Shane (Damage Control #4)

by Jo Raven

  No. Stop. Don’t.

  No reply.

  I twist on my belly on the cold floor, trying to escape.

  But there is no escape. Ever. No matter how hard I fight, how I kick and try to punch them, try to get free, it never happens. It all plays out, time after time.

  Only, tonight, something shifts. My throat is raw from screaming, and my body feels like it was flayed, white-hot pain twisting in my guts, when I find myself sprawled over a body.

  Warm, soft. A woman’s body.

  It confuses me.

  It arouses me.

  My body responds, and I shift, hardening, my balls tightening. I don’t know how, but I’m sinking into her pussy, and it’s hot and wet and silky. So fucking tight.

  The pain tangles up with pleasure, and nausea twists my stomach. I wish I could stop, but it seems beyond my control. It feels too good, fire pulsing through my dick, and my hips rock without conscious thought. Chasing after that lightning feeling of coming, of breaking into pleasure, a feeling I haven’t allowed myself to feel often—always too messed up with memories.

  Need it now. Need it with her. I grab her hands, slam them into the floor, fuck her hard and fast, until she’s sliding on the tiles.

  Shit. Need her. Cassie. Her eyes open and I can see her face—small, pretty.

  Hurt me, I plead as I move inside her. Hurt me, Cassie. Need it.

  Her lips part, and she moans.

  The sound sends me hurtling into an orgasm that shakes me until I can’t breathe. And then I try to move, and I can’t, glued to her, glued to the floor, sinking through it as if through quicksand, suffocating and dying.

  When I finally wake up tangled in my blanket, drenched in cold sweat and gasping for breath, I’m not sure what I’m more horrified about—the fact the men turned into Cassie in my dream, the pleasure I felt, or the violence I used to fuck her.

  Fucking hell.

  If I’m about to turn into the monsters of my dreams, then I might as well kill myself now.

  ***

  The days pass, slow and endless. The light is gray, the work hard. I’m back at the construction site, doing my best to stay focused. My back is killing me, but taking a sick day isn’t something I can afford. So I suck it up and keep working. At least the pain serves as an anchor, grounding me in the present.

  Except for the times it hurls me into the past, screaming and kicking.

  Zane is stressed as his wedding day approaches, but he likes my new designs and doesn’t even seem to notice I space out again while he explains another technique.

  Man, gotta get my shit together.

  ’Cuz Cassie wants me to be her date at the wedding.

  How stupid is it that I smirk every time I think about that? I mean, we’re friends, right? She doesn’t see me that way, and even if she did… Yeah, that’d be the worst idea ever. Better not to have her than to lose her completely, know what I mean?

  Still, for some reason I feel like I used to feel about Christmas when I was a kid. Excited. Impatient.

  Which is so fucking stupid, Shane. You never learn, do you?

  My training time over, I trudge out of Zane’s cubicle, pulling the tie from my hair and rubbing my skull. Besides the pain in my back, I have a headache that won’t quit—not that it’s strange, given how bad my sleep is.

  The shop’s mostly empty. The light in Rafe’s office is on, but I don’t see anyone else as I make my way toward the lockers. I grab my jacket and my gloves and turn toward the exit.

  Muffled curses from another cubicle make me stop in my tracks. It sounds like Ocean, and when I turn that way, I make out his blue hair from the opening.

  I hesitate. I feel… battered. Unsteady. Though the thought of going to sleep scares the shit out of me these days, lying down sounds like fucking heaven.

  But Ocean has always been there for us, Seth and me, always checking in on me to see if I’m okay.

  “Hey, man.” I lean in the opening of the cubicle, cross my arms over my chest. “What’s up?”

  He’s braced with his hands on the counter, head bowed low. “Nothing.”

  Yeah right. “Looks like a fucking bad nothing.”

  “Fuck off, Shane.”

  I narrow my eyes at him. That reaction’s not unusual when you prod a guy who’s pissed off, but it’s unusual for Ocean. He’s the sunny boy of Damage Control, always smiling and farting rainbows.

  His back bows more, taut like he’s in pain, and shit, maybe I should call Tyler or Micah. I have no clue what’s going on here.

  “Are you hurt?” I take a step inside, and he recoils, lifting a hand to stop me.

  “Relax, sunshine.” He gives me a twisted smirk that’s more a grimace than anything. “I think tonight calls for self-medication. Wanna come get shitfaced with me? Drown our sorrows together?”

  “I have no sorrows to drown,” I whisper, looking down at the tips of my black boots.

  “Your dreamcatcher says the opposite,” he counters, and I flinch inwardly, wondering how much he sees.

  “Whatever.”

  “Oh, what the fuck. Know what?” He straightens, pushes blue hair out of his face and glares at the counter. “I’ll go get wasted on my own. Won’t be the first time, either.” He sweeps a stack of papers to the floor and pushes past me to go.

  “Wait.” My gut tells me that leaving him alone right now is a bad, bad idea. So I follow him out, into the cold evening. “Let’s go.”

  ***

  “Gimme another one.” Ocean slams his empty shot glass on the bar and waves at the bartender who rolls his eyes and grabs the bottle of whisky. “That’s my man.”

  Ocean’s drunk off his ass, and I haven’t been able to make heads or tails from what he’s been telling me, mumbling under his breath, something about his brother and mistakes and fucking up. He’s like, fuck you, fate, and fuck you, life, and fuck all.

  At least I can relate to that. Raising my glass, I down my shot, grunting when the whisky burns a path down my throat to my chest.

  Shit, I shouldn’t be the one standing here with Ocean, leaning against the bar, listening and not knowing what to say. What use is someone as fucked-up as me? If I knew what to do, I’d save myself first. What does it tell you when drinking is my solution, too, when the dark swallows me? When my advice would be to find a wall to punch until you’ve broken your goddamn fingers?

  Yeah. Thought so.

  So I keep my mouth shut and text Seth again. He’s the positive one, the one who always talks me back from the ledge, and I’m not sure how I know Ocean is about to jump, but I do.

  You wouldn’t think it, seeing him now as he’s drinking and ranting about fate like any other guy, but this is Ocean. The bright light of the Damage Boyz, the one guy who’s always cracking jokes and sees the good in everything, the one who’s never broken down.

  Like I said, things change.

  Besides… I know the signs. Seen them in myself before. Takes a man at the end of his rope to know another.

  My phone never pings with a message back, and I resign myself to spending the night on some sidewalk tonight, unable to stand upright, let alone find my way back to the apartment—when some undetermined time later, my head buzzing and my vision fuzzy, a heavy hand lands on my shoulder.

  “Fuck.” I jerk away, sloshing the whisky in my glass, and find Seth grinning at me.

  “Cuz,” Seth says in way of greeting and drags a stool, then nods at Ocean. “Shun, my man.”

  “Don’t call me that,” Ocean jabs a finger at Seth and misses. He scowls. “Told you.”

  “Told me what?”

  “My brother calls me that, motherfucker.” He tries to shove Seth away and almost falls off his stool. “Don’t ever call me that, you hear me?

  Seth grabs him, pushes him back easily, gets in his face. “Cool down, man.”

  I finish my shot, put the glass down on the bar, but miscalculate and it crashes to the floor.

  Shit.

  “Jus
t how wasted are you, cuz?” Seth gives me a brotherly cuff on the back and I gasp at the impact on my bruises. “Goddammit, man, you okay? Christ, I forgot about your fall.”

  “Your fall?” Ocean asks.

  Great. Now they’re both staring at me, and I’m too damn drunk to even glare at them properly.

  Disgusted, I ignore them instead, turning my back to them.

  And find myself faced with Cassie.

  ***

  “I’m here with Seth and Manon,” Cassie says, unbuttoning her coat, and I blink. “What do you think?”

  What I think is that I can make no sense of what she said, staring at her mouth, the pale column of her neck, even more distracted as her coat parts, revealing the tiny black dress she’s wearing. It’s cut low in the front, giving me a glimpse of the shadow between her breasts.

  I suck in a sharp breath when she tugs on the hem of her dress, wiggling a little, revealing more of the curve of pale flesh above the dress. My mouth has gone dry, and hell, can’t remember the last time I was so hard.

  So fucking hard I reach down and give my dick a squeeze, hoping to relieve the pressure. The moment my hand reaches down, though, her gaze dips and follows, darkening.

  Shivering, I lean against the bar. I can’t even remember why I’m here, only that I want her, and she’s right here, in front of me.

  A doubt niggles at the back of my thoughts, blaring an alarm. Bad idea. Goddamn bad idea, but I can’t recall why, the alcohol in my system smoothing all wrinkles, hiding all obstacles.

  “You haven’t come back to the gym,” Cassie says, glancing toward the bartender, then around. “I kept hoping you would.”

  She did? There’s that unfamiliar sensation again as my lips pull into a smile. “Too busy.”

  “How’s your back?”

  I say nothing, leaning closer to her. She smells of vanilla. I remember her scent. I wonder if her mouth tastes like sugar.

  Visions flash through my brain—of shoving her against the wall and licking at her mouth, pushing up that tiny dress and fucking her right here, so hard her head thuds back and her eyes glaze up.

  Oh shit.

  Again I’m doing it—fantasizing about fucking Cassie, about hurting her while I do it.

  Fuck, this is sick. I am sick.

  “Hey, man.” Seth appears on my right, and for a moment I blink at him, lost. “I’m taking Ocean home, he’s pretty smashed, can barely stand. How’s your status?”

  Status.

  He used to ask me that when I’d wander the streets and get stoned out of my fucking mind after my mom died. Chasing my ungrateful ass all over town to make sure I didn’t overdose on drugs and didn’t get killed in a gang shoot-out. Dragging me back home, time after time.

  “I’ll walk him to his apartment,” Cassie says, and Seth nods, as if ending a conversation I wasn’t a part of.

  “I’m fine,” I say, frowning at them. “I can walk.”

  “Sure you can. Humor me, though, buddy.” Seth lifts a hand to pat my back, then thinks better of it and pats my cheek instead.

  Like when we were six.

  Dammit.

  Worse still, I can’t refuse to walk back with Cassie. Truth is, I don’t mind. At all. Maybe it’s the alcohol singing in my blood, but the thought of being near her, just close enough to smell the sweetness of her skin, chases the darkness away for a while.

  ***

  The walk to my apartment is a disjointed jumble of images and sounds. The only constant is her, a bright flash of color and warmth sidling beside me, her long hair glinting in the light of the street lamps like liquid gold.

  “Careful,” she says at some point, grabbing my arm, saving me with a headlong collision with another pedestrian.

  Heat radiates from her hand, from the light pressure her fingers apply over my jacket. I want her closer—and I shouldn’t, I know I shouldn’t. This is the mother of all bad ideas, but I can’t help it.

  I turn, stopping our progress, and she looks up at me, her eyes dark, like the night sky above. Her hand slides up my arm to my shoulder, and my whole body tightens and bends toward her.

  A car honks passing by, and I jerk, my breath stuttering.

  “You okay?” she asks, and I nod. That eternal question with its standard answer.

  Yeah, I’m okay. I’m alive. I’m mostly sane. I even get hard now and then, when a pretty girl looks at me—when Cassie looks at me. My body was dead for the last two years. It’s waking up now and trying to make up for lost time.

  She drags her hand back down my arm and fuck if that light caress doesn’t make my dick twitch.

  Yeah, not dead at all anymore.

  She links her arm with mine, a warm loop, and we walk, our sides touching. She doesn’t let go while I fumble in my pocket for the keys and let us into the building. We stagger inside, and it’s funny, although I’m the one who keeps knocking into the wall, dragging her along.

  She still doesn’t let go.

  We stumble up the stairs, and despite my hand on the banister and her arm tugging on mine, I still have trouble. Goddamn, how many did I have with Ocean before Seth showed up?

  “Sorry,” I mutter, and she just grins at me.

  “Almost there,” she says, and I focus on my uncooperative legs, trying to control them, trying to keep my balance so I won’t send us both tumbling down the stairs.

  That thought sobers me enough to navigate the last two flights, leaning away from her, making sure nothing happens to her. My dreams and fantasies with her may be twisted and violent, but I don’t wanna hurt her.

  Never wanna hurt her. No matter how sick my desire for her is, I’ll never harm her.

  With this mantra running in a loop in my drunken mind, I pull away from her to unlock my door. The only problem is I can’t fit the key in the lock. For some reason the keyhole keeps moving.

  “Here, let me do it,” she says, stepping in front of me, and I should step back, give her space, but instead I find myself rooted to the spot as she inserts and turns the key, her round ass pressing back against my thighs.

  Christ. Bracing one hand on the doorframe, I struggle to keep from grabbing her hip and rutting against her like an animal.

  Before I lose the battle, she pushes the door open and enters my apartment, and I’m not sure if I’m relieved or fucking sorry she moved away. I follow her inside, my dick hard and heavy, straining against my zipper, hampering my movements.

  She turns when I click the door shut behind me. “Have you eaten something? Shall I make you a sandwich?”

  “No.” My breathing is harsh, too loud in my ears. I lean against the wall, watch her from under my lashes.

  God, she’s so fucking sexy.

  “Okay.” She tries for a smile, fails. Her hands twist together at the front of her long gray coat, her pale hair gleaming against it. “I could order something—”

  “Cassie.” If she doesn’t go now, I don’t know how to keep from touching her, holding her.

  “What?” Her small, pretty face looks about to crumble. “Look, I get that you don’t like me or want me, okay? But I happen to like you, Shane Tucker. Now I’ll go and leave you in peace, don’t worry. I just wanted you to know.”

  Fuck. “I don’t want you to go.”

  In two strides, I’m right in front of her, because dammit, I can’t stop this from happening, or what comes after.

  I grab her face in my hands, lifting it to mine, and when her lashes lower and lips part, I kiss her.

  Chapter Six

  Cassie

  Shane is holding me, his large, callused hands on my cheeks, and then his mouth descends on mine, and he’s kissing me. His mouth is hard and hot, tasting of whisky and fire, and I’m lost against him.

  He just holds me close, moving his mouth over mine. He groans when I lick his lips, letting me in. His tongue tangles with mine, and the fire spills from my mouth to my belly, setting me alight. He kisses like someone who hasn’t done it much—a little hard, a litt
le awkward.

  Perfect.

  Because it’s him, it’s Shane, and the cool silk of his long hair brushes against my face as he kisses me, his tall, strong body close enough to touch if he’ll just take one small step forward. If he’ll let me close the gap and press myself to him.

  He doesn’t. Even as I loop my arms around his neck, tugging, his hands on my face are like steel vises, keeping me in place, just near enough for our mouths to meet and the most scorching kiss I’ve ever been given.

  Shane wants me. He wants me. The words spin in my mind in colorful, dizzying circles. I mean, he’s kissing me. Would he kiss me if he didn’t? Why won’t he let me close?

  His teeth nip at my lips, making me gasp, sending jolts of fire into my core, and he walks me backward until my back hits the wall with a thump. I love all of it, love the feel of his mouth on mine, the strength in his hands, the way I have to strain upward to meet his mouth because he’s so tall. I’m so caught in the sensations that I jerk when he moves closer.

  He’s breathing raggedly against my mouth. He finally crushes his body to mine, pressing me to the wall, letting me feel how aroused he is. His hard-on is long and thick, digging into my belly.

  Damn, this boy’s so hot I could come just from that.

  But then his grip on my jaw turns so hard it hurts. I whimper, and he stops moving, every muscle turned to stone, his mouth just pressed to mine as he pants.

  Why? No, I don’t want him to stop. I like how hard he’s gripping me, how he’s bearing on me until I can feel every ridge of every muscle through our thick clothes. That he’s holding me like he’ll drown if he lets go, like he’s losing control from wanting me so much.

  I want to feel that wanted. That needed. No one has ever reacted that way with me—and there’s never been anyone I’ve wanted so much. Liked so much.

  My arms are still wrapped around his neck, the silk of his hair tickling my fingers, and I try to pull him closer. I let my hands slip over his powerful shoulders, down his sides, to the front of his pants, stroke over the big bulge there.

  There’s the proof that he likes what we’re doing. His dick can’t lie, right?