She's All That: Club 3, Book 3

by Cathryn Cade

  “No,” Trace said honestly. “Going in, I knew it wasn’t, but Carlie’s out of town, Daisy is having a meltdown, and Sara wouldn’t call any of her teacher friends, afraid of gossip, or her mom, who’s been sick or something. So it was down to me. She was exhausted, scared, didn’t want to be alone.”

  Jake cocked his head. “And now?”

  “Now? Everything is…complicated. I know one thing—if she comes back to the club, it’s gonna be with me.”

  His friend’s brows flew up. “Hell you say.”

  Trace shrugged. “I do say.”

  “That mean you’re doing a Dack on us? Going monogamous?”

  “No. Because it might be quite a while before she gets up the nerve to come back.” And he wasn’t even certain she would.

  He also knew himself. He was not going to give up being a dom. He was good at it, he loved it and if he didn’t have this outlet, he wasn’t sure he could get through the rest of his life. He liked his job, was good at that too, but it was high pressure. His family, when he interacted with them, added to the pressure in a big way.

  Sports, working out were outlets, but not enough. He needed regular sex; he needed this club.

  Jake accepted this with a nod. “All right, get out of here, go enjoy part of your day off, anyway.”

  “Later, bro.”

  Trace walked out into the bright sunshine, sliding his sunglasses back on his face. He’d head over to the gym, grab some shorts and go for his run. Give him time to think about how to move ahead with Sara.

  He hadn’t been able to talk her into going for rape counseling. She was one stubborn little redhead. She’d told him Carlie was on her way back from the beach, would be there in a couple of hours, and they had to figure out how to straighten things out with Daisy. That was enough to worry about. She wasn’t going to go cry on a stranger’s shoulder.

  She’d cried on his shoulder, though. And, contrary to other emotional, even hysterical episodes with subs and a girlfriend or two, this time he hadn’t minded a bit. Hadn’t wondered how soon he could get her calmed down so he could ease away. He’d been damn pleased to be the man with whom she felt so safe that she not only cried in his arms, she begged him in a quiet but desperate voice to stay with her.

  Also, this had led to their conversation this morning, in which he’d realized something very important, even crucial—just how low her opinion of her own sex appeal really was. She was fit, pretty, funny, a successful teacher and coach, but still didn’t believe herself deserving of being treated like the precious woman she was.

  He’d have to be careful, and very patient. But one day, please God, he’d have her back here, right where he wanted her. And then he could show her just what he wanted from her, and just what he could give her.

  Which was most of himself. Part of him would always be locked in the past, but he’d learned to live with that. With her help, maybe he could let go altogether.

  That evening, Trace returned to take his shift watching over Dack. He was lounging in the Club 3 sitting area with his laptop, reading a thriller that involved cyber-hanky-panky on Wall Street, when he heard big feet hit the floor and then the sound of violent retching.

  He closed his laptop, stretched and headed behind the bar, where he mixed up a tall drink from various ingredients. As he walked into the bedroom, Dack was just emerging from the bathroom, hanging on to the doorframe, pale under his tan.

  Trace handed him the glass. “Here, some of my old man’s hangover remedy.”

  Dack sank onto the side of the bed and sniffed the murky contents cautiously. “What is it?” he croaked.

  “Don’t ask. Just drink it. If it stays down, it’ll help.”

  Without a word, Dack glugged it down and then belched. Trace took the empty glass.

  “What time is it?” Dack asked, head in his hands. “No, wait. What day is it?”

  “Nine o’clock on a beautiful Sunday evening. You’ve been out since this morning.”

  Dack leaned forward, his elbows braced on his knees. “Shit. I am so screwed.”

  “Yeah. Kinda sounds that way. You wanna talk?”

  Dack shook his head once.

  “All right. Since you’re back among the living, I’m gonna take off, man.”

  “Sorry I kept you from your day off.”

  Trace patted his shoulder. “No worries, bro. Jake and I took shifts. You’d do it for us.”

  He walked to the door and paused. “You do want to talk, I’ll be around.”

  This seemed to be his weekend for counseling, but if it helped some of his favorite people, that was fine with him. He just wished that he was now going home to someone who would welcome him into a tender embrace and the solace of sexual dominance.

  Instead, his phone rang, a ringtone that made his gut tighten. He considered letting the call go to voice mail. But some things were better gotten over. Thus he answered calmly, “Harrison, how are you?”

  His stepfather’s plummy tones came through his phone, full of joviality. “Trace, I’m great, great. Listen, your mother and I are having a few people in next weekend, wondered if you could break away and join us. A catered barbecue, and your stepsister will be here—she’s home for a visit. What do you say?”

  Trace beeped the lock on his silver Lexus and opened the door to get in. “A few people” translated, he knew, to some of Harrison’s cronies who would have cooked up a business deal of some kind, a sure thing. It would involve real estate, most likely out on the coast, and some kind of grandiose development that only needed a sharp stockbroker—like himself—to invest and provide the lion’s share of the capital.

  This, combined with the presence of his stepsister, who hated him nearly as much as he despised her, was enough to make him consider buying a one-way ticket to Montana.

  “Harrison, I may have plans,” he said, keeping his voice even with an effort. “Can I let you know tomorrow evening?”

  By then he would come up with something, a date, a golf outing to the coast or that trip to Montana, anything to get him out of driving south to his mother and stepfather’s Willamette Valley home, a huge place with manicured lawns and enough room to house everyone in Trace’s office and their spouses and kids. Where he would spend an evening, and possibly the next day being bombarded with promises of financial success of mythical proportions, if he just invested a few hundred thousand of his own money.

  But of course they wouldn’t put it that way. They’d remind Trace that his own startup money had come from his father, so by rights, Frances and her second husband should have the use of some of it. Playing what they knew was their trump card—Trace’s sense of responsibility.

  “Certainly,” Harrison agreed. “Of course your mother is counting on you. She hasn’t seen you in weeks, you know.” This gentle chide was almost enough to make Trace lose it. His mother liked to let others induce guilt for her.

  “Right. Talk to you tomorrow.” Trace tossed his phone onto the console and started the car. It purred to life like the quality machine it was, and he backed out and drove out of the parking lot onto the boulevard, watching for pedestrians in the warm dusk.

  Swearing out a statement against an attempted rapist was not an experience Sara ever wanted to go through again. Her head and body ached even through the painkillers she’d swallowed with a glass of juice. She would rather have spent a Sunday morning in summer almost anywhere except before a desk in a police station with the smell of stale coffee and strong cleaners overlying the fainter, yet still unpleasant odors of stale body odor and cigarettes.

  The policewoman who took her statement was calm and competent, if not super friendly. But when she asked where the attack had taken place and Sara said Club 3, the woman’s hand paused on her computer keyboard, and her gaze flicked to Sara, then Trace, Sara again and back to her computer. Brows raised and mouth tight, she typed this information into the form.

  Sara curled into herself like a caterpillar, emotionally, at least. She got the wo
man’s attitude—if one of her students told her they’d gotten in trouble while hanging out with some of the edgier students at River Oaks, she probably would give them that same look.

  Knowing this didn’t make it any easier to take.

  But Trace stayed at her side, his presence keeping her strong. He waited for her to don her sunglasses, which, with her long hair shaken forward, did an okay job of hiding her eye—now purple and red and swollen. As they walked out of the building, he stayed close, holding doors for her and opening the door of his car to help her in.

  Then he drove them directly to the nearest Burgerville, an upscale Portland-area burger chain, and stopped in the drive-through lane to order them both cheeseburgers, fries and milkshakes.

  “It’s only ten o’clock in the morning,” Sara protested. The words were no sooner out of her mouth than the scents wafting from the restaurant made her stomach growl.

  Trace heard it. “You didn’t eat any breakfast. And I’m hungry too, so why not have something good?”

  He drove them down the street to a small park, and they ate on a bench in the sunshine. Her stomach full of protein and extra calories, Sara felt better, although exhausted.

  “I hated the way that cop looked at me,” she said, shoving her straw in and out of her drink cup. “I’ve heard that rape victims—and almost victims—feel ashamed. Now I get it.”

  “People who aren’t into the lifestyle don’t understand it,” Trace said. “And in her job, she sees a lot of bad shit, so don’t take her disapproval personally. There are just as many abusive jerks who consider themselves vanilla or ‘normal’ or what-the-fuck-ever. There are also cops who are into the lifestyle.”

  She snorted on her mouthful of cold, sweet, chocolate milkshake. “‘What-the-fuck-ever’?” she repeated. “I haven’t heard of that one. Is there a club for that?”

  “I think there is.” He indicated her half-full cardboard carton of fries. “Finish your lunch, and I’ll tell you about it.”

  She looked at the crumpled, empty burger wrapper and shook her head. “I’m full. That burger was huge.” Then she yawned so hard she winced as her bruised facial muscles stretched.

  “Time for you to take a nap,” he said. “Your body and your mind need extra sleep to heal.”

  Drugged with sugar, fat and hot sun, she couldn’t muster the energy to protest, so she let him gather up the remains of their lunch, drive her home and wait until she was tucked onto her sofa under an old afghan.

  He perched on the edge of her coffee table and cocked his head to look into her eyes. “You gonna be okay?” he asked, his deep voice gentle.

  She nodded. “Thanks, Trace. I app—”

  He pressed one finger to her lips. “Red, stop thanking me. Partly my fault it happened. Now I wanna make sure you’re taken care of. Carlie phoned while you were in the bathroom, said for you to call her when you wake up. She’ll be home by then.”

  He caressed her cheek gently with the back of his forefinger, then stood. “You need anything, you call me. Okay?”

  “Okay,” she whispered.

  She pressed her lips together to suppress the strong urge to beg him to stay. He had a life; he didn’t want or need to babysit her anymore. She’d be fine, just fine. She watched him walk away, heard the door open and shut, the locks click. Then she closed her eyes.

  Luckily, sleep claimed her. Unluckily, she had a horrendous nightmare in which Kevin once again loomed over her, this time taunting her in the main room of Club 3, while other club members circulated around them, unseeing, uncaring as Kevin grabbed her and shoved his face in her own. She was naked and unable to cover herself from his avid gaze.

  “C’mon, you want it, and you know it,” he taunted. “Otherwise, why are you here?”

  “No!” she tried to cry, but her voice wouldn’t work, and she was trapped in his grasp.

  She woke standing by her sofa, the afghan trailing from her legs, the sound of her own whimpers raw in her throat.

  “Oh my God,” she muttered, hugging the afghan to her as she stared at the quiet normalcy of her own condo. “It’s okay. I’m okay.”

  She tossed the afghan on the couch and walked into her kitchen, where she filled a glass of cool water at the tap and went out onto her front step to drink it, hoping the summer sun would jolt her out of the jitters the nightmare had left.

  Her condo complex was quiet, the late-afternoon shadows slanting from the rhododendrons and other shrubbery on the lawns. Down the private street of the complex a father and son were tossing a ball back and forth, and a golden retriever was sniffing the lawns nearby, plumy tail waving.

  Through the other condo buildings, she could see Big Iron Fitness across the wide boulevard. About a block away from her front doorstep. She could walk over for a workout, letting endorphins and sweat chase away the remnants of her nightmare.

  But then she remembered her black eye, the bruises on her wrists and the carpet burn on her knees. Working out was going to have to wait.

  But she could at least go outside. She ran her fingers through her hair, carefully slipped her sunglasses on to cover at least some of her black eye, combed her hair forward over that cheek and stepped out onto her tiny back patio. A short brick wall divided hers from the patio next door, with a wide lip connecting the two.

  Sara grabbed one of her molded plastic chairs and dragged it out onto the edge of her patio, where she would be able to put her bare feet in the grass. One of the perks of living here was having a lawn and garden crew care for the outdoor areas, including velvety lawns.

  But as she stepped forward, past the brick wall, something bumped her arm—a hand, reaching for her.

  Chapter Five

  “No!” Sara dropped her chair, backing away so fast she nearly tripped on the mat by her back door. She stopped against the wall, her heart pounding, while her chair flipped and bounced on the cement patio and then rolled off onto the grass.

  “Aw, shit,” exclaimed a male voice. “Sorry, sorry.”

  A man faced her at the edge of the brick divider, a complete stranger. They gaped at each other. He was a little taller than Sara, with broader shoulders and the lean, lithe build of an athlete. But his face was as startling as his sudden appearance.

  He was beautiful. His black hair was cut long, surfer style, and, in the summer sun, as glossy as a blackbird’s wing. His heavy brows and lashes matched his hair.

  His wide eyes were a liquid black, set in a golden-skinned face with high cheekbones, a flaring jaw and a wide, full mouth under a straight nose. He was smooth-shaven, revealing a wicked scar under the curve of one cheekbone.

  He wore a yellow tank with a Hawaiian surf emblem and red board shorts.

  “Sorry,” he said again, his teeth flashing white as he grinned ruefully. “Didn’t think anyone else was out here. I was shaking out my, ah, jet lag, you know? Doing some tai chi. Finished, though, so you’re safe now.”

  Sara smiled, although it was a shaky effort. “I’m fine. You just startled me. Um, nice to meet you. Where’s Tony?” She knew the condo was owned by an older retired army man.

  “I’m subletting for the summer. I’m Kai.” He held out one hand, square and masculine.

  When Sara hesitated, he lifted it to give her a little wave, as if that was what he’d meant to do all along.

  She rubbed her own hand over her middle. “I’m Sara.”

  He nodded. “Just came out to get some sun, yeah?”

  “Yeah.” She watched, bemused as he grabbed her chair and righted it, setting it on the grass for her. “Thanks.”

  He shook back his hair. “Least I can do. Listen, mind if I sit for a little while? I’ll stay on my side, promise.”

  She shook her head, touched by his concern. He gave off absolutely no creepy vibes—unlike Kevin, she thought, her mood diving. If she’d listened to her instincts last night, none of it would have happened.

  He grabbed one of Tony’s wrought iron chairs and carried it out onto the gra
ss, leaving a few feet between them. “So, you lived here long?”

  Sara roused herself to be polite. She fiddled with her hair, pulling it forward again. “A while. How about you, are you new to the area?”

  He nodded. “Yeah. Went to school here for a little while, but I’ve been home on Hawaii.”

  She regarded him with new interest. That explained the name and his exotic looks. “Oh, you’re Hawaiian. So do you surf?” She indicated his shirt.

  “Yeah. Used to go every day. Maybe a few times a month now.” He gave her a friendly once-over, with male admiration evident but not in a sleazy way. Coming from someone like him, it felt good. “You obviously work out. What do you like to do?”

  “Oh, you know, run, bicycle. Golf once in a while. And I belong to the gym across the street.”

  He nodded. “Looks like a good one. Nice people there?”

  “Oh, very. It’s one of the best in the area,” she agreed. “No pool, but they have everything else. You can swim in the rivers here, and there are lakes around. A bit of a drive, though.”

  He nodded again and jiggled one of his legs with nervous energy. “So, I’m gonna have a beer. You want one?”

  She shrugged. “Sure, I guess.” He was friendly in a nonthreatening way, and it wasn’t like she had anything else to do.

  He walked into the house, and returned a moment later with two frosty bottles of a local microbrew. He held one up for her inspection, and she nodded. Lager, she liked that. He twisted the top open and handed her the bottle, retreating immediately to his chair.

  “Your husband or, uh, boyfriend wanna come out and have one with us?” he asked.

  She shook her head, startled. “Oh no. I live here alone.” Which she probably shouldn’t be telling a stranger, but it wasn’t like he couldn’t figure it out pretty fast.

  He took a drink of his beer and nodded, his smile gone. “Well, good, then I don’t have to beat the shit out of him for putting those marks on you.”

  Sara froze, beer halfway to her mouth. Then she took a long drink and swallowed, welcoming the cold prickle in her throat and the warm glow in her stomach.