“Yes,” I say simply.
His eyes come back to me filled with guilt. “I’m sorry,” he whispers hoarsely. “I wouldn’t have… I don’t think anyone there would have done that to you if we knew you didn’t like it.”
I can’t stand to see him feel guilt over something he had absolutely no knowledge of, so I need to make sure he understands that nothing about me is simple. “Rand… you couldn’t have known. No one did. And like I said… it’s complicated. There was a part of me, deep down inside, that sometimes liked what was being done to me. Sometimes, I’d be getting drilled by one man with another one waiting and I’d look at Samuel… and rather than see that smug satisfaction on his face, I’d sometimes see a kernel of jealousy. Another man was fucking his wife while he couldn’t. He’d sit there, limp dicked and unable to get off on the spectacle, and I swear to God, Rand… I’m not sure if it makes me a monster or what, but that would make me get off. Thinking of that sadist suffering while I was getting fucked raw would give me mind-blowing orgasms.”
“Jesus Christ,” Rand growls again, and then he’s pulling me roughly into his arms. He wraps himself around me, pressing me into his chest.
I manage to turn my face to the side so my cheek is resting over his heart and tell him, “It wasn’t all bad. All the guys at The Silo were really nice.”
He makes a sound deep in his chest. I’m not sure what it signifies, but his arms wrap around me tighter. “If that fucker wasn’t already dead, I’d kill him for you, Cat. I swear I would.”
I smile over his declaration, but I know he doesn’t mean it. I’m not worth killing someone over.
“Is there anything else I need to know?” Rand asks without loosening his hold on me.
“Isn’t that enough to give me nightmares about Samuel?” I ask, sort of tongue in cheek, but also as a means of perhaps avoiding one other ugly truth I’m thinking might be best left untold.
Rand’s silent for a moment, but then he says, “You trusted me with something deeply personal, but I need it all, Cat. How can I chase away your demons if I don’t know what they all are?”
My body goes utterly still, and then a phenomenon happens to me that has never happened before in my life.
My heart literally fucking melts within my chest.
I blink my eyes hard to chase away the sting of tears I feel forming over a man I barely know who is telling me he’s my champion. It’s unbelievable to me.
“Cat,” Rand prompts me. “Anything else?”
Giving a cough, I clear my throat and pull back so I can look him in the eye. I tell him perhaps the worst of it. “His oldest son, Kevin. He shared me with him quite a bit. Favorite son and all.”
He doesn’t say a word to me, but I can feel the fury vibrating off him. Rand’s eyes turn practically red and his jaw locks so tight that the muscle jumps violently. But because he has shown he cares for me, and doesn’t want to make this more upsetting than it already is, he keeps his silence and merely hugs me in commiseration.
A hug.
How novel.
How soothing.
I may not have much experience with them, but I’m finding they’re warm and secure, and I feel like I could sleep without nightmares if Rand’s arms are around me.
Chapter 7
Rand
It’s barely seven in the morning. I don’t need to open the shop for three hours, but I have important shit to do. I slip quietly out of my apartment, leaving Cat sleeping in my bed. I hope she continues to sleep for hours to come because I know she’s exhausted. Not only did I completely wear her body out last night, but also after she told me about that shit with her motherfucking-dead-but-want-to-kill-him-again husband, we stayed up and talked. Eventually, I settled us back down and pulled her close to me. Her body fit against mine naturally, and it felt better than right.
I may spend a lot of time at a sex club, but I’m not one of these guys with emotional barriers who uses no-strings sex as a way to keep women at arm’s length. I’m an actual snuggler to the core. I don’t care if it’s a one-night stand or the love of your life. After sex, there’s nothing better than spooning and drifting off to sleep.
So tucking Cat into me felt natural. I didn’t give it a second thought. I just held her tight and we talked until she could get it all out.
Have to say, I admire the fuck out of that girl. She didn’t shed a tear even though I could hear in her voice how disgusting it was for her to relay that stuff to me. She’s tough as nails and it’s true what I said… she did what she had to do to survive.
As she opened up more to me, it practically killed me to hear her own self-loathing for getting herself caught in Samuel’s web. I asked her—because I had to or it would kill me not knowing—why she stayed with him, and it boiled down to fear and doubt. Samuel preyed upon the perfect woman for his sick plans. He showed Cat how good it felt to live with the comforts we all take for granted. A soft bed, a warm home. Food in her stomach. She told me he’d often go weeks ignoring her, and during those times, her life was fine. She lived it as she wanted, so she reasoned to herself it was a penance she could handle.
I thought penance was an interesting word for her to use, and I had to wonder why she thought of herself as a sinner. Personally, I think she’s an angel. And while she never came out and said it, I got the feeling that Cat was fearful of Samuel. Not sure if he threatened her, or implied he’d do something, but Cat had said something to the effect of “for my safety, it was best to just toe the line”.
Regardless, our talk came around to The Silo again, and I gently prodded at her as to why she continued to go there once Samuel died. “You were free,” I told her. “Why come back to the place he made you do those things?” Where he got his fucking saggy nuts off—metaphorically speaking since he couldn’t get his little dick up—watching his wife get fucked over and over again by multiple men.
Burns me the fuck up. Don’t get me wrong… a good gang bang when a woman is consenting and receiving pleasure from the depravity of it all is awesome, but the thought of Cat doing it and not enjoying it… not sure I can handle that thought.
What she told me about that left me unsettled. Not sure if I’m supposed to feel good or bad about it, but it’s weighing on my mind.
When I asked her why she still came back after Samuel died, she was quiet a moment, and I wondered if she was remembering back to a few nights after his death. She was at The Silo and told Bridger that Samuel was dead. He, in turn, let a select few of us know. We circled her protectively, wondering what she wanted and how we could help ease her sadness. She ended up choosing several men to fuck her—present company excluded. This wasn’t all that unusual, as there are, after all, many men from which she could have picked.
At any rate, she went into one of the rooms that housed a stockade Bridger had built. After she was locked up tight, she took cock after cock with a satisfied smile on her face. It was one of the hottest things I’d seen and I thought she needed it to take her mind off her sadness.
Turns out… she was celebrating, and she told me as much in answer to the question I had posed.
“Because sometimes I liked it,” she admitted in a soft voice.
I think she was ashamed, so I validated her. “There’s a lot to like about The Silo, babe,” I told her in a firm but gentle voice. “Sex there can be exhilarating and beautiful. There’s nothing wrong with what we do there.”
I felt the movement of her nodding in agreement. “Many times, I loved it… loved the rush and the feeling of being wanted. I don’t fake my orgasms, so you know I’m turned on by much of that stuff. But I also hated a lot of stuff.”
“I can imagine,” I consoled.
“But if you really want to know why I went back,” she continued. “It’s because Samuel loved those gang bangs. His favorite thing was to watch me take it over and over again with no ability to say no to any of those men. He liked me stripped of control. But that night… even though I was locked in the stock
ade, it was my choice to do that. I chose which men fucked me, and then I said when it was over. I had all the control. I hoped Samuel was rolling over in his grave, looking up at me from the burning pits of hell when I called a stop to it all.”
I was blown away by those words, and haunted at the same time that something as simple as being able to say “no” could have such a big impact on a person’s self-worth and security.
So again… no clue how I feel about all this. Cat’s emphatically said that her feelings about The Silo are complicated, and that’s a fucking understatement. She’s loathed it and loved it, and I get the feeling it’s in equal measures.
I did ask her because my ego was bruised a bit, “Why didn’t you choose me that night you were in the stockade?”
Cat didn’t answer me directly, but in a roundabout way told me what I wanted to hear. “Rand… I think Samuel ended up conditioning me to be a woman who knows nothing but submission. I do as I’m told because I’m afraid to do otherwise.”
I thought this was an odd observation and wasn’t sure how it applied to my question, but then she made it all clear. “But with you, I never felt fear. Never felt I was in danger from you. Always felt safe and no matter how dirty we got, I felt cherished. I knew if I said “no” to you, you were a man who would respect it immediately. I didn’t have anything to prove to you or myself by bringing you in that room. It was about confronting my fears and taking back control, and that’s not something I’ve ever needed to do with you. It was unnecessary to choose you that night.”
Yeah, those words right there pretty much sealed my fucking fate. I was going to do whatever I had to do to get Cat on her feet with a permanent smile on her face, as well as the knowledge in her soul that she could do whatever the fuck she wanted and no one was going to hold her back.
This is exactly why I left her sleeping in my apartment and left for work almost three hours before it started. Even though I live only a few blocks from Westward Ink, I needed to drive out to The Wicked Horse and that was an hour round trip.
After I start up my Suburban and begin to navigate my way out of town, I dial Bridger up on my phone. I know he’s awake because he always gets up early despite the late hours he keeps. I doubt if the dude sleeps more than a few hours per night. He usually gets into his office at The Wicked Horse no later than eight AM.
He answers on the second ring. “What’s up?”
“On my way to The Wicked Horse to see you,” I tell him without any lead in. “Hope you got a few minutes before you get going for the day.”
“Not there,” he responds in that gravelly voice that’s typical Bridger. “At the Double J getting ready to help Woolf with some stuff.”
Not surprised. Bridger and Woolf are best friends and while Woolf may no longer be involved with The Wicked Horse or The Silo, those two are still thick as thieves. Bridger’s house actually sits on Double J property. As if the guy doesn’t have enough to do as it is with running a nightclub and sex club, he often helps Woolf out at the ranch.
Woolf is the CEO of JennCo, a massive conglomerate comprised mostly of cattle and oil, but it makes him one of the richest motherfuckers in the USA. You’d never know it though by talking to him. Unassuming and unpretentious, he’s just one of the guys so to speak. Hate that he’s no longer involved in The Silo or Wicked Horse, as the gang doesn’t get to see him enough as it is. But love does funny things to people and he’s clearly happier keeping Callie happy, so good for him.
“I’ll be there in half an hour,” I tell him, not asking if he minds me taking up his time. I disconnect the phone and step on the gas once I get out of town.
It ends up taking me almost thirty-five minutes because of a minor traffic jam caused by rubbernecking tourists. Dozens of cars pulled haphazardly off the road, some with their ass ends still in the lane of travel. People jumping out of their cars without a care that there’s still traffic on this two-lane rural road that will flatten their asses.
But that’s part of living in Wyoming, and I slow to a crawl as I navigate my way past travelers who are standing on the side of the road in a large group. I recognize a park ranger’s truck and while we’re technically outside of the Teton National Forest, they’ll respond to dangerous wildlife calls. And I see immediately as I creep by what the hubbub is about. About two hundred yards into a pasture covered with sagebrush and dried grass, a grizzly bear is lying on top of what is probably an antelope carcass. He’s massive and appears to be gnawing on the neck of his kill. It’s the park ranger’s duty to keep the tourists at a safe distance because there’s always one moron in the group who wants to sidle closer for a better picture opportunity. Once I make my way past the minor traffic jam, I fight the temptation to speed to make up the lost time. It’s not worth the cost of a ticket or the extra time that would be lost if I’m stopped.
When I pull up to the Double J office, I park in between Bridger’s red Corvette and Woolf’s black Range Rover. Grabbing my phone off the seat beside me, I get out of my truck without locking it up. Nothing of value in there to steal and no one would anyway. That’s not the way we do things in Wyoming.
I trot up the steps and push open the door to the ranch office, which is actually an old homestead on the ranch. I think it might have even belonged to Woolf’s grandpa or something.
The sounds of Bridger and Woolf’s voices pull me down the hall, and I find them both in Woolf’s office. Woolf is sitting in his chair behind his desk, booted feet propped up on the scarred, wooden top. Bridger sits in a large chair done in cowhide on the opposite side and sips on a container of coffee.
“Morning, sunshine,” Woolf says with a big grin on his face.
“Good to see you, man,” I say with a laugh as I take an identical chair next to Bridger. He tips his chin up at me and grumbles, “What’s so important you needed to see me first thing this morning?”
I know Bridger and Woolf’s time is valuable—far more than mine is, as all I have to do today is run a tattoo shop—so I don’t beat around the bush. “Cat’s in trouble and I need some advice. Maybe some direction.”
“Who the fuck is Cat?” Bridger says with his eyebrows furrowing in.
“Sorry,” I say quickly. “Catherine.”
“Vaughn?” Bridger asks for clarification.
“Lyons,” I say automatically, and his eyebrows draw inward again.
“Who?”
Shaking my head, I hold up a hand for him to let me speak and start again. “She goes by Cat, her maiden name is Lyons, and she prefers to be known as that. I found her sleeping in her car in the parking lot of The Wicked Horse two nights ago and found out she’s homeless.”
“What the fu—?”
I cut him off because again… time valuable and all. “Local attorney showed up at the house in Jackson and told her she had to vacate. That the will left her nothing and his son was demanding she leave. She was allowed to leave with nothing but her clothes, jewelry, and a little cash. All credit cards shut down.”
“You’re fucking kidding me?” Bridger growls as he sits up straight in his chair. I quickly see he’s taken as much offense to this notion as I have. While Cat is but a member of The Silo, Bridger takes care of his own. I also know he has a soft spot for her and worries about her at times.
“She went and got a copy of the will, but here’s the kicker… it’s not signed. The attorney insists the signed copy is in Vegas. Cat’s thinking about calling one of the sons and asking for a copy with the supposed signatures, but she’ll probably get the run around.”
“Who’s the attorney?” Woolf asks.
“Harlan Grables,” I tell him. “Know him?”
“Yeah,” Woolf says. “Small-town lawyer, does a variety of stuff. Mostly speeding tickets and stuff. Kind of sleazy actually.”
“Which means there’s no way in hell he drafted the legitimate will of a billionaire hotelier from Vegas,” Bridger concludes.
“You think the attorney’s lying?” I ask incredu
lously. “But why?”
“Could be the son paid him to draft the bogus document to get her out of the house,” Bridger says with a careless shrug to his shoulders. “Could be Samuel’s real attorney drafted it, the signed one is in Vegas, and the son had a copy here. He asked the attorney to enforce it, and the lawyer did so moronically without seeing the signed copy.”
“I’m betting there’s not a signed copy,” Woolf chimes in. “The mere fact she’s been given the run around… I bet they’re just hoping she gets tired of waiting for an answer and will go away.”
“Well, that’s not happening,” I say with a growl as I lean forward in my chair. “No fucking way.”
I don’t miss both Bridger and Woolf’s eyebrows rising as they shoot each other a smirking look. Ignoring them, I ask, “Any bright ideas on what I should do? I’m letting her crash at my place until I can get her on her feet.”
“Taking up her cause, huh?” Bridger asks slyly.
“Something like that,” I mutter, but then I get distracted as my phone starts ringing to the tune of Maroon 5’s Wake Up Call. I roll my eyes without bothering to look at caller ID as that song tells me all I need to know. I press the decline button, sending Tarryn to voice mail.
“Seems to me you still have your hands full,” Woolf says with a sly grin, looking down at my phone gripped in my hands.
“I’ve got Tarryn handled,” I assure him. Because the only thing to do with her is ignore her. She’ll eventually get bored and move on.
Temporarily at least.
“I’ll give Cat a job off the books as a Fantasy Maker,” Bridger says. “Under the table, of course.”
My head immediately shakes back and forth in denial. “She’s taking a break from The Silo. She needs a job far away from that shit.”
“Come on, dude,” Woolf says as he swings his feet off his desk and sits up in his chair. “Catherine was born to be a Fantasy Maker.”
Maybe my personal fantasy, I think for a brief moment before anger over Woolf’s innocently callous words overtakes me.
Wicked Need (The Wicked Horse #3) Page 6