by Chloe Cox
She gripped the steering wheel even tighter.
I am not gonna barf. Not in my own freaking car.
Waves of emotion roiled through her, and Simone just tried to ride it out. She knew she should open her door. She should talk to that girl. She should find out if she was ok.
By the time she opened her eyes, the girl was gone.
That’s when it really hit. Simone felt horrible. Like she’d failed that girl, and failed herself. The old habits of self-criticism and blame came roaring back, and for a second—a split second—literally all she wanted to do in the world was drink.
No.
She’d come here to confront Alan Crennel, and instead she was confronting all of her triggers. Which was totally unfair, but so was life. She had to slow down, and she had to think. She’d learned a bunch of tricks in rehab. Time to use them.
What am I afraid of?
That one was easy. Crennel’s stupid face, laughing at her. Knowing she wouldn’t be able to do a damn thing but yell at him. Seeing him enjoy it. Because he would. He wanted her to come here, like this. That’s why he’d gotten to Cave.
Is it worth it?
Simone let out a long, slow breath. The answer to that one was even easier. Hell to the absolute no. Nothing Alan Crennel had ever done or would do was worth falling over the edge of that precipice again.
Simone slammed her steering wheel until she felt a little better, not caring that she definitely looked like a crazy person. Then she took one last look at the house. The truth was, Simone didn’t know anything about that woman. She didn’t know her story, didn’t know her choices. Maybe Simone was just projecting her own experiences. But even if that girl were fine, there would be one who wasn’t.
Which meant Simone had to do something. She couldn’t go anywhere near that place without losing her mind. But she knew someone who could.
There was only one man she’d trust to handle this.
Only one Dom.
Holt.
Holt had been working on one hell of a headache when his boss moseyed on in to his office for one of his talks.
Normally, Holt didn’t mind shooting the shit with DA Rich Carlinson. He liked the old man’s way of doing business. He liked that he checked in with his investigators, and he liked that Carlinson always had their back.
But today he did not want to talk about his cases. Not either of them.
“So how did today’s chat with Mrs. Greenfield go?” Carlinson said, leaning against the doorframe as though he were thirty years younger while he swirled his afternoon bourbon. “She bake you cookies?”
Holt cocked his head. “Biscuits. They were delicious.”
“People talk over food,” Carlinson observed.
Holt met the older man’s blue eyes. The DA was one of those men who seemed born to be seventy and then never age a day after that. He had a shock of thick white hair, a tall, distinguished build, and the stamina of a man half his age. Holt respected him.
And he was going to lie to him anyway.
“That they do,” Holt said.
“She say anything useful?” Carlinson asked. The smile was fading from his face. He didn’t like being jerked around, and Holt couldn’t blame him. But he also knew his boss’s reputation. And Carlinson would nail Mrs. Greenfield to the wall if Holt gave him the hammer.
“No,” Holt said, thinking about the ripped-up notes in his car. “She just wanted to show me pictures of her grandson. Photo albums, that kind of thing. I think she’s lonely.”
She was lonely, all right. And she’d wanted Holt to know that her boy had only started slinging to help pay for her medications, revealing that she’d known about it all along—or at least that’s how it would play to a jury. They already had her for conspiring after the fact. This would mean she was an active conspirator. Different ball game.
Part of Holt wanted to throw the book at Mrs. Greenfield, too. But the rest of him couldn’t forget the look on her face while she showed him pictures of her grandson.
“Well, all right,” Carlinson said eventually, swirling his bourbon again. “What are you working on now?”
Holt looked down at the papers strewn about his desk. All of it research. None of it enough.
“That club I told you about,” he said. “Sinsations. Owned by Alan Crennel.”
Carlinson nodded. Crennel would be a juicy target, but Carlinson wasn’t going to apply any leverage to a friendly judge until the case was solid. He didn’t need to say it, but Holt knew Carlinson thought Crennel was dirty. As in bribing politicians and judges dirty. It meant they had to tread carefully.
“Anything?” Carlinson asked.
“A few leads,” Holt said. “Working on it.”
Carlinson’s blue eyes fell on Holt. Not for the first time, Holt could feel the old man studying him. He wondered if that’s how subs felt under an observant Dom. There would be something unsettling about it, if Holt wasn’t able to give as good as he got.
“Something about this gets to you,” Carlinson said finally.
Carlinson knew that Holt was a member at Club Volare. Holt had disclosed immediately, not wanting it to pop up later in a way that could harm a case. And that was about as personal as Holt wanted to get.
“He abuses vulnerable people,” Holt said. “I don’t like that.”
Carlinson sipped his bourbon, unhurried. Still watching.
“Hmm,” he said. “Well, you know, it’s a common misconception that people in our line of work can’t afford to have a heart.”
Holt snorted. “Is it?”
He meant: was it a misconception? Carlinson took it the other way.
“You’d be surprised,” the DA said, finishing his bourbon. “Of course, the truth is that you can only do this kind of work if you have a heart in the first place. So long as you know how to use it. So it’s good to see yours is still working.”
Holt frowned. What in the hell did that mean?
He wasn’t in the mood to play cryptic mentor games. Carlinson was his boss, but Holt was good at his job because he didn’t take crap from anyone. People trusted his results. And they trusted him to do the right thing. So Holt was about to tell his boss to say what he wanted to say or shut up.
Until Simone Delavigne glided in on four-inch heels and a sense of urgency. She hesitated at the sight of Carlinson, whose back was turned to her, and who hadn’t heard her coming. Then she looked at Holt.
His Dom senses put him on alert before he was even fully conscious of why. Something was wrong. His sub was flushed, her pupils dilated, her breathing irregular. Something had made her heart race. And not in the good way.
His eyes locked on her, Holt saw Simone’s gaze flicker to the now-empty bourbon glass in Rich Carlinson’s right hand. Just a flicker.
“Excuse us, Rich,” Holt said in a tone that left no room for argument.
Carlinson raised his white eyebrows, followed Holt’s gaze, took one look at Simone, and nodded.
“Of course,” he said, lowering his empty glass until it was out of sight. “Always a pleasure, Miss Delavigne.”
Simone smiled uncomfortably. Once you knew her, it was easy to forget that Simone knew most of the powerful people in the state just from being her father’s daughter. It was never so easy for Simone to forget, though. It was part of why her trip to the hospital and rehab—and the disclosure that she’d been at a BDSM club—had hit the papers. She was notable.
How much harder had her public flameout been, knowing everybody she’d known her whole life would know all the details?
Suddenly protective, Holt strode forward, guiding Simone into his office proper with one hand and shutting the door firmly behind her with the other. She would have privacy here, at least. She would be safe here.
That, he would make sure of.
He turned back and, without a word and without waiting, he cupped her face in his palm. Tilted it up, towards him. Brushed his thumb along her cheek.
“Are you ok?” he asked.
Simone licked her lips. Swallowed.
“Yes,” she said. “I think so. Look, I…”
Holt searched her eyes. The connection between them almost burned. He wanted to hold her, protect her, fuck her, all at once.
“What?” he said.
“I can’t talk with you touching me,” she whispered.
Holt suppressed a growl, and dropped his hand. He got it. He did. Whatever the hell happened when they touched each other went beyond verbal ability. It was only Dom skills that kept him from losing control. And if she needed to talk, he wanted to listen.
“Go on,” he said, and sat on the edge of his desk. “What happened?”
Simone took a deep breath, and closed her eyes.
“I went to see Alan Crennel,” she said.
Holt stayed completely motionless, except for his hands and his heart. His hands curled into powerful, solid fists, while his heart thundered in his chest.
“Did he hurt you?” he said.
It came out too blunt. Too direct. He had said it as the man who loved her, not as her Dom. She blanched.
“Retracted,” he said, gruffly. “I know that’s not my department anymore. Just tell me what happened.”
“I didn’t see him,” she said, her shoulders relaxing, and then slumping. “I didn’t even go in. I just…sat outside in my car, wishing I could shoot lasers out of my eyes or something.”
“Why did you go in the first place?” Holt asked. Something about this wasn’t right. Something was bugging him.
“This is why,” Simone said, seeming almost grateful to look away. She reached into her bag and pulled out a glossy copy of some oversized magazine. It looked like one of the fashion ones she used to have all around everywhere, except there wasn’t a title. Just a “B” in the corner.
The title wasn’t what interested him though. It was the photo—which looked like a half-dressed, blindfolded woman, bound at the wrists, being pulled in two different directions by unseen idiots—and the headline.
Which was some dumb thing about “Dueling Deviants.”
And then there was the byline.
“Cave Johnson screwed me,” Simone said. “Crennel got to him. The creep stole my press. I knew this would happen, but I gave Cave the benefit of the doubt, and now this…this is a mess.”
Holt didn’t say anything, just watched. Simone had expected something like this. Maybe not this bad, but something like this. There was more.
“But that’s not really why I’m here,” she said finally, sitting down in one of the guest chairs. She didn’t want to look at him, for some reason.
“I was across the street when I saw someone leaving Crennel’s,” she went on. “Or Sinsations. Whatever. She was really young, Holt. A sub, by the looks of it. And she looked…she didn’t look good.”
“Strung out?” he asked.
“I thought so,” she said. “Maybe. I don’t know. Something was wrong.”
Then she looked up, and locked eyes with him.
“But whatever is going on there, you need to stop it, Holt. This rival club thing is silly, but this…this is real. People are getting hurt. You need to do something. I need you to do something.”
Holt held her gaze until she looked down. And then he took a big breath.
Damn it.
Simone hadn’t admitted to needing him, beyond physically, since he’d broken up with her. He ignored the feelings that rose up in his chest—ignored the caveman telling him to go crack skulls, ignored the better man telling him to hold his woman—and focused on Simone. Because something was wrong.
There was something there. Something underneath. Some pain, and some fear. After a moment, Simone looked away.
Holt cursed under his breath. The truth was he would do anything for the woman he loved. As the man who loved her, he’d forget about the law, about his job, about anything else, just to make it go away. But he couldn’t be that. Not anymore. She wasn’t asking for that.
She was asking for the investigator.
“I’m working on it,” he said.
She tensed. “Why can’t you just go in there and do one of those raids or something? I mean, it’s obvious he’s got more than alcohol going on, right? And, I mean, you find one person under the influence in a risky situation and… It’s not like—”
“It’s not that simple,” Holt said, his frustration growing. He wanted to crush Crennel, and he wanted to hold Simone, and he wasn’t allowed to do either.
“Why not?”
“I can’t get a warrant unless I have complaining witnesses,” Holt said. “People willing to testify. People willing to go on the record.”
Simone opened her mouth as if to speak, then closed it again.
“But don’t worry,” Holt said. “I will find them.”
And he meant it.
And she saw that he meant it.
The color drained out of her face.
“No,” she said.
“What?” Holt said. Now he was confused.
“You can’t do that,” she said, gathering her bag and standing up without accepting his hand. Then she looked into his eyes one last time, but this time, something was missing.
She was afraid.
“Promise me you won’t do that,” she whispered.
Simone was barely holding it together. And not because she was upset about Crennel.
“That’s the only way I can do my job,” Holt said. He was still sitting on the corner of his desk, and somehow he still towered over her. “I’ve got to find a complaining witness.”
He left it there. Waiting for Simone to fill in an explanation for her objection.
She couldn’t explain without telling him.
And she just…couldn’t. So she lied by telling a different truth.
“I’m asking you not to put any of those women in that position,” Simone said. “The girl I saw today…please don’t ask that of her. There’s got to be another way.”
Holt didn’t answer at first. He got up off his desk and came toward her in one long stride, his gray eyes staring down at her as though they saw everything. She couldn’t move. She didn’t want to move. And yet she knew how dangerous this was.
This was as raw as she’d ever been around him, and she had all her clothes on.
Holt watched her carefully for another moment, then put his hand on the side of her face. She leaned into it, not able to resist his touch. Eighteen months ago, she might have expected him to push her, to be rigid in his expectations that a sub expose everything to her Dom. But he saw her limits. Even when they weren’t in a scene, he saw her limits.
“You’re right,” he said, finally. “I don’t want you to worry about that. I’ll find some other way. And I’ll get him. I promise you.”
And then he dropped his hand, and walked back toward his desk.
Simone blinked. It was like being released from a spell. She missed him. Missed him. What the heck was that about? It was insane.
But she did feel better. Better, and worse. In one very specific way.
“So what are you going to do about your stolen press?” he asked, sitting down in his chair, putting his legs up on his desk. He was grinning at her now. It pulled a smiled from her, too, and she knew that was the point of it. The man was like a magician.
“Oh,” Simone said. “I do have an idea about that. I just need you to help me sell it to Gavin. And to Rose.”
Holt recognized the name immediately, if his raised eyebrow was any indication. And he was an investigator. He figured out what it meant just a beat later. Then he threw back his head and laughed.
“That’s a brilliant plan,” he said. “Consider it sold.”
Simone smiled for real at that.
“Excellent,” she said. “I figure this Friday at the club?”
Holt’s expression darkened for a moment, his eyes smoldering. “As long as it doesn’t interfere with the plans I have for you this Friday at the club.”
Simone b
asked in the warm glow of that as she walked out the door. But the glow of Holt’s promise wasn’t enough to buoy her heart against that terrible sinking feeling in her chest, at least not for long. Because that conversation had been the perfect time to tell Holt about her own past with Crennel. Worse, it had been the right thing to do. But she just couldn’t do it.
Because she still loved him.
She couldn’t deny it anymore. And that was the only reason she couldn’t be his complaining witness. Because she still loved him, and the last time she’d loved him and made a total mess of her life, he’d broken up with her. And she couldn’t bear to see that look on his face ever again.
She was totally, completely screwed.
17
Cave Johnson was such a slimy little worm that Holt, however unconsciously, fully expected him to be able to profit off of his worm nature. Usually that was the point of being a worm. It paid well.
But Cave lived in a tiny studio apartment over a coffee shop. Not exactly living large, especially not for a man of Cave’s age and general attitude. The attitude helped Holt this time, though. The barista at the coffee shop was all too happy to give Holt the spare key to the upstairs entrance once he flashed his badge.
Holt rapped his knuckles on Cave’s door.
The sounds of someone puttering around inside stopped abruptly. There was a pause.
“Who is it?” Cave demanded, his voice shrill. Then, stupidly, “No one’s here.”
Holt chuckled to himself, then summoned his most intimidating Dom voice.
“Don’t keep me waiting,” he growled. “And don’t make me remove the door. I hate removing doors. It makes me angry.”
Holt folded his arms, and waited.
He had the key to the second story in one hand and a red envelope in the other. There was also a normal piece of paper tucked in the breast of his shirt that he was supposed to be looking at—a statement that Simone had drafted for Holt. She intended to have him kindly apologize to Cave and deliver the special invitation at the same time.
Holt had promised to read Simone’s version, then deliver his version. Simone had tried to make some sort of argument involving flies, honey, and vinegar, and Holt had had to remind her who was the Dom.