However, I still had an overwhelming urge to give them exactly what they needed. Something they were missing from the sweet little love fest they’d built for themselves.
Now, I simply needed to figure out whether or not I could get in that pretty boy’s head and chase out all those nonexistent demons so I could fill the space with only one demon.
Me.
*
Brax
(The cowboy)
AFTER ORDERING A LARGE BLACK coffee and a bottle of water, I headed in the direction Zeke had told me to go. It took a little longer than it should have because, while I dodged the people walking toward me, I was busy searching my phone for potential rentals in the area. A house, to be specific.
Ever since Case learned we would be staying in an apartment once we moved here, he’d been giving me shit. Since he gave me shit about a lot of things, I hadn’t put any stock in it. I thought it was his way of bitching and moaning just to get a rise out of me. He was good at that.
I honestly thought he would get used to living in the same building where he would be working. Convenience was a big thing for Case. That was one of the reasons we’d lived relatively close to Trent Ramsey’s Dallas home. Most of our time had been spent there unless Trent was traveling. At that point, Trent generally had a place for us. If not, hotels were the norm, and Case was usually the one who picked those out. Like I’d said, Case was the diva in our relationship, yet it worked for us.
The image of his face, so pale and drawn, popped in my head again. I’d never seen him look like that in all the time I’d known him. Not much scared the man I loved. But the second I’d realized how labored his breaths had become, it had dawned on me that he wasn’t fucking around. For whatever reason, that apartment sent him into a tailspin. It had scared the shit out of me, and free rent or not, no place was worth seeing him like that.
So, I was on a mission to find something we could move into that would allow him the space he needed to breathe. Preferably before our belongings arrived in the truck next Thursday. There were a ton of options, but I had no idea where they were—good area or not. Maybe it was time I found a Realtor, someone who could navigate the city for us.
I kept walking until the dog park appeared in front of me. I saw Zeke first. He was on the far side of the park, throwing a ball while Tank hauled ass to retrieve it only to dutifully return and drop it at his feet before sitting and waiting for another round.
I found Case sitting on a bench in the sun, elbows on his knees with his head in his hands.
“Hey, babe. You okay?” I took a seat beside him and passed over the water bottle.
He glanced over at me and smiled. “Much better.” He took the water but didn’t open it. “Sorry about that. I’m not sure what came over me.”
“Don’t be sorry.”
I should’ve seen this coming. Somehow.
I nodded toward Zeke. “He say anything?”
“Nope. Probably tryin’ to figure out how to let me down easy. Who wants a masochist who’s claustrophobic?”
“For one, Zeke doesn’t let anyone down easy. And two, I’m not sure this is claustrophobia.” Although, I wasn’t sure what else it could be called.
Truth was, as far as I knew, Case had never had this sort of reaction to anything. While I had waited in line at the coffee shop, I’d thought about all the scenes he had done at the club. A time or two, a Dom would find it amusing to put Case in a cage. Not once had I seen him panic, even when a heavy padlock kept him from escaping.
So what was it about the apartment?
“What are you doing?” Case nodded toward my phone.
“Trying to find us another place to live.”
His back went ramrod straight and he dropped the water bottle. “No. Don’t do that. I just need some time to get used to it. I’m sure I’ll be fine after a while.”
“Nothing about that situation was fine,” I told him, picking up the water bottle and passing it back. “And I’m not about to let you suffer, so just sit there and breathe.”
I could tell he wanted to argue, but thankfully he didn’t. His attention shifted to Zeke and Tank.
I continued to skim through my phone, glancing at rentals. Nothing even remotely caught my attention. It wasn’t that money was an issue, because between the two of us, we made a decent living, and over the last year or so, I’d managed to save quite a bit. Working for Trent Ramsey had afforded us a comfortable lifestyle. I’d prefer to own a place, but not knowing the area, I wasn’t sure that was feasible at the moment. Even if that was the route we took, we would have to stay somewhere in the interim.
However, I also wasn’t sure I could take Case back up to the apartment and watch him fall apart again. Masochist or not, no one should suffer like that.
*
Half an hour later, we were back at the Chatter building, wandering through what would soon become the upscale restaurant. As of right now, it was laid out for the bank that had once inhabited the space. Tiled lobby area, counter where the tellers had worked, even the cheap carpet where the cubicles were, desks still there but empty. It looked nothing like it would once the conversion was complete; however, I could see the potential everywhere I looked.
As soon as I stepped into the space, I felt a strange sense of peace. As though this was where I belonged. I could imagine people filling the dining room while I worked away in the kitchen, producing the meals they would be consuming. Damn, I longed for that day. When people would come here because I was here. I envisioned them telling their family and friends to check it out because it was amazing.
I’d never imagined myself becoming an Emeril or Gordon Ramsay or even Bobby Flay. I simply wanted people to eat what I prepared because they enjoyed it. I wanted my restaurant to be on their list of top three. The place they wanted to go on a Friday or Saturday night for a romantic, elegant escape from their everyday. And yes, perhaps I wanted to hear my name on their lips when they mentioned the reason they came.
This was what I’d spent my life dreaming about. Ever since I was a kid in my mother’s kitchen, working alongside her to prepare the family meal. I’d started cooking at a young age. Due to the size of my family, the kids—eight total, including me—had been required to pitch in for everything. Cooking, cleaning, mowing the lawn. I had grown up knowing it was my responsibility to help out. Any arguing would’ve earned us a nice wallop with my dad’s belt. It only took a couple of times before I realized that wasn’t the route I wanted to take.
I had spent a lot of time in the kitchen with my mother. She loved everything to do with the kitchen. Cooking, baking, casseroles to cookies, it didn’t matter. She could make a meal for twenty and have a variety of pies to go along with it, never breaking a sweat. Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners were always held at her house—to this day—and she never asked for help, although I insisted on being there to offer my services. While I pitched in with the cooking, my sister—who owned a bakery—helped on the baking front.
“I’ve come up with a timeline,” the contractor stated as he followed close behind me. “It’s not locked down at this point, but I think it’ll give you a good idea of what to anticipate.”
The man passed over his iPad and I scanned the screen although I had absolutely no idea what I was looking at. It outlined what I assumed were the steps. Demolition, electrical, plumbing, plus names of people I assumed he had hired to handle it.
Truth was, I was a chef, not a building inspector. I didn’t give a flying fuck about drywall or electrical panels or any of the things necessary to construct the space. I simply wanted to have input on the design as well as full control of the kitchen. I sincerely hoped Ben and Justin weren’t looking for me to provide input on how to get from here to finished product. Not only because I didn’t want to but also because I was bound to fuck it up somehow.
Once I’d given the document a good once-over, I passed it back.
“Honestly,” I told him, “we’re gonna look to you to keep thi
ngs on track. As much as I wanna help you there, it’s not my area of expertise. However, I will have a say in the kitchen. That’s my domain and I have something specific in mind. I’ll do my best to help out in the interim, but like I said, it’s not really my thing.”
“I was told you’ll be the one signing off on everything,” he stated, his confusion evident.
I frowned. “Who told you that?” I damn sure didn’t want to be responsible. Not for everything.
“He won’t be signing off.”
My head snapped over and I saw Zeke standing in the doorway, his eyes trailing over me briefly.
The man—Jay or Jeff or something—didn’t look happy about that. “I was told—”
“Don’t. Argue,” Zeke snapped, his eyes going cold as he stared the contractor down.
I almost felt bad for the guy. Zeke was a very intimidating man. And the thing was, I didn’t think it was necessarily intentional. He simply came across as the alpha and the omega, the be all, end all.
I had the sudden urge to drop to my knees in front of him.
Not that I would.
Not here.
And certainly not unless he told me to.
“I’m gonna…” I motioned toward the door.
I didn’t know what I was going to do, but standing here wasn’t serving any purpose.
SIX
ZEKE
IT TOOK NEARLY HALF AN hour to get the contractor to finally shut up and listen. While he was making my ears bleed with his incessant chatter, I made a mental note to never agree to fill in for Ben again. Not when it came to shit like this. It might’ve helped if I had cared even a little about this endeavor of theirs, but I didn’t. I wasn’t an uptight hipster foodie. I tended to cook at home and from time to time I would splurge on pizza or a good burger. Sautéing up sauces and herbs that appealed to the palate was lost on me.
Fortunately for everyone involved, the contractor finally took the hint, although it was obvious he wasn’t happy with me. No, I didn’t know where they wanted the dining room or what the layout of the kitchen should be. I didn’t give a flying fuck where the water or gas lines came into the building and I had told him so repeatedly. In fact, we had accomplished exactly nothing by being there.
I’d wanted to give the contractor a piece of my mind. To let him know that it was rude to waste other people’s time. He’d had no real purpose for this visit and that irritated the shit out of me. I did not like wasting time. It was too precious to begin with.
“If I’m not working with Mr. McBride, who will be my point of contact?” the contractor asked. “Will you be running point?”
“Fuck no,” I mumbled. “I think it’s best you contact Ben. He’ll be able to give you more direction. I’m merely filling in for him.”
The man nodded while his eyes were glued to me. In fact, I wasn’t sure he’d looked away once since I interrupted his conversation with the cowboy. I could practically smell his fear, and while it usually amused me, I was growing more irritated by the second.
“Well, then. I guess that’s all for now. I’ll call Ben.”
“Good idea.” To ensure Ben was aware, I pulled out my phone and shot him a quick text. I didn’t go into detail, simply let him know he should expect a call.
Once the contractor finally left, I locked the door behind me and went in search of the cowboy and the pretty boy. I’d asked that they take Tank and wait in the lobby.
I found them sitting against the wall, the cowboy on one of the cherrywood benches while the pretty boy was on the marble floor, back to the wall with Tank between his spread legs. He was absently rubbing Tank’s fur while staring off into space.
The scene had me pausing in my tracks. The pretty boy looked quite content to be sitting with my dog. All three of them were silent while the cowboy was skimming something on his phone.
Tank heard me first, because his head turned, a wide smile forming on his face. And yes, dogs fucking smiled. Mine did.
When I approached, the pretty boy pushed to his feet, then passed Tank’s leash over to me.
“I’m sorry about that, Zeke,” the cowboy said when he stood. “I wasn’t sure what it was he needed from me.”
“I don’t think he knew,” I assured him. “I told him to get with Ben.”
I turned my attention back to the pretty boy. “You good?”
“Yep. Much better now.”
He was lying, I could tell.
I should’ve turned and walked out of the building, but something kept me rooted there. Ever since I saw the pretty boy’s pale face outside the building a short time ago, I’d been worried about him. Not that I was prone to worrying. Nor was I condoning my behavior. Whatever he was dealing with wasn’t my business.
“What’s the plan?” I asked.
The cowboy tucked his phone into his pocket and sighed. “I don’t know yet.”
“We’re going back up to the apartment,” the pretty boy stated, as though it was obvious. “I’ll be fine. I just have to—”
I cut him off by motioning toward the elevator. “Come on then.”
Neither of them moved.
“It wasn’t a request,” I said, casting my voice lower than before.
The pretty boy’s eyes widened, but his legs started working. If nothing else, he was relatively good at following instruction.
“Where are we going?” the cowboy asked as he fell into step with me.
“Up to the apartment.” I wanted to see the pretty boy’s reaction for myself.
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea. Case needs—”
“I didn’t ask for your input,” I told him, catching and holding his stare. “Now, let’s go.”
The cowboy was obviously confused, perhaps even a little pissed—it was written all over his face—but when the pretty boy started walking, we followed.
It wasn’t like I was going to toss them in the apartment and force the pretty boy to suffer. I had an idea, something that would potentially take the pretty boy’s mind off whatever had triggered his panic attack. Not only would it benefit him if I could get him distracted, it would benefit me. I needed to assess this situation. Considering what I had in store for these two, it was imperative that I knew what I was up against.
I needed to determine whether or not the pretty boy was capable of scening with me or not. I’d seen him restrained before, and at the time, I hadn’t gotten any indication that he had a problem with it. So, perhaps the restraints weren’t the issue. However, the idea of being boxed in could be, as well as the amount of space he had around him. I wouldn’t know until I saw it for myself.
Once inside the elevator, I kept an eye on the pretty boy as he leaned against the wall. He was trying to appear unaffected, but the color was already draining from his face.
“Do you have an issue with elevators?” I asked.
“Not a huge fan, no.”
“The confinement?”
He shook his head. “More so the lack of air.”
I glanced up at the ceiling. There was plenty of air, but I understood what he meant. His brain wasn’t registering the ventilation.
When we stepped out of the elevator, he stumbled once but managed to catch himself. With Tank beside me, we followed them down the hallway. The cowboy unlocked their door and then stepped inside. I was right behind them.
The door shut and the pretty boy flinched.
“Go open all the blinds, cowboy.”
The cowboy nodded and headed toward the windows. It was a nice-sized apartment. One bedroom, probably nine hundred square feet. Plenty of space, although, thanks to all the window coverings, it was rather dark. Considering the clouds were choking out the sun, there wasn’t a whole lot of light to begin with.
I unhooked Tank’s leash from his collar so he could sniff at his leisure, then turned to stand directly in front of the pretty boy.
“Look at me,” I demanded.
Light green eyes snapped up to mine. His chest was expanding rapi
dly, his eyes a little wild.
“Breathe. Slowly in. Then out. Focus on that.” I watched him. “In.” I paused. “Out. Now I want you to repeat after me. Eight, four, two, nine, seven.”
Confusion contorted his features but he managed to repeat the numbers.
“Again.”
Once more, he ran through them.
“Now backward.”
I wasn’t a therapist, and I didn’t know whether or not the method would work for his situation, but it had worked for my mother that day. I’d done it a time or two in the club since then. When an overeager submissive found themselves in a compromising position, it wasn’t all that uncommon for them to panic. Being a Dom, it was my responsibility to guide them through it, to ensure their wellbeing, whether I played with them or not.
Some people accused me of lacking empathy, but that was simply their way of trying to explain away my sadistic tendencies. The fact that I took extreme pleasure in a masochist’s pain had to be wrong in some way because it didn’t make sense to everyone. Why in the hell would someone want you to spank them, pull their hair, whip them, chain them up, lock them in a cage, or hold them down while you fucked them? More importantly, why would someone want to do those things to someone else? It was barbaric.
Yeah. I’d heard it all. After all, ignorance made for the best tirades.
I’d long ago stopped making excuses for my desires. I didn’t give a fuck what anyone thought about me or those I chose to engage with. As long as the submissive was willing and truthful, I didn’t give a shit about the condemnation that came from the outside.
“Come here, cowboy.”
He strolled over after he’d opened all the blinds in the apartment. It wasn’t a big difference, but it allowed the outside in just a little. I removed the hat from his head and set it on the counter. He ran a hand through his golden-brown hair. I briefly imagined myself pulling it while I fucked him hard.
Their Ruthless Sadist (Office Intrigue, 5) Page 7