Called my mom when I landed, cried, and told her I'd be home soon. She cried too. I refused to look at my text messages and turned my phone back off.
Rented a car and drove the hour and a half to my mom's house in Sewanee.
Made it home by four PM, and by five, I was on the couch with my mom, telling her everything that happened.
We cried together.
Chapter 31
Cain
I strut into The Silo, a man on a mission.
This is the only way to get Sloane out of my mind. I need to make a complete break, and that means giving up the last vestige of a tie with her. That means I need to fuck someone else, so I can get back to being me.
Once I fuck someone else, I can stop replaying in my mind every tiny detail of what happened last night. The weird feeling I had when I didn't see her behind the bar when I walked into The Wicked Horse. The astonishment when Bridger told me she was in The Silo. The rage seeing Logan and Rand look at her with hunger. The look of happiness on her face when she saw me.
The fucking way she told me she only wanted me.
And the way she felt so fucking right with my world when I sank into her.
Yeah, all of that shit has to go. Time to vacate it out of my mind and get back to living life.
The crack of a whip catches my immediate attention as I step into the common circular area. My head swivels in the direction of the sound and I see Bridger in one of the rooms, working a woman over with a four-foot single tail whip while she's mounted to a St. Andrew's cross. He's wearing nothing but a pair of jeans and a sheen of sweat as he lands another precise strike on her ass, which is crosshatched with red stripes. She's stoically silent when the leather strikes, but her back arches in pain.
Bridger is an artist with his implements, and I've watched him make people come with just a few well-placed lashes to their delicate skin. I don't understand people who need pain to get off, but there's no denying... it's erotic as hell to watch.
I turn my back on the show, vaguely hearing two more cracks before I get up to the bar. I order a Hoback Hefeweizen, take a seat on a stool, and turn out toward the common area to take stock of the pickings.
Catherine is here, wearing a romantic-looking dress made of white silk and lace, baring her shoulders. Her dark hair is long, wavy, and she's wearing a single white daisy tucked behind her ear. My dick twitches a tiny bit as I realize she's going for the sweet, innocent look tonight, meaning she wants to get sullied up good by whoever fucks her.
Maybe.
But then again, I should stay away from sweet and innocent reminders tonight. Too much like Sloane.
A scream echoes out from the room where Bridger is working the woman over, and I see her entire body shaking as she moans in ecstasy. Bridger drops the whip to the floor, walks over to her, and removes the restraints at her wrists and ankles. She sinks down to the floor, smiling up at him in gratitude, and he gives her a curt nod. That's about as touchy feely as Bridger gets when he's doling out his kink.
I watch as he walks over to a bench, picks up a black t-shirt, and pulls it over his head, straightening it down over the flocks of blackbirds on his torso. He walks out of the room without a backward glance, disappears a moment as he traverses the back hall, and then appears from the exit hallway.
He makes eye contact with me immediately, and his lips tip upward in silent welcome.
See... even he knows that I need to get back in the saddle so to speak.
Bridger walks across the room, completely oblivious to the hungry stares that follow after him by men and women alike. But most will never have him because he's choosy and he's expensive. While most acts of debauchery that occur within these rounded walls are part of the membership fee, those who want a crack at Bridger have to pay big bucks. And that's not prostitution because he doesn't have sex with those paying customers. Nope, he just reddens their skin, sometimes drawing blood if that's what they require, and they happily hand over their hard-earned bucks for a momentous orgasm brought on by the sting of leather.
"Nice to see you join us," Bridger says drily as he takes a seat next to me. I spin my stool back around, so we're both facing the interior of the round bar. Bridger nods at one of the bartenders, who knows to bring him a bottle of sparkling water, his preferred drink after working up a sweat.
"It's time," I say simply and take a sip of my beer. At least that's what my brain says, but my dick might be saying something else. While it might have given a tiny twitch at thinking of Catherine a moment ago, I think that was more of a reaction to her similarity to Sloane in that moment than anything. And even watching Bridger play is usually guaranteed to get me half-hard, but I'm as soft as a goose-down pillow right now.
No worries though. I'm in no rush to get my rocks off tonight. In fact, I plan on taking my time about it, making sure it counts. Making sure it finally obliterates all of these awful feelings swirling inside of me, especially when I think of Sloane crying last night.
And Christ... even though the words felt right, why did it hurt so much to walk away from her? Why did I feel like I was leaving something important behind? Something that felt a little bit like myself.
I take a longer pull on my beer, swallow it, and then take another. Maybe I need to just get drunk instead.
"Charles Mason is back from his work trip," Bridger says offhandedly, as if it's just another day at the office discussing business. "Wanted to know if you wanted to get together with him and Amy this week. In one of the fantasy cabins."
"Yeah, sure," I say distractedly, and then take another mouthful of beer. I swallow hard and set the glass down. "Whatever."
"Well, try not to be so excited," he says blandly.
I blink at him in surprise and try to put on my best high school cheerleader voice while I clasp my hands in front of my chest. "Well, yay... of course I'd just love too, Mr. Payne."
"Smartass," he grumbles with a smirk.
"Welcome back, dickweed," I hear as two hands slap onto my shoulders. I turn slightly and see Rand behind me, his fingers digging into my muscles briefly before releasing his hold. Logan comes up on the other side of Bridger and takes a seat.
"Assume no hard feelings?" Logan asks as he gives me a sly grin. "It looks like things worked out well for you last night, right?"
"What happened last night?" Bridger asks with mild curiosity as he looks at Logan.
"Miss Bonham here got his panties in a twist when he caught us flirting with Sloane last night," Rand says with a mocking laugh from my left.
Bridger's head swings the other way to look at him briefly before cutting to me. "That right?"
I refuse to answer because I don't want these guys ragging on me about my overt display of jealous propriety last night. It's something I prefer not to dwell on, especially since it was so out of character for me in normal circumstances, and just completely fucking weird given the fact I couldn't stand Sloane.
Well, yeah... I can stand her. Hunger for her actually. But I was furious with her and wanted nothing to do with her. So it was just fucking weird last night.
"Oh, yeah," Rand tells Bridger whose eyes slide past me to listen. "Came in here, dragged her out all caveman style. Never came back so I assume Little Bonham saw some hot action last night and Miss Sloane had a satisfied smile on her face today."
I don't miss the change of emotion on Bridger's face, because he goes from mild interest to outright anger. He turns that gaze back on me and says, "What the fuck did you do to her?"
I rear backward slightly from the menace he projects, but I stand my ground. "What the fuck does that mean? And what's with the 'tude?"
"I wasn't sure what the hell happened, but now it's clear... you must have done something to send her scurrying," Bridger says with ice practically falling off his tongue.
"Scurrying?" I say dumbly, having no idea what in the hell he's talking about.
"Back home... to Tennessee. She texted Callie this morning from the airport that sh
e was leaving. Callie and Woolf went by her apartment, and it's empty."
"She's gone?" I murmur, my tongue feeling numb as it says the words.
"Yeah, she's gone," Bridger mutters. "And I'd like to know what the fuck you did to send her running."
My mind spins and fuck... I feel a little dizzy. Now, whether I would have actually gone through with fucking someone tonight is beyond me at this point, but I do know one thing as I sit here contemplating what I've just learned. I never in a million years thought Sloane would be gone. I just assumed she would stick around and continue to work on me. I can't say as I hated what happened between us last night.
Oh, who the fuck am I kidding? I fucking loved every nut-blowing moment of what we did. So much so, I think subconsciously I was sort of banking on it happening again, maybe even secretly hoping that my walls would get chipped away with every orgasm we wrung out of each other.
Yeah... no way in hell am I'm ready to fuck someone else tonight, I think with total clarity.
"Cain," Bridger barks and I startle, raising my eyes from my beer to him.
"I didn't do anything," I grit out. "I fucked her... she enjoyed it. I left."
"Try again," he commands.
"I told her I forgave her, but that there wasn't anything between us anymore. I left right after...went back to work."
"Well, no wonder she fucking left," Rand says quietly.
"You're kind of a prick," Logan adds on. "She's a sweet girl too. Wouldn't have minded--"
"Say another fucking word of that thought," I growl at Logan, "and I'll rip your tonsils out."
Logan's mouth snaps shut, and he glares at me.
"And why the fuck are you all taking her side?" I grumble, my eyes coming to rest on each of their faces in turn. "She's a snake in the grass. A liar. A betrayer."
"Dude, you have got to get ahold of your tender sensibilities," Bridger mocks me. "That girl came to Jackson with a serious agenda--an insatiable fire lighting her sense of justice. You ended up tilting her world in just a matter of a few days. In just that short period of time, she gave up vengeance and justice all for you and Callie. She apologized. She made it right. And if I know Sloane, and I'm betting I do, that girl probably poured her heart out to you in an effort to have you care for her again, and you left her standing in a puddle of tears. She's got a soul made of pure gold, and you're a fucking moron who chased it away."
Vengeance? Justice? What the hell is he talking about?
But I can't think about that now because guilt overwhelms me. That's exactly what happened, and while I might have felt a twinge of it last night, it's oppressive to me now. Still, I'm not ready to go down without a clean fight, and I need one of them to at least admit to me that I have a right to feel betrayed and angry about this.
It would really help if one of my fucking friends had my back just a tiny bit.
So I try to explain myself better. "I get that she was in a bad situation, and I get that she pretty quickly realized what she was doing was wrong. I even understand that ultimately, she made everything right, and for that, I forgive her. But I'm sorry... she should have come clean sooner, especially when I... when she... when we started having feelings. If she would have just cut the deception a little sooner, it would have been easier to bear."
"She couldn't," Bridger says. "She had no choice."
I can't help the half-scoff, half-snort that comes out of my mouth and nose. It's not a pleasant sound, but it makes a point. Because she most certainly had a choice, and she chose badly. That's what I can't let go of.
"She was being blackmailed." The flat anger in Bridger's voice punches deep into my gut, and I don't doubt his words for a minute.
"Blackmailed?" I say incredulously.
"Yeah... her editor threatened to write a lurid article about her mom's most recent hospitalization and her past suicide attempts."
Again, I go dizzy and my confusion is like a thick puddle of goo within me. "Why in the fuck would her editor care about her mom's suicide attempts?"
"Because her mom was married to some senator who cheated on her and used government monies to fund his affair. The scandal destroyed her mom. It was the first time she tried to commit suicide. Her editor threatened to open the story back up if she didn't produce some type of evidence against Callie and the club."
Vengeance? Justice? It all makes sense now.
"Son of a bitch," I wheeze out, feeling like the air in my lungs went on hiatus. I press my fingers to my temples and squeeze my eyes shut. This is not fucking happening. "Why didn't she tell me?"
"She didn't want you to think she was making excuses. She thought just being honest about her mistake would be good enough."
"But she told you," I point out bitterly, opening my eyes and drilling Bridger with a heated look.
"True enough, but we'd pretty much made our peace with her before that," he says, and my guilt starts humming again.
"If she would have just said something..." I say, and my voice drifts off.
No, wait... that's not exactly right. If I look at this whole shit storm with an unjaundiced eye, it makes perfect sense Sloane didn't tell me. She's the type of person who owns up to her mistakes and she takes responsibility. I've always admired her integrity, and maybe that's why it hurt so much when I realized it might have been lacking. But yeah... I could see Sloane not bothering to tell me the entire situation, wanting me to forgive her on the merits of her personal remorsefulness for hurting me, not because someone was forcing her to do something bad.
"Christ," I mutter, pressing harder into my temples, my brain on overdrive. "Has that asshole editor run the story? Is that why she left to go home?"
"No, she left to go home because you're a moron who's a little slow on the uptake," Bridger says, his tone full of sarcasm. But then his eyes take on a wicked gleam, and he almost chortles when he says, "But that punk-ass won't be running it. I've managed to convince him otherwise."
I blink stupidly at Bridger. "How's that?"
"It's amazing what about five thousand will buy you in the way of a good investigator. Within two days of Sloane telling me about this prick, I'd found out that he had a secret young piece on the side and his wife had no clue."
"He was having an affair?" Rand asks with a laugh.
"With a man... a young congressional aide," Bridger says with glee. "I have the pictures to prove it, and what do you know? He backed right off Sloane."
That should make me happy. However, for some reason, it makes darkness well inside of me.
That Bridger was the one who protected her.
Saved her.
Believed in her.
Fuck... was everything I apparently was not, and it sickens me to my core over how stupid I've been.
I push up from the bar stool, pull my wallet out, and throw money on the bar for my beer and a tip. Bridger's eyebrows shoot up in a brief moment of surprise, which is odd because it's practically impossible to surprise him.
But then, he knowingly smiles at me and says, "Have a nice flight."
Chapter 32
Sloane
I pull the back of my hand across my forehead, wipe the sweat and layer of dust off, and huff out a hot breath. I'm not sure what possessed me to come up to my mom's attic and rummage through some of my old college boxes, but here I sit in my pajamas in a room that boasts at least a ninety-five-degree temperature and suffer while I work.
I suppose I'm filled with a displaced sense of nostalgia. Maybe a desire to look at things that took me back to a happier place in my life. That would be the summer between my sophomore and junior years at the University of Tennessee.
Before my dad got caught sticking his dick somewhere else.
Before our family got tied up in national scandal.
Before my mom tried to kill herself.
Those were the good days and so I'm reaching back out to them, desperately searching for some old photographs of my college buds and me, more than a few highlighting my skill
at keg stands at various frat parties, but still... it was before my pure bubble of naivety and happiness was burst, and before I was set on a path that led me directly to Jackson, Wyoming and perhaps the biggest heartbreak of my life.
I also figured I'd pull out some old photos, maybe some knickknacks that provide good memories, and place them in the spare bedroom of my mom's house where I'm crashing for the moment. Of course, Mom has told me to stay as long as I want--well, her word was forever actually--but the point is... I have to figure out what to do with myself.
Don't get me wrong... I love Tennessee. It's my home state, and there is an innate level of comfort here. While this isn't my childhood home, this is where my mom has lived since she and my dad separated, and so it is now my home too. It would not be unrealistic of me to stay here, look for a job locally, and try to regroup.
But I love D.C. too. The hustle and bustle, the culture, a decent group of friends I made who weren't exactly besties but with whom I could go out and have a great time on the weekends. It was a good life. Granted, the career was apparently a shit decision, but I could see making D.C. my home. There's certainly more job opportunities there if I want to stay in journalism, although the notion of that is soured a bit for me. At this moment, I'm jaded enough to believe the media may actually be more evil than my father.
A sharp stab of longing courses through me as I regretfully consider Jackson, Wyoming. This past week, I had envisioned myself living there. Figured I'd quit Revealed magazine, somehow salvage a relationship with Cain that was started on lies, and possibly get a job on the quaint local newspaper staff. There's no doubt Wyoming is the most beautiful place I've ever been, and I could totally see myself living there permanently. I mean... I wasn't completely sure about the winter, but figured it wouldn't be so bad being holed up with Cain during the cold and snowy times.
My pipe dreams were huge; my optimism unparalleled.
I was an idiot to think something so good that started with dishonesty could ever last. Why I even thought I should stay behind after my plot was exposed and try to "fix" things with Cain is beyond me. There's no way a man like Cain with his hard lines and bitter past would ever have let me back in. Not with someone like Rachel in his past who secretly aborted their baby and charged it off on an already overextended credit card, knowing that one day he'd learn the truth.
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