Undeniable: Dom & Gigi

by Callie Harper

  “Gigi, baby.” He soothed me, untying my wrists and cradling me in his arms. He kissed my cheek, my forehead. “My girl,” he whispered in my ear as I sank against his hot, glistening chest. “My Gigi.”

  “Dom.” I sank against him, completely limp and spent. He picked me up and carried me into the bathroom where he sat on the edge of the tub. I felt dazed as he turned on the tub faucet and reached for a washcloth. When he started washing me, tenderly moving the warm cloth along my body, I brought my hand to his wrist.

  “I want it,” I murmured, burying my head into his chest. “I want it on me.”

  “Shh.” He kissed my hair, continuing his warm bathing, taking good care of me. “I want you clean and comfortable so you can get some sleep.”

  I whined a bit in protest, liking the way it felt as he cared for me, the warm swish of the cloth, but regretting the loss. I could feel his chuckle deep in his chest. “I’ll give you more come, baby. Don’t worry.”

  He toweled me dry, and I let him hold me and do it without even trying to lift a finger. I felt so warm and limp and tended to, like he loved me completely. He carried me back to the bed, pulled away the comforter and settled me on the pillows. “You need to sleep now.” He put the covers back over me and dressed again in his discarded jeans and T-shirt.

  Sleep pulled heavy at my eyelids, my limbs sinking into the bed. But I missed him. I didn’t want our time together to end.

  “I’ll stay until you’re asleep,” he assured me, kissing me again on the forehead.

  I nodded into my pillow and fell asleep that very second.

  * * *

  §

  * * *

  Late afternoon the next day, I closed up Homeward Bound for the first time on my own. I was pleased that Lynn trusted me enough to do it, so I’d taken extra time to do everything right. When I finally locked the door at seven o’clock, I headed to my car, checked my phone and saw I had a text.

  * * *

  Dom: Be careful driving.

  * * *

  Gigi: Don’t worry, I had the best driving teacher around

  * * *

  That night I was actually going to drive myself home. I’d had a few more lessons from Dom plus our family’s caretaker had given me a couple and I’d finally gotten myself my very own driver’s license. I felt proud and pleased and independent. Until I saw the car parked next to mine in the lot.

  Brock was sitting there waiting for me. He opened the passenger door. “Climb in,” he said with what I’m sure was intended to be a charming smile. “I want to talk to you.”

  “No thanks.” I walked quickly to my car, wishing there were more people in the parking lot. Or any people. But the store had been closed for over an hour and we were completely alone. I got to the driver’s door, but he sprang at me like a cobra and grabbed my wrists, hard.

  “Brock, you’re hurting me.” As he pushed me into the car I looked up terrified into his bloodshot eyes. Alcohol reeked from every pore and stank hot and rank from his breath.

  He bent down and sniffed my hair, then looked at me with rage. “I can smell him on you.”

  “What are you talking about?” I twisted, panic starting to beat in my chest.

  “I’ve known you since you were 14,” he whined, slipping into a wheedling voice. “You were supposed to be saving yourself for me.” Then he turned angry again. “Not giving yourself to him like a fucking whore.” Spit splattered my face as he yelled at me and he hurt me, pinching my wrist so hard it felt like he might snap it in two.

  “Fuck off, Brock!” I yelled as loud as I could. I’d never taken a self-defense class in my life, but I guess I’d seen enough movies to know what to do. I brought my knee up as hard and sharp right into his balls. He let go and backed away, doubling over and cupping his hands over his groin as he cried out in pain.

  “Stay away from me,” I screamed at him as I managed to get into my car—thank God for auto-unlock, I didn’t think I could fumble with a key just then—and I sped away, shaking. I’d known Brock was trouble. I’d seen it coming and Colt hadn’t listened. I should have told Dom about it.

  I got home, headed up to my room and called my father. It went to voicemail, and I didn’t want to worry him too much so I just said to call me when he had the chance. Then I did it. I called Dom. His went to voicemail, too. He was working, as always, but I was sure he’d check his messages soon. I kept it short, but he knew me well enough that he’d understand. I told him Brock had scared me and I needed him. I took a shower to soothe my nerves and wrapped up in a thick cotton robe. I felt so drowsy I could barely keep my eyes open. Deciding I’d take a nap, I set my phone on silent, nestled in and fell asleep.

  The next thing I knew I heard angry voices downstairs. I grabbed my phone from the bedside table. It was nearly one a.m. How had I slept so long? And missed so many calls?

  I wrapped the robe around me tight and rushed down the stairs. It sounded like a fight. Both Colt and Dom were there, but it was the sight of Brock that I’d never be able to forget. He lay on the floor at the base of the stairs in a pool of blood with a knife sticking out of his chest. So much blood. The puddle grew right before my eyes as Brock lay motionless and his blood spread out and out.

  I screamed like I never had before, blood-curdling, terrified.

  “Gigi!” Colt and Dom both jolted. Neither had seen me come down the stairs. Was Brock dead? What had happened?

  Dom’s face twisted in fury and pain. “Don’t look at this,” he yelled at me. “I don’t want you to have to see this.”

  Colt sprang up by my side and hugged me.

  “What’s happening?” I asked, shaking violently.

  “He’s right. You should head back upstairs.” Colt tried to turn me around but I stood, stubborn, looking at Dom for answers. He looked up at me, chest heaving.

  “What happened?” I asked again, feeling like I was going to throw up.

  Colt answered. “Brock broke in and that man just saved your life.”

  “What?” I felt the tears on my cheeks but didn’t realize I’d started crying.

  “Go upstairs,” Dom urged me, as serious as I’d ever seen him.

  “You’re safe now.” Colt hugged me. “Can you head back into your room for twenty minutes Gigi? I need to sort this.”

  In shock, I let Colt lead me up the stairs. He left me there and I headed straight to my bathroom where I threw up. Shaking violently, I sat on the cold tile floor. Was Brock lying there dead in the hallway? Had Dom killed him with that knife? And if he had, what would happen to Dom now?

  8

  Dom

  The minute I listened to Gigi’s voicemail, I knew I had to get to her. She sounded so vulnerable, so shaken and frightened. I’d never heard that in her voice before and I never wanted to again. Problem was, the 2am Club was slammed, packed with some celebrity’s private party. I didn’t even check my voicemail until 11:30. Once I did, I couldn’t break away for another hour. Even leaving my shift two hours early might have cost me my job. I didn’t care. I’d find out tomorrow. The more I called Gigi’s number and it went straight to voicemail, the more I knew something bad was happening.

  I made it over to her house in about half the time it should have taken me. Right away I spotted the car outside her house parked in the bushes. The fucking Maserati. I knew who drove that car and I swore I’d wring his fucking neck if he so much as touched a hair on her head.

  The smashed window told me everything I needed to know. He was in the house with intent to harm, and somehow the alarm wasn’t going off. Fucker must have figured out how to disable it. I’m not sure my feet actually touched ground I was moving so fast and I caught him, thank God I caught him, crouching at the base of the stairs with a goddamned carving knife in his hands.

  It would have been an easy takedown. I had a clear shot and I knew how to jump him from behind and get him in a lock so tight he’d black out. I’d done it before to diffuse violent situations. But suddenly another gu
y came out of nowhere. In the darkness of the hallway, at first I didn’t know if he was after me or after Brock, but then he stepped under a light and I saw it was Colt.

  “Knife,” I called out, trying to warn him, but not before Colt had already stepped in too close. Brock lunged at him and nearly got him right across the neck, but I managed to smack his arm down so it just grazed his shoulder. I caught Brock’s wrist and held it tight, but insanity gave him purpose, strength and drive. He punched me hard with his other hand, kicked and went in to bite me Tyson-style. I had to knock this kid out. I got a mean uppercut in that caught him square in the jaw. He spun around like a ragdoll, just like I’d wanted him to. But then, as if in slow motion, I saw him trip on the stairs and wildly tumble to the floor, landing heavy with a thud and an unnatural keening cry.

  Then I saw the blood. Blood pumping out of him, dumping out onto the wooden hallway.

  “Fuck…fuckers,” he spluttered weakly, but he didn’t move.

  “Oh shit.” Colt knelt down at Brock’s side and confirmed what I already knew. “He fell on his knife.”

  I’d seen it too many times before. Knife fights got real, quick. Men could bleed out before you even had time to try and stop it. I ran to the kitchen, grabbed the first towels I saw and ran back.

  “Here.” I handed one to Colt who looked at me, confused. He had so much adrenaline flowing through him he didn’t realize he’d been hurt, too. I pointed to his shoulder. He saw and he pressed the towel to the cut. His cut didn’t look deep. He’d be OK. Maybe not Brock, though.

  “Help me tilt him,” I asked Colt. Together we shifted him and saw what I’d suspected. He’d been holding the knife in his right hand, and when he’d fallen he’d brought it to his chest where it now stuck into the left side, right by his heart. Brock’s head listed back, blood coming out of his mouth and he didn’t open his eyes. It was probably already too late, but I brought the towels to his chest wound and tried to staunch the bleeding. I didn’t even try to remove the knife. I’d seen that make it worse and the blood was already spurting out. He’d hit an artery.

  “Call 911,” I yelled to Colt. But he didn’t move.

  “He’s dying.” He sounded oddly calm, and he was right.

  “He is,” I agreed. “But we need to try—”

  “Who are you?” Colt looked at me as if just realizing it was strange I was there, too.

  “I work security at the country club. I’ve been watching Brock. He’s violent. I saw his car parked outside and came to see if everything was all right.”

  “She tried to tell me.” He sounded upset with himself. “I went out tonight, but I should have kept an eye on her.”

  Brock coughed and sputtered more blood, losing so much I knew there was no hope. Another life on my bloodstained hands.

  “I’ll make the call.” I shifted Brock’s weight back onto the floor. He was so far gone he didn’t even make a sound in response to being moved.

  Then Gigi screamed like something out of my nightmares. I didn’t know when she’d walked down the stairs and seen us, but she had and her face looked white as a sheet as she stared at the pool of blood surrounding Brock’s chest wound.

  I told her to turn away but she stared in shock. It took her brother walking her up the stairs to get her to head back up. I hated that she’d seen it. I knew from experience, you couldn’t unsee something like that.

  When Colt came back down again, he looked at Brock. “He’s dead.”

  Damn it. He was right. I stood up, too. We needed to call 911.

  “Don’t make the call yet,” he cautioned me.

  “Why?” This wasn’t a shootout between two rival MCs. This was a clear-cut break-in and we’d already waited too long.

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “Dom.”

  “Dom, I need to talk to you. Come with me into the kitchen.” Under the bright light, I helped him unbutton his dress shirt and remove his T-shirt to take a look at his shoulder wound. The knife had glanced him on the surface. The damage was minor. He’d have a scar but that was about it. I helped him clean it up and got a fresh towel for him to press against it.

  “Do I need to head to the ER?” he asked me, like I knew about wounds. He was right.

  “You’ll heal more pretty if you do. But you’ll still heal if you don’t.”

  “Good.”

  “Keep it clean and covered,” I told him, and he nodded. “So, how about that dead body in the hallway?” I still didn’t know what he was up to, not wanting to head to the ER, delaying the emergency call.

  “Dom, you just saved my life. He went for my jugular with a six-inch knife and you stopped him. And you saved my sister from God knows what that monster had planned.”

  I looked down, darkness filling my mind. I couldn’t go there, couldn’t let myself imagine what had almost happened to Gigi.

  “I don’t think you should go to prison for it.”

  “What?” He had my attention now. Why would I go to prison?

  He laid it out for me. Brock came from one of the wealthiest and most powerful families in New York. The way his family would spin it, Brock died because I’d punched him. His father would hire every hard-hitting lawyer in the tri-state area to avenge his son’s death.

  Unless he didn’t know I’d been there.

  “Let me handle this, Dom,” Colt asked me. “I’ll keep your name out of it. I can take this on. We’ll have security camera footage—”

  “He disabled the system.”

  “Not all the cameras are on the same system. I’m sure we have something. I’ve got a knife wound to prove he attacked. They won’t go up against me the way they would you.”

  “I can’t let you do that.” But I could hear the reason in his words. I knew how the world worked. Colt pulled the kinds of strings that could make even a huge mess like this go away. I did not.

  “You saved my life and my sister’s. I’m the one getting off easy. Dom, listen to me.” He stepped closer, urgency in his voice. “I am in your debt for the rest of my life. You have just done a brave and heroic thing. Now you need to get out of here so you don’t get punished for it.”

  I considered his words. He knew what he was talking about. And he didn’t even know that I had a criminal record in my past, a violent, deceased father and a former stripper of a mother as a character witness. I hadn’t even been in town for a year. I’d be a sitting duck.

  “Go now,” Colt urged me. “No one will ever know you were here.”

  I nodded. He was right. Gigi was safe. I’d done what I needed to do. Colt walked me to the door, shook my hand in gratitude, and I left the scene of the crime.

  * * *

  §

  * * *

  The day after the attack I kept waiting to hear about it. I half expected the cops to beat down my door. But I didn’t hear a damn thing. No headline news about a local young man who died under violent circumstances, not even any rumors. I paced the floor of my apartment, went to the gym to work out my extra energy then worked my shift at the 2am Club. Everything was as it was. I called Gigi twice, in the morning and the evening. She got back to me while I was working, telling me she was OK, thanking me. I wanted to hold her, feel that she was all right instead of just listen to her voice. But I knew I had to stay away. At least for now.

  The next day the news hit, but it wasn’t the true story. Brock had died in an unspecified fatal accident at his home, alone. He’d been a varsity athlete, a scholar and a true gentleman. It was a tragic loss. I guessed that was what money could buy you. It hadn’t turned Brock into a good person, but it could give him a decent burial.

  I never got the full story from Colt, but I could guess. He’d probably had a sit down with Brock’s father. I’d seen it before, powerful men struggling with rage, grief and the desire for vengeance. But reality was a strong force, too. At first he’d probably wanted Colt’s blood, old–testament-style, but then he’d considered all the evidence: Colt’s wound fro
m Brock’s knife, the security camera footage, Brock’s history of a violent temper. In the end, he’d chosen to keep the Kavanaugh family out of it so he could remake history, giving his son a good name in death.

  Colt called and checked in with me every day, asking how I was doing, expressing his gratitude. Each time I heard from him it surprised me. He didn’t need to keep thanking me. But he clearly felt guilty about having dismissed Gigi’s concerns and he seemed deeply impressed by what I’d done.

  “I owe you my life,” he kept saying. “I’ll never forget what you did for our family.” I almost felt like I’d done a favor for a mafia boss. “I need people around me I can trust,” he confessed. “I don’t always know who’s got my back.” I guessed being the son of a billionaire sometimes left you wondering who your real friends were.

  But maybe there was more to it? I’d always wondered how his father had amassed his wealth. In the world that I’d grown up in, money flowed to the ruthless. I’d been on the Kavanaugh Investors website and read a couple of headlines. It looked like they mostly invested in real estate but also branched out into other opportunities. I wondered about some of those branches. I’d just seen wealth, power and expensive attorneys rewrite history, covering up the circumstances surrounding a death. Who knew what Gigi’s dad was really doing? It could be all kinds of shady. He’d have everything he needed to keep it out of the public eye.

  “My father travels with bodyguards and I’m not sure any of them would have acted that fast,” Colt admitted.

  I didn’t ask why his father traveled with bodyguards, but it did compound my suspicions. Personal security might be a standard precaution of all the uber-wealthy, but instinct and experience told me otherwise. Though it didn’t all add up—if Gigi’s dad went to lengths to keep himself safe, why had he let his teenage daughter spend the summer living practically by herself in a house with a Swiss cheese security system?