by Cara Dee
"Calm yourself, girl," I growl.
"No!" She decides to fight me instead, thrashing in my hold, so I yank her farther back and secure her with both my arms. "Let me go right fucking now! That piece'a shit hurt Kayla!"
That voice…
I shake my head, the mayhem fogging my brain. The club's strobe lights, music, and chaos aren't exactly making shit easier. This girl is getting on my fucking nerves, though. Sensing that Mark, Cade, and Ray have the situation under control now, I force the feisty sub in a slave dress up against a wall.
"Get that scum out of my goddamn club," I hear Nicholas demanding as he strides past with Kayla in his arms.
Refocusing on the blonde, I strap a forearm across her sternum while she curses and pushes back the hair from her face—what the bloody hell. I do a double take because it fucking can't be.
My little rebel.
"Fuck." I stumble back, shocked beyond words. It can't be, but as those three words go on a loop in my head, the puzzle pieces crash together like heavy bricks. She's the Chelsea Kayla and Nicholas have spoken of.
Before me, Chelsea—Jesus Christ, Chelsea—pales and widens her eyes at me, and I glare venomously at my second glance of her slave dress. Slave. She's here. In a fucking fetish club, and God, what I told her a decade ago… What have I caused?
"Rio…"
I shake my head, refusing to accept it. I can't. By some miracle, I get my legs to work, and I escape like a fugitive. Perhaps I should be. What I did should surely be criminal.
"Is this seat taken?"
Taking a swig of my beer, I eye the young woman to my right—emphasis on young. "No."
Her dress, if you can call it that, ends high on her thighs, and the invitation in her eyes is clear as day. Too cute. Actually, she's bloody gorgeous, but way too young.
"Did you know I can read minds?"
My mouth twists up, and I lean an elbow against the bartop. "Really."
She nods. "You want to buy me a drink."
I laugh.
Taking in her appearance again, I shake my head slowly, amused and a fair bit concerned. "Why, because you can't buy one yourself?"
I push my way through the lobby and don't stop until I step outside and can suck in a deep, cold breath. The January chill fills my lungs, and I screw my eyes shut.
"Rio?"
The brick wall behind me supports me as I glance over to find Mark frowning my way.
I assume he got the drunk bastard out of here.
I'm next. "I'm not feeling well." I cough into my fist as a sudden bout of nausea turns my statement into nothing but truth. "I need to go home."
He winces at the pain on the side of his neck and lifts a brow while he checks his damaged skin. "Did something happen just now, or…?"
You could say that, though it's not related to the fight—per se. "Either I'm losing my mind or a ghost from the past has decided to come back and haunt me."
Fuck. More memories from that night in New York ten years ago flash through my mind, and I can't fucking escape them.
"Do you honestly expect me to believe you're twenty-one?"
She doesn’t act well. Her confused expression is accompanied by fidgeting. "I swear it."
"Liar." I lean close, wanting her out of here. My own thoughts about her appearance are lewd enough, and I won't touch her. I know most other men in this place would. It's not safe for her. "If you want, I can get you a cab to take you home."
She chooses to see it as something that can go further. "Will you come with me?" Her hand slides up my thigh, and I eye it briefly. "I bet you're wild."
She has no idea.
"I'm sorry about bailing, mate," I force out. "I have to get out of here."
Fully aware I've left my jacket and pretty much everything but my wallet in my locker on the second floor of the club, I head down the sidewalk to flag down a cab. I can come back for my shit tomorrow. Right now, I need to be far away from Switch. And Chelsea.
Sweet little rebel…
The young girl I called out for lying to me about her age, after which I warned her with a punctuated, "You don't want to know what I usually do with brats who lie and disrespect me."
I shouldn’t have told her. Holy fuck, I should not have told her. I can't even imagine what impression I made, or how it coerced her into being in a fetish club tonight. But I just know I had something to do with it.
Behind the Scenes
Touching Truth, Part III
Greg Cooper
"You were lucky," the doctor tells me.
Lucky is not the word I'd use for me. I caught a glimpse in a mirror earlier; my eyes are bloodshot, a nasty bruise is forming under my eye, my shirt is bloody, jacket torn, I've already thrown out my tie, I have a splitting headache, and my jaw is fractured. I have to hold it in place after a gruesome alignment I suffered through before. After so much prodding, I wonder idly if I should charge.
An hour or so ago, the police officer called me lucky, too. No one is pressing charges, so they left. Throwing me in a cell to sober up was out of the question since I require medical care. Lucky me.
If anything, I'm the picture of a man who's hit rock bottom.
"Are you even breathing, Mr. Cooper?"
"Yes," I whisper. Or I'm trying. Moving hurts. The slightest jostle sends explosions of pain through my skull, radiating down to my neck.
He eyes me, concerned. "Does your tongue feel thicker or like it's—"
"Headache."
"Ah. You'll get something for the pain shortly."
Wonderful.
"You might still need wiring," the doctor goes on. "It's important you come back to the hospital if the swelling doesn’t settle or if you feel your teeth won't align." A nurse enters the room, and the doctor nods in thanks, accepting an ice pack. "Use this, please."
I wince at the cold, pressing it gently against my battered jaw.
He studies my jaw and makes sure I didn’t move it when applying the ice. "Are you on any medication right now?"
"No." My voice comes out hoarse, quiet, and dull. I've been instructed to relax as much as possible without being "slack."
"Do you take anything regularly?"
Technically, no. "No." Lately, I've had panic attacks, but my wife helped me. She has a mild prescription for Xanax, work hazard of being an ICU nurse with a hectic schedule and a complete crap work environment.
"I'll be back in a little bit, Mr. Cooper. If someone's picking you up, you could contact them now."
And who would that be? Tess is out, for several reasons. I don't want to show my ugly face at home or anywhere near Abby. The sun is up, so Seth and Ted are at the office. Dizziness sways me a few inches as I scroll through my phone.
Ryan Quinn.
I swallow hard, which feels strange.
My easiest option would be to take a cab to the nearest hotel. Yet, my fingers flit across the keys in a message to Ryan.
Apologies for bothering you, Sir. I'm at St. Mary's ER (nothing serious) but would really appreciate a ride. No worries if it's too much. I can take a cab.
I press send before I can wise up. After the week I've had, I'm ready to beg for just five minutes with him. Them. Either of them. I'm beyond desperate. Exhaling shakily, my fingers tremble when the little "read" sign appears at the bottom of the message, indicating Ryan's opened the text.
My eyelids get heavier by the minute, possibly because I haven't slept much in…I don’t even know. I'm approaching forty-eight hours, anyway.
The buzz of my phone has my attention, and I detest that I have to send the call to voice mail. My pulse quickens because it's Ryan, but I can't speak more than a few words. Instead, I fire off another quick message.
I'm sorry, Sir. Minor fracture in my jaw. Speaking is difficult.
His reply arrives swiftly.
When and where do I pick you up? Anything you need?
Thank you, thank you, thank you. Goddamn emotions. My eyes well up, and I text him the add
ress, a time, as well as a request for a sweater with a hood. Knowing what the doctor has planned next, I have no desire to show my face.
*
I flinch as the doctor wraps my head in a bandage. Under my jaw, over the top of my head, around my face. It'll keep the jaw in place until it heals by itself. Because I got lucky and only sustained a minor fracture.
The pain medication is marvelous, however. It's starting to kick in, and I have a feeling I'll be dead to the world the second my head gently hits the pillow.
The doctor talks about everything I have to think of and countless things I should refrain from. Ibuprofen or any other anti-inflammatory drugs; understood. Speech restriction; got it. And kinky, if I'm not mistaken.
There's a knock on the door as he finishes with the bandaging, and I return the ice pack to my face as he opens the door.
It's Ryan. In his messy morning glory. Jeans and hoodie, beanie covering his constantly disheveled hair.
"I'm here for the chipmunk," he drawls with a quirk of his lips.
I've missed his voice.
The doctor's eyes show amusement. "He's ready to go home. He needs to rest."
"Oh, I'll make sure he rests." Ryan steps in and hands me a plastic bag. "You ordered a hoodie. I took the liberty of packing a pair of sweats, too."
I nod in thanks, finding it difficult to speak for other reasons than my broken jaw. It's even difficult to look him in the eye.
He is stockier than I am, broader chest and shoulders, muscled thighs, and he has a few inches on my six feet, so I'm not surprised to discover his clothes look big on me. The sweat pants cling low on my hips, and I tighten the drawstrings so they don't come farther down. The faded gray fabric has softened with years of wear and washing. Along the leg of the pants, "USMC" is printed in dark blue.
He thinks I have no interest in getting to know them; he's wrong. For months now, I've had questions building up inside me. Everything from his days in the Marines and how he came to own a bar, to how he and Angel met and what their goals for the future are.
The doctor fills out my prescription for pain medication while I discard my button-down and put on the hoodie.
It smells of Ryan and Angel. Their apartment and fabric softener.
Drawing the hood up, I'm glad most of the bandages are hidden.
I receive another scripted speech from the doctor, and then I'm discharged and billed—or robbed blind—before I follow Ryan out of the ER. The sun is shining, which my bloodshot eyes truly love. I wince and squint at the bright light.
Ryan drives a truck. Of course he drives a truck. He's a truck kind of person. The dark green gleams in the sun. The big tires whisper of off-road adventures, the tracks filled with mud that doesn't belong in the city.
"Get in, chipmunk."
I get it, I get it. My face is a bit compressed by the bandage. Very funny.
I haul myself inside and buckle up.
"Thank you again for picking me up," I say quietly.
"No problem." He sticks the key in the ignition and drums the wheel. "Where to?"
"A hotel, please. I think there's a Marriott—"
"So you don’t wanna go home." He nods once and starts the vehicle. "Then, fuck the Marriott." Looking over his shoulder, he backs out of the parking space. "Angel's with my mother today, and I'm not working. We can veg out at our place."
Thank you, thank you, thank you.
We stop on the way to get my medication, and Ryan's sadistically amused by the strict diet I'll be on for the next week or two. Heading up and down the aisles of a grocery store, he cracks jokes while my headache returns.
"I'm glad my misery amuses you," I mutter.
He ignores that. "This could be good practice for me. Here." He stops in an aisle with baby food and grabs my basket. "Plain nasty. You can't even see it's chicken and…" He reads the label closer. "Who the fuck feeds their children this shit?"
"I'd rather stick to smoothies and oatmeal."
"But the image of force-feeding you baby food is too hard to resist." He drops another few glass jars with illustrated animals and block letters in bright colors into the basket. "Maybe you can borrow one of Angel's pacifiers."
I flush uncomfortably and get rid of that mental picture.
We continue toward the produce where I can get some fruits and vegetables for smoothies. On the way, I check my phone to see if Seth and Ted have replied, but they haven't. I sent Sally a message, as well. There is no way I can see clients with a bruised face and bandaged head, so in a few days when I return to work, I'll have to stick to whatever I can do in my office.
"Am I allowed to ask about what happened to you?" Ryan asks.
I lift a shoulder, not sure why he's interested. "Ask away, but I take no responsibility if my life depresses you."
"Aw, I guess I can crash your pity party."
I shoot him a quick scowl.
He drops a bag of apples in the basket and quirks his lazy grin. "Did you deserve it?"
"I hurt innocent people, so I suppose I did."
He lifts his brows and continues perusing the fruit. "I hope you defend clients better than you defend yourself."
I know when I'm guilty or not. And on that note, shouldn’t he be royally pissed with me? I'm guilty of lying to him and Angel.
After picking out a handful of bananas, he pauses to gently grip my chin. "They didn’t wire you shut or nothin'?"
"No, the doctor said I was lucky."
"Indeed. You're cute when you mutter and mumble." He's having fun. He's not royally pissed. "Who rearranged your face?"
"My little brother."
"Ah. Brotherly love, huh?" He lets me go. "I take it you're not close."
"No, not particularly." I avert my gaze, leftover anger sparking up for a quick second. "I'm ready to get out of here."
He nods and adds a couple passion fruits to the basket. "Sounds good. Let's go home and abuse our blender."
Home.
*
Where are you? Mark called. I'm worried, Greg.
I frown at the message and type out a quick response to Tess.
I'm fine. I'll be home tonight.
Muting the phone, I forget it exists and follow Ryan down the hall. It gives me a slight pause when he walks past the second bedroom and continues to the one he shares with his wife. When you don’t ask questions, you don't get answers, and so I've assumed it's off-limits. Then again, this isn't…playtime. I guess we're…two friends hanging out? God, that sounds wrong. I don’t have friends, and socializing is reserved for work events.
"What the…" I stop short in the doorway to their bedroom. "No bed?" Well, there's a huge mattress, no doubt a California King, thick enough to reach my knees, and countless pillows, covers, and blankets—but no bed frame. There is, however, a gigantic flat screen on the wall, so that says a thing or two about their priorities.
"We keep breaking 'em."
"Jesus." I can see it, too. She's mostly submissive to Ryan, but he's mentioned she's his "primal whore" sometimes, too. That’s when they, as they call it, hate-fuck and take each other apart.
Ryan flashes a wolfish smirk and sets down his breakfast on the nightstand. Which is a rustic old wooden crate. The white-painted brick walls are completely bare, aside from one that’s full of black-and-white photos of him and Angel and their travels. They are outdoorsy. Tents, starry skies, deserts, and mountain ranges. There's a photo of Angel holding up a rifle; she's wearing a triumphant grin and standing next to a dead deer.
Angel's captured a photo of Ryan lighting up a cigarette. On the ground is a dead moose.
Good grief.
"Are you hunters?" I blurt it out, forgetting to be careful, and I flinch at the sharp pain in my jaw.
He inclines his head, eyeing the wall of photos. "My family has a cabin up north. We try to meet up a couple weeks every year. We live off the land then."
Of course they do.
I can barely manage the lands of Target.
"I don’t know what that is." I set down my smoothie and a cup of chocolate pudding on the other crate, and then I hesitate. It's probably wise I keep my clothes on. Otherwise, I'll only embarrass myself.
"Oh, it's a motherfucking delight. Think of it as a modern Golden Girls."
That’s…that's endearing. Stifling a smile, I sit down on the mattress and adjust three pillows to lean back on. And then I'm watching TV and eating breakfast in bed with a man who's degraded me, fucked me six ways to Sunday, cared for me, picked me up at the hospital…the list goes on. It's surreal, in several ways. I still don’t belong here, yet it's the place I love more than any other. A place I can be myself.
At one point, he gets up to get me a new ice pack—or a bag of frozen peas—and my medication.
"Thank you for letting me stay here," I say quietly, finishing the chocolate pudding, "Sir."
"You're welcome, pet." He removes one of his pillows to get more comfortable, and then he extends his arm. "Come here."
Thank you, thank you, thank you.
I take a sip of water and the bag of frozen peas, then scoot closer and rest the good side of my face on his chest. He pulls the covers over us and presses a kiss to my forehead. It relaxes me. With him, I don’t have to pretend. Except…I'm borrowing time and pretending I belong here.
Ryan's chest rumbles with warm chuckles whenever he finds the TV show funny. I don’t pay much attention to it, more interested in the wall of photos. Glimpses into his life with Angel.
Their wedding photo twists my stomach in envy, though at the same time, I can't think of two people more deserving. Dressed in a simple summer dress, Angel smiles softly, eyes visibly misty, as Ryan bows and kisses her knuckles. She has flowers in her hair.
What would that even feel like? To love someone so deeply. To love someone who won't wave goodbye one day as she sets off for college.
"You're beautiful together."
Ryan follows my gaze and smiles. "She's my life." He pauses. "For being so young, she's taught me a shitload, too."