Fixing this thought in his mind, he lifted his hand and started to spank, hard and fast. He didn’t believe in warm-ups when it came to discipline. To him, it was calm, matter-of-fact and steady, right from the start. This wasn’t play, and there was no point in pussyfooting around as if it were.
For her part, Stacey had no doubt he was serious. Any thought she’d had about this being a simple child’s punishment had quickly fled. This hurt like hell. His hand felt broad and hard as a board, covering a large area of her bottom with each swat and then doing it again. She was nearly breathless from the sheer sting. She jerked and kicked involuntarily, desperate to do something, anything, to get away from that blistering sting. Yelps and ows burst forth of their own accord. Finally, she found her voice.
“Dammit, Cade, that hurts! Stop!” Cade, bastard that he was, ignored her. “Okay, okay, I get it! Stop! Please…” Her voice was thick with tears, and she was furious with herself for being such a wimp, but she couldn’t stop it anymore than she could stop the tears trickling down her face. It went on and on, far past the point of bearable. It wasn’t brutal by any means, just steady, relentless, and endless.
Cade paused, his palm resting gently on her now very sore bottom. “You are important,” he said, quiet but very stern. “You don’t take foolish risks, and you don’t put yourself in danger. I don’t give a damn how pissed and frustrated you are. Understood?”
Stacey nodded. At this point, she would have agreed to pretty much anything he wanted if it meant he would stop, and really he wasn’t being at all unreasonable. He just wanted to keep her safe.
“Anastasia,” he said in a warning tone that seared her straight to her bones.
“Yes,” she said in a very small and shaky voice, feeling emotionally shattered and impossibly young. She felt rather than saw Cade’s nod. Then, he tipped her over just a bit further and set the tops of her thighs on fire. It took her a long time to realize he had finally stopped. For a moment, she simply laid there as he rubbed gently over her back and scalded bottom, trying desperately to get a hold–any hold at all–on her raging emotions. She drew in a deep shaky breath, and Cade, seeming to realize by some sixth sense that she had gotten it together, gathered her up like a tiny child and turned her to sit in his lap. She hissed when her bottom made contact with the fabric of his pants, and she shoved away roughly, angry with herself for breaking down. She hadn’t done that in years, not since she was a very small child and rarely even then. Sure, she could turn on the waterworks like a tap if need be, but this, this shattering, overwhelming waterfall of emotion, was different.
Cade was having none of it. He simply shifted his grip and drew her even closer to him. “Shh, settle down,” he said, “it’s over. We start fresh now.”
To Stacey, that idea was utterly ridiculous. People didn’t just forgive and forget and start over. Your baggage trailed you, haunted you, got thrown in your face months or even years later. Did he really think she was that stupid? She briefly considered asking but found she was just too damn tired to argue. Exhausted and limp as a wrung out dishrag, she curled up against his chest and let him comfort her. They could hash it out later.
She must have fallen asleep because the next thing she knew she was lying face down on her bed, and he was pulling the blankets up over her. “Go back to sleep,” he said when she stirred. “I’ve got to go home and get ready for work. You’ve got another hour or so yet. I set your alarm.” She made a brief, aborted attempt to rise, but he settled her right back down and pressed a kiss to her head. “Go back to sleep, sweetheart. I’ll see you later.”
Unable to even think of not obeying, Stacey complied, feeling the safest she’d ever felt in her life.
Chapter 5
When Stacey woke again, she found she was still surprisingly sore, and strangely peaceful. What the hell was that about? This big burly lawman had shouldered his way into her life and blistered her ass without a second thought. Who was he to tell her she couldn’t go out and get drunk if she chose? He wasn’t her father, for crying out loud. Hell, her own father had never even tried. To tell the truth, she doubted if her father had ever noticed. Cade certainly had noticed. He’d made that exceptionally clear. The message was still imprinted on her butt. Still, the whole mess was confusing. How could she be peaceful about something that he really had no right to do? Everything she knew told her she should be furious. She should be filing a police report, or at the very least, giving him a piece of her mind and throwing him out with instructions that she never wanted to see him again, but she didn’t want to do either of those things, despite what her head said she should be doing. In fact, the utmost thing on her mind as she dressed for work and had to ease her clothes over her bottom was not pissing him off again.
That confused her even more. She never cared what anyone thought of her. Why should she care what some man she’d known less than two weeks thought? The answer came to mind with surprising swiftness. He cared about her. Even as she thought it her mind argued that it was ludicrous. How could he care about her? He barely knew her. Still, thinking back about the wee hours of this morning, it was almost impossible to draw any other conclusion. A part of her wanted to dismiss it, to say he had just done it because he was angry or to get his rocks off at her expense, but her memory simply didn’t match up with that explanation. He wasn’t angry, not really. Sure, he wasn’t happy with her, but she’d seen angry, and that wasn’t it. Angry was screaming and yelling, fighting and tears, throwing things and storming out, bitter cutting words. Angry wasn’t that deliberate firm explanation of the problem and an equally firm determination of what he was going to do about it that didn’t involve any drama, screaming, or most of all, leaving. He said he cared about her, and despite the fact that it made no sense whatsoever, the facts left her with no real choice but to believe it. God, he drove her crazy. She felt as though the very foundations of the earth were shifting beneath her and she had no idea what to do about it.
Slapping on her makeup with an ease born of long practice, she made up her mind to go have lunch with Glory. If anyone would know how to handle a man like Cade Dawson, Glory would. She’d never met a man yet that Glory Baker couldn’t handle. It’d be interesting hear what Glory made of the lawman. That thought cheered her. She smiled as she finished her hair, stuck her feet into shoes and grabbed her keys. As she stopped to lock the door and greet Rufus, who had come barreling from beneath the porch and was jumping around her like a rabbit on speed, a horrible thought struck her, shattering her joy on contact. Sitting today was going to be hell.
***
Glorianna Baker, known to any and all who knew her simply as Glory, was the epitome of the stereotypical southern hairdresser. She had bleached blonde hair, teased into larger than life status, and more opinions than your average political rally with no qualms about unleashing them on anybody who happened to be in hearing distance. She was brash, bawdy, and loud. She knew it, was proud of it, and frankly, didn’t care what anyone else thought about it. She loved dancing, cold beer (with the occasional margarita thrown in just for fun) and hot men, in no particular order. Despite being at least ten years her senior, she was Stacey’s best friend in the world.
When Stacey slunk into her shop at noon, she was starving, restless, and working to fight off a foul mood. Cade had called earlier to check on her and ask about coming over tonight and ask if it was ok to bring his godson over this weekend. He was sweet, she had to admit that, and he made her smile, but even that did little to abate what was overwhelmingly a restless and miserable morning. As far as she was concerned, a dose of Glory’s fun-loving attitude was exactly what she needed to break though the pesky questions that had been nagging at her since she hit the floor this morning and take her mind off the lingering discomfort in her backside. “Hey, Glory, I brought lunch,” she said pushing her way through the salon’s glass door with her hip and holding up a paper bag containing sandwiches from the diner.
The four vinyl-covered chairs, wo
rn with age, butted up against the large windows on either side of the door were uncharacteristically empty as was the ratty sofa with the same worn vinyl sat against the wall on the left. The glass-top wicker coffee table in front of the chairs was covered with hairstyle magazines, their pages worn dull from frequent rifling. They too seemed oddly silent and still without the crinkling and movement of pages. A wooden desk, painted black, its front plastered with flyers for barbecues, booster club fundraisers, church bake sales and kittens offered free to a good home, divided the waiting area from the work area. Two styling stations, with styling chairs, built in cupboards, sinks, and large mirrors, covered the space to the left in the work area. One held Glory’s sole client, a thin, elderly woman, currently reclined with her head in the sink and a white towel draped around her neck secured with a large purple clip. The other stood empty.
“Girl, you are my new favorite person!” Glory boomed, shutting off the water and lifting the chair into an upright position. “I’m so hungry I could eat a horse, and since Amy Masterson canceled her 12 o’clock, I can actually sit down and eat for a change as soon as I’m done with Mrs. Peterson here.”
Too late, Stacy realized the identity of the occupant of Glory’s chair. It took everything she could to stifle a groan. Mrs. Eunice Peterson was a stern woman of indeterminate age, though Stacy rated her at least a few years older than dirt. She had been the stuff of Stacy’s nightmares since Stacy spent in interminably long year in Mrs. Peterson’s third grade class. Of all the people for her to run into today, Mrs. Peterson was one of the worst. Maybe if she were quiet Glory would finish quickly, and the old biddy would go away. She dropped the bags on Glory’s desk and began taking things out of bags and sorting them out.
“Hello, Anastasia,” Mrs. Peterson said in a high, nasally voice that even after nearly 15 years still had the ability to make Stacy’s skin crawl.
“Hello, Mrs. Peterson, how are you today?” Stacy replied, forcing herself to be civil. “Got anything to drink in here?” she asked Glory, who was quickly rolling Mrs. Peterson’s hair in curlers. “I forgot to get tea.”
Glory nodded. “There’s cokes and orange soda in the fridge.” Stacey moved toward the mini refrigerator tucked in the back of the room against a dark paneled wall between the shelves holding styling products for sale and the two narrow doors that led to the bathroom and the storage room that served as both a laundry room and color mixing area.
“Anastasia,” Mrs. Peterson continued, as though neither Stacy nor Glory had spoken. “Marilyn Levine told me her granddaughter Amy, the one who is the cheerleader and works at the diner, told her she saw you and that new deputy having supper there the other night. Are you two keeping company?”
Kneeling in front of the mini-fridge, Stacey discreetly rolled her eyes. She should have remembered that, in addition to being an insufferable witch, Mrs. Peterson was a born gossip. What kind of question was that anyway? What the hell was ‘keeping company’? Where did the old biddy think she was anyway, on some Civil War plantation? Who talked like that anymore? And just how long were the folks around here going to keep referring to Cade as the ‘new’ deputy? He’d been here for three years, for crying out loud! When was he going to earn the right to be counted as one of them? Then again, a lot of people in this town still talked about things that happened a decade ago as if they’d happened yesterday. McCloud had a very long memory. That was one of the many reasons this town drove her crazy. It was so damned backward.
“Well?” Mrs. Peterson pressed. “Answer me, girlie.”
Stacey bit back the flood of angry words that came immediately to mind, calling on every ounce of customer service skills she possessed. “Yes, ma’am,” she said, standing with drinks in hand and crossing back over to Glory’s desk, “we’re seeing each other.”
Mrs. Peterson considered this, pursing her lips grimly. “Don’t you think he’s too old for you?”
Stacey set the drink cans down with a good deal more force than necessary. “No, I don’t.”
The older lady sniffed disapprovingly. “Well, yes, I suppose not with the way things are nowadays. Men sniffing around after young girls who could be their daughters or granddaughters, and little girls practically throwing themselves at grown men. No sense of propriety nowadays. None at all. My Robert was just five years older, and that was plenty.”
Since Cade was probably ten years her senior, the barb, unspoken though it might be, was clearly felt. She had a brief momentary fantasy of abandoning all pretense of politeness and telling the horrid old woman just what she thought of her and her comments, but the memory of a quiet, growled, ‘Watch your mouth, little girl,’ had her holding her tongue. Frowning at the realization that Cade was somehow telling her what to do even when he wasn’t there; Stacey opened her drink and took a long swallow. That had to stop. Nobody told her what to do. How the hell did he do that anyway?
Before Stacey could decide whether or not to answer and just what to say if she did, Glory guided Mrs. Peterson under a dryer and turned it on. When Glory was sure that the noise of the dryer prevented the older woman from hearing her, she moved over to Stacey and said quietly, “Critical old bitch.”
Stacey grinned around her soda can as Glory opened hers and downed what seemed to be at least half of it in one go. Trust Glory to cut right to the heart of it and call a spade a spade, social politeness be damned. It was one of the things Stacey loved about her.
Reaching under her desk, Glory pulled out a wooden stool with four legs, a round top, and a battered blue cushion and perched on it, sighing in relief. “It may not look like it now, but it’s been crazy this morning,” she told Stacey. “Tori Winters is getting married next weekend, and she was in here with her five bridesmaids to try hairdos for the wedding, and Julie Hearn brought the triplets in for their haircuts. It’s been a madhouse.” Glory slid her feet out of her shoes with a small groan. “Man, my dogs are barking’.” She picked up her sandwich and took a huge bite, not bothered in the slightest by the small bits of lettuce and tomato that fell out as she did. She washed it down with another gulp of her soda, eyeing Stacey speculatively. “Why didn’t you tell me you had a new man?”
Stacey shrugged. “It’s kind of a new development, and it’s happened pretty fast.” It was a lame excuse, and they both knew it. She’d called Glory in the middle of the night to talk about men many times, but it was different with Cade. Everything was different with Cade.
“Is it that cop you were ogling the other day?” Glory asked between bites.
“I was not ogling,” Stacey protested.
Glory snorted. “Tell that lie to someone who’ll believe it, girl. Your tongue was practically dragging the floor. Is it him?”
Stacey nodded, feeling absurdly self-conscious. “That’s Cade.”
Glory studied her thoughtfully. “He’s not your usual type.”
Stacey quirked an eyebrow. “He’s hot and built like solid rock. How much more my type can you get?”
“He’s a cop,” Glory said pointedly.
Stacey shrugged. “So.”
“He’s a cop,” Glory repeated, emphasizing the last word, “you know, like law and order, straight and narrow, and you, my friend, are a party girl.”
Again, Stacey shrugged. “You know what they say about opposites attracting.”
“Fire can be pretty attractive too,” Glory told her, “but you’ll damn well get burned.”
Instantly, Stacey was reminded all too clearly of the fire Cade had lit in her butt early that morning. She wasn’t all that sore any more, but the vague allusion alone, however unintentional, was enough to make her squirm. She busied herself with her lunch to hide her blush. “Come on, Glory, don’t be such a downer,” she replied. “He might be different for me, but he’s a good guy, and you know I can take care of myself.”
“All right,” Glory conceded after a moment’s thought, “I just worry about you is all. I know you’re tough and all, but I don’t want you getting hur
t.” She flashed a broad teasing grin. “After all, you know if he hurts you I’d have to kill him, and I’d look terrible in prison orange.”
Stacey laughed. There it was. That was what she’d come for, that bold, slightly irreverent humor that never failed to brighten her day. How could anyone not love Glory?
“So,” Glory continued, “tell me about your lawman. What’s he like?”
Myriad images flooded Stacey’s mind, Cade in many forms and phases. It was totally incongruous with a man of Cade’s size and temperament, but sweet was the first thing that came to her mind. As strange as it seemed, he really was, the way he was unfailingly polite and, with the exception of when he was roasting her butt, really very caring and gentle. She thought of the almost unconscious hand at her back when they walked together and tucking her into bed like a child, even carefully holding her hair back when she was sick. Glory likely wouldn’t believe her, but it was true all the same.
Before she could answer, a timer dinged signaling the end of Mrs. Peterson’s drying time. Glory got up, washed her hands, and went back to finish styling the older woman’s hair. Stacey finished her lunch and flipped idly through a magazine trying to make herself as invisible as possible so as to avoid the old woman’s biting tongue. She wasn’t sure she could hold her temper if she found herself on the receiving end again and that was a headache she didn’t need today. It seemed to work. Mrs. Peterson ignored her and went into a rant about Tori Winters’s upcoming wedding. Stacey pretended to be absorbed in the magazine, but in truth, she couldn’t have told anyone who asked what it said or even which magazine it was. Her mind was on Cade.
Playing With Fire Page 6