I reach for his belt, my fingers sliding over the smooth leather, brushing the hard ridges of his stomach beneath his T-shirt. I’m willing to take the risk of someone finding us if it means I can have what I want. Right here. Right now.

  “No.” With a shudder, he covers my hand and draws it away. “We’re going to wait until you’re eighteen. It’s the right thing to do. I don’t want people to say I took advantage of you, and I don’t want you to have any regrets. Because once we do this, you’ll be mine. Mine forever.”

  “Do you promise?” I lean my forehead against his broad chest. “Do you promise that you’ll never let me go?”

  Zack reaches into his pocket and pulls out a silver chain. “This is my promise. Happy sixteenth birthday.”

  I hold the chain up, and a dragonfly pendant sparkles in the moonlight, tiny blue crystals embedded in its delicate wings.

  “It’s beautiful. It looks like the dragonflies we saw down by the lake.” I turn so he can fasten it around my neck. “I’ll wear it always.”

  “And I’ll love you always.” He whispers so quietly, his voice is almost lost in the breeze. “No matter what happens, that will never change.”

  “Shay?” Zack’s voice pulls me out of the warm memory and into a sea of pain. He never kept his promise. The night I turned eighteen, everything changed.

  My hand flies to my neck where the dragonfly lies hidden beneath my uniform. After I left Damian, I started wearing it again, a silly hope that one day, I’d find the kind of love and joy I had with Zack.

  “I have to get going. I’m on patrol.” I take my cap from his hand and settle it on my head. “Thanks for stopping by. I’m fine.” I take one step back and then another, but I can’t force myself to turn away. For years, I heard his voice around every corner; I thought I saw him in every crowd. Even after I married Damian, I never stopped thinking about Zack. And now here he is, but there is a huge chasm between us that I’m not prepared to cross.

  “Is someone picking you up after work?”

  “No. I drove myself.”

  He takes a step closer, his body perilously close to breaching my personal space. “It’s not every day a guy bumps into a girl he hasn’t seen for seven years. I’m jamming in Sunnyvale tonight. Come by after work and we can catch up.”

  Ah. I’m just “a girl he hasn’t seen for sev
en years.” Not “the girl I loved since I was thirteen years old” or “the girl who wanted me to be her first” or even “the girl I bitterly regret fucking and abandoning in a cheap motel.”

  “No, thanks. I have an early start tomorrow morning.” I hesitate when he doesn’t move. “You’re still playing electric bass?”

  Zack listened to a lot of Led Zeppelin when we were together and steadfastly maintained that John Paul Jones was the best bassist of all time. I loved watching him play. Sometimes I would fall asleep at his trailer, watching his fingers gently strumming over the strings, his long hair falling forward to cover his face, his deep voice sliding in and out of my dreams.

  “It’s the only way I know how to relax.” Zack tucks a wayward strand of hair behind my ear, his fingers trailing lightly over my skin, his low, husky voice caressing my senses.

  Desire, deep and dark, awakens within me, and my body practically melts, the way it always melted when he touched me. My first sexual feelings were for Zack. He held my hand one day when I was thirteen, and instead of the warmth of friendship, I felt something else. Something dangerous and exciting that only got more intense as our relationship deepened.

  Something I shouldn’t be feeling now.

  “Well, have fun. I guess I’ll see you at Redemption, unless you’re heading out tomorrow.”

  “I’ll be around.” His words are casual, but even after seven years, I can sense his disappointment, and it still twists me up inside. I used to feel the same way when I disappointed my father. Unlike my mother, who demanded so much because she wanted to live her lost career as a ballerina through me, my father loved me without judgment or expectation, and because he never asked anything of me, I always felt bad when I let him down.

  “Good night, Zack.” I walk away, but before I turn the corner, I can’t help but look over my shoulder. Our gazes lock, and I am swept up in a rush of emotion so fierce, it tears my breath away.