by Lee, Roz
“You have a copy of the article?” At least let me view the murder weapon.
“Yeah, they faxed one over.” Doyle crossed to his desk. A moment later, he nudged Jason’s elbow. “Here.”
Jason turned his back to the view, sank to the floor and leaned against the glass, his knees raised, the only wall of defense he could muster at the moment. He read the article, agreeing with everything the author said regarding the evils of steroid use. Two pages of perfectly good journalism. Then, on the third page, the lies, not even masked in innuendo. Flat-out, blatant, defamatory lies. Each one striking a serious blow to his career. Cumulatively demolishing everything he’d spend his life building.
He closed his eyes, absorbing the hits, each one more painful than the last. A jingling sound roused him. Doyle shook the tumbler he dangled in front of Jason’s face. The noise. Ice cube. A chip off the solid block in his gut, no doubt.
“Scotch,” he said. “It’ll warm you up.”
Nothing would do that now, but he took the offered drink, downing it in one gut-searing gulp. He held the glass up.
Doyle tipped the decanter, splashing two fingers of rich amber liquid into the glass. “Don’t let McCree mess with your head like he did last year with Jeff. You’re going to break records this season, all on your own. We’ll get this sorted out.”
Yeah, right. Jason downed the amber liquid and held his glass up for another refill.
“Pull yourself together, son.” He refilled the glass and corked the bottle. “The PR gurus will be here any minute.”
Six mind-numbing hours later—and not a single viable idea to show for it—he escaped the public relations posse and sat alone in the locker room. He’d been desperate to get out of the conference room for while, away from the PR spin and bullshit. Between all those supposed great minds, all they’d managed to come up with was wait and see. Wait and fuckin’ see.
“Hey.”
He didn’t move. At that very moment, counting the flecks of color in the industrial grade carpet between his knees was a better alternative than seeing the pity on his brother’s face. “Hey.”
Jeff sat on the bench beside him. “They say everyone has their cross to bear. I’d say the name McCree is engraved on the Holder family cross, wouldn’t you?”
“There are six hundred fifty-three red flecks in one square inch of carpet,” he said. “How many do you think that is in this whole room?”
Jeff sighed. “Forget about the goddamned carpet, and focus. You’ve got to keep your shit together and fight this. I let McCree get to me last year, and it almost cost me my career. With your help, I fought back and won. The man is pissed, and he knows he’s got nothing he can throw at me, so he’s going after you. Its delusions brought on by the steroid use. Everyone in the Mustangs organization knows he fabricated every word, and we’ll all fight this with you.”
Jason nodded—all he could do with the massive lump in his throat.
“We’ll get through this.”
He nodded again. Let them have their optimism.
“Come on.” Jeff stood. “I’m taking you home with me tonight.”
“I’m not a child.” Jason straightened, bracing himself with his palms on his thighs. “I’ll be fine. Carrie will be back tomorrow morning. I need to see her.”
“You sure, man?”
“I’m sure.”
* * *
“That’s not the article I submitted,” Carrie said for what seemed like the hundredth time. She couldn’t understand why George wasn’t listening to a thing she said. A brick wall would be easier to reason with.
“It’s the edited first draft,” the editor-in-chief argued. “We all agreed it was better than the final draft you sent in. We’re going with it.”
“I didn’t agree,” she countered. “Those are unfounded accusations from a man who destroyed what few brain cells he might have had with steroids.”
“They are one man’s version of the truth. The man is entitled to his opinion.”
“And I’m entitled to mine. This is wrong.”
“It’s called selling newspapers. Get over yourself. This article will make you a household name.”
“That’s because Jason Holder is going to sue me, and the newspaper, for libel. I’m about to become the news. Not a good thing, George. Not at all.”
“If it comes to that, we’ll provide you with a good lawyer and of course, give your trial a couple of columns above the front page fold.”
Carrie disconnected and slammed the handset back into its cradle. Damned technology. They’ve taken away the satisfaction of a good hang-up. No matter how hard you punch the off button the person on the other end only hears a soft click.
This article was supposed to raise awareness of the dangers of steroid use, instead, it was going to ignite a firestorm of controversy, and very likely destroy at least two careers. Hers and Jason Holder’s.
She stared at the front-page story. How had something that was intended to do good turn into such a disaster? She glanced at her watch and jumped to her feet. She was due at the Dungeon in an hour. A session with Master would clear her head, allowing her to come up with a solution, a way to make this right. And if all else failed, she’d ask permission to bring her outside life into the relationship. If there was man alive who could help her find a way out of this mess, it was her master.
He always knew what to do. His quite control of every situation always calmed her. He cared for her. She knew he did. He’d said he wanted to keep their vanilla lives separate, but she needed more now. He was her master, and she needed him in all aspects of her life, not just for the few hours a week they were together. With her mind made up to tell him how she felt and ask—beg if need be—for his help, she headed for the Dungeon and the man she loved.
* * *
Jason closed the curtains and stopped in front of her. His angel, so sweetly submissive, waited for him to take what she offered. With one finger beneath her chin, he tilted her face upward. So many plans, now nothing but rubbish. This was the moment he would have taken her blindfold off and asked her, pleaded with her, to be a part of every aspect of his life.
But that was yesterday’s plan. Today he didn’t have a life to offer her. Linking his angel to him would subject her to media scrutiny of the worst kind. In order to prove his innocence he would have to bare every dark corner of his life to public eyes. Even this one.
He wouldn’t drag his angel down into the pits of hell with him. He had to let her go.
“I won’t keep you long, angel.” He sat on the edge of the platform bed, admiring her perfect body, committing the image of her expectant face to memory. In a few minutes, if he meant anything to her at all, her sweet smile would be gone, replaced by….
No, he wouldn’t go there. Sure, she might mourn the loss of their relationship, but she would get over it. She’d move on. It wouldn’t be long before another Dom took her under his protection. She was much too special to be alone for long.
If he had a career after this debacle, perhaps he’d ask to be traded. Being in the same town with her, knowing she was on her knees for another man and that he might run into her here would be too much.
“I was going to remove your blindfold today,” he said. “But something happened yesterday, and that’s no longer possible.”
She gasped and turned her head toward his voice. “What happened, Sir?”
“I can’t say, angel. It wouldn’t be fair to bring you into the mess my life has become in the last twenty-four hours. For the foreseeable future, my career—hell, everything I’ve ever done is going to be dissected with Draconian precision. I can’t and won’t let the rumormongers touch you. You’re everything I ever dreamed of. You’ll forever be my guardian angel—the woman put on this earth to show me who I am, who I was meant to be.”
Nausea roiled in her gut. His career. Rumormongers. Her mind spun like a cyclone, sucking everything into a vortex, scrambling it like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle and tossing
it all back to earth in an unrecognizable heap. No matter how she sorted the fragments, they fit together into one inevitable, unfathomable conclusion.
No. It couldn’t be. Please, God, don’t let it be him. Maybe, sweet God, maybe she was wrong. She forced a plea past numb lips. “Please, Sir. Let me help you.”
“There isn’t anything you can do. I’m a public figure, angel, and people who have in the past built me up in the public eye, are at this very moment doing their best to tear me apart. I won’t bring you into that.”
“Who is doing this to you, Sir?” Oh please, please don’t say my name or I’ll die right here.
“I don’t know. A newspaper reporter I don’t even know. A colleague with an axe to grind. People who don’t know me at all.”
She was going to be sick.
“Sir, please.” She had no idea what she was begging for. Please what? Let me explain? No. There was no explanation for what she’d done. No way to fix it.
“It doesn’t matter who, angel.”
Oh God. Yes it does!
“Everything I’ve worked for my entire life will be called into question, and everything I accomplish from here on out will have an asterisk attached to it. It’s the kiss of death in my profession.”
She tried to choke back the sob, but it wouldn’t be stopped. She doubled over, the pain too much to bear. This was all her fault. If she’d never sent the rough draft of her article, if she’d waited a few minutes, read it over again she would have realized what McCree’s wild comments had been meant to do. She’d played right into his hands. Stupid, stupid fool.
The cyclone pulled at her, threatening her tenuous hold on sanity. She wrapped her arms around her stomach, doubling over. She lost her grip, and her world spun helplessly out of control.
Jason caught her before she slumped to the floor. He cradled her in his arms, hating he’d done this to her. He’d vowed to protect her, and instead, he brought her to this. It wasn’t fair for her to suffer for something she had no control over.
He pulled her onto his lap, tucking her head under his chin. Her tears soaked his shirt. Holding her was pure torture, but he owed her that much. She’d saved his life. He could give her comfort before he severed the invisible cord that bound them.
Her torrential sobs eventually gave way to sobs punctuated by hiccups then she slipped into an exhausted sleep. He sat on the floor, holding her until he was sure she slept soundly. Only then did he ease to his feet and lower her to the platform bed. He covered her with an after-care blanket from a stack in the cabinet. When she woke, he would be gone. If she tried to use the phone he gave her, she would find it disconnected, as was the email address he’d established for her and her alone.
Chapter Fifteen
Carrie shivered. She pulled the blanket tighter, but it was ineffective against the chill that wracked her body from the inside out. This wasn’t the first time she’d woken in the Dungeon, but it was the first time she’d done so alone. Master always held her after a scene, staying with her until she was on solid ground again, able to take care of herself. Often, he would even dress her, taking his time, kissing every inch of her skin before covering them up.
Even with his life shattering around him, he’d brought her here to explain why they couldn’t be together, proof he thought enough about her to end it in person. His honor prevented him from dragging her into his hell. The irony of that didn’t escape her. Some angel she was. His hell was one of her creation and still, he held her, cared for her as best he could. Her fingers clutched the blanket—evidence of his regard for her. He could have left her naked and alone, but he’d taken care to see she was safe and warm before he left. He’d even adjusted the lighting, turning off the harsh spotlights over the platform bed.
Lights. Her hand flew to her face. The blindfold was gone.
She sat up, holding the blanket to her chest and looked around. Her clothes lay beside her in a neatly folded stack—the blindfold atop them, securing a small white square of paper. Her hand shook when she slipped the note out from under its tear dampened black satin anchor.
Three words. Three nails driven straight into her heart.
I love you.
* * *
It was a nightmare. A living, freaking, cluster-fuck of a nightmare. She hand delivered the retraction she’d spent the better part of the night crafting, but George refused to run it. Newspapers were flying of the shelves. Her article was the most viewed post ever on the Globe’s website and had already been picked up by papers across the country. Any other time, she would have been ecstatic. It was a reporter’s dream to have his byline on a piece that garnered so much attention.
She stood ramrod straight. This was no place to cower, and she would never bow down to the likes of these people. They had no honor—unlike Jason Holder, the man they were intent on crucifying for the sake of an increased print run.
“If you aren’t going to print the retraction,” she said, “then here.” She handed over the other document that had kept her awake all night. “I quit.”
George took the paper, scanned it, and dropped it to her desk. “The Globe won’t defend you if you quit.”
“I know. There isn’t any defense for what I did. I wrote something stupid and irresponsible, and then I was stupid enough to let you see it. I’ll take whatever punishment is headed my way.”
“Okay, then.” He shrugged and shifted his attention to his computer screen. “We’re done. I’m sure there are any number of reporters who’ll be glad to write the hundreds of follow-up stories.”
She stopped at her cubicle on her way out. The few personal belongings she kept there fit in her handbag. A sign I never belonged here. Exiting the building, she breathed a sigh of relief. She was leaving a monumental weight behind.
Caught up in her own thoughts, she almost ran into the blockade of reporters on the sidewalk. She raised her arm to shield her eyes from the camera lights.
“That’s her. That’s the reporter who broke the story.” Someone stuck a microphone in her face. “Carradine Taylor, have you had any contact with the Mustangs organization or Jason Holder since your story hit the newsstands?”
Contact? Yeah, you could say that.
But she couldn’t tell them that a few short hours ago she’d sat naked on her knees, listening while Jason told her how some person he didn’t know was out to destroy him. And then he’d held her in his arms while she bawled her eyes out. I love you. If he ever found out she was the one who wrote the article, he’d hate her, and she couldn’t blame him. She hated herself plenty right now.
“No.” Liar.
She tried to shove her way through the crowd of reporters, videographers, cameramen, and sound techs. They presented a solid, impenetrable wall, so she changed tactics. Spying a gap between them and the building, she made a dash for it only to be stopped by another solid wall. This one wore a uniform.
“Carradine Taylor?” the man in uniform asked.
“Yes.”
He shoved a large envelope at her. She instinctively reached for it.
“You’ve been served, ma’am.”
She looked down at the papers in her hand. That didn’t take long, she thought. Of course. George had to have given the Mustangs a heads up about the article. That’s how he had known about it the day before it went to print, and explained how the lawyers had time to sue her. Her heart sank. There was no way to keep Jason from putting her face and name together, especially after this. She tucked the envelope into her purse, along with the relics of her career, and shoved past the reporters.
* * *
Fuck.
Jason stared at the screen. It couldn’t be. He shook his head to clear the buzzing in his ears. Had he missed something? No. No, they were still talking about him and that damned article in the Globe. But…Carradine Taylor was a woman. And not just any woman. She was his woman.
Or she had been until he’d let her go.
He hit the pause button, freezing her face on th
e screen. It was her. No doubt about it. Carrie. His angel. Thoughts and possibilities formed like fireflies in his brain, flashing on and off so fast he couldn’t grasp a single one. He braced his elbows on his knees and clutched his skull to keep it from exploding. One thought flared brighter and longer than all the rest—had she known who he was all along? Had it all been an act, a chance to get material she could use against him?
Good Lord. Was she going to tell the world about his sexual preferences, too? And he’d thought his life couldn’t get any more fucked up.
By God—he was her master!
He was on his feet before he realized he no longer possessed her or the title, and perhaps he never had.
He dialed her number then remembered he’d cut off that line of communication. He’d cut all lines of communication with her. He squeezed his fist and the edges of the phone bit into his flesh. There had to be a way.
Todd. He knew her. Switching phones, he located Todd’s number and placed the call.
“Hey, Jason. How ya doin’, man?” Todd asked.
“I’ve been better. Look, Todd, I need Carrie’s home phone number. I really need to see her, and I can’t explain, but I don’t have any other way to get in touch with her.”
“Hey, I heard about the article. I’m sorry, man. I didn’t know she was reporter until Brooke recognized her name in the byline.”
“It’s not your fault. I knew I was taking a chance.”
“You think talking to her is a good idea?”
Jason was fresh out of good ideas, but he needed to know how deep her betrayal went. “Probably not, but I’m going to do it anyway.”
“Okay. Give me a minute. I’ll get it and call you right back.”
“Thanks. I owe you.”
Precious minutes ticked by. Jason scrounged around for something to write with. He found a pen and a stained takeout menu in the drawer of the end table next to his favorite chair. At last, Todd called back. He scribbled Carradine Taylor’s home number down. His very own, fucking guardian angel straight from Hell.