"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 stockade, 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 incredulously. "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.
"That shit's off the table," I snap at him, and he blinks at me in surprise. "And clearly you two don't have any helpful advice."
I surge up out of the chair and mutter to Bridger, "Catch you later."
I storm out of the Double J office but even as my own feet hit the dirt outside, I can hear Bridger saying, "Wait up."
Turning, I see him trotting down the steps toward me. "Cut Woolf some slack," he says gruffly. "He doesn't know."
"Know what?" I ask him, confused and slightly skeptical.
Bridger's head turns slightly, and he gazes out over the open range that stretches for miles with the Teton Mountains standing tall on the horizon. When he looks back at me, he scratches at his chin. "Cat... she forced by her husband to go to The Silo?"
He worded it as a question, but I can tell he's actually laying it out as a statement he wants verified.
"Yeah."
"That motherfucker," Bridger snarls, aiming his cowboy booted foot at Woolf's front tire. It slams into the tread and bounces off as he curses under his breath.
"Not your fault," I tell him just loud enough to penetrate his curses. I know what he's feeling right now and it's guilt, plain and simple. That Cat was forced to do something she didn't want to do. "And her experience isn't all bad there. It's complicated."
So fucking complicated.
"She want a job at The Wicked Horse?" Bridger asks.
I shake my head. "Still too close."
"Let me think on it," Bridger says. "And I'll also check into this attorney, but I'm betting he was just paid to enforce a document that may or may not be legit. Now, can I front Cat some money?"
"I've got her covered," I tell him, because fuck if I'm going to allow him to ride in and save the day for Cat. I'm not sure why I have this overwhelming need to protect her and help her. I mean, I feel for her. I really do. And she's a great fuck, and it's been awesome to have her right there in my apartment... but still, I can't figure out why I have this strong of a connection to her cause.
Bridger nods in understanding. "Alright, man. But I'll help in any way I can."
"Appreciate it," I tell him and turn toward my Suburban. While I might not want Bridger being Cat's personal champion, I'll gladly take any help he and Woolf can give me until we can figure out what's best for her future.
Chapter 8
Cat
Opening the oven, I take a quick peek at the meatloaf I have baking and then glance at the timer on the microwave I had set. Another ten minutes and it should be done.
Rand had texted me a few hours ago letting me know he'd be home from work by seven. We had our first minor disagreement after I responded back to him that'd I'd cook dinner.
His response was almost immediate. I'll pick up pizza.
I wasn't sure whether to be offended that he was perhaps distrustful of my cooking or he was being an overly gracious host, but I sent him back a firm response. I insist. I want to do something nice for you.
No need, he wrote back quite succinctly.
I wasn't so succinct. I'm cooking dinner and not arguing about it. I'll have it on the table and ready to go at 7PM. If you can't let me do something to show my gratefulness for your generosity, then I'm going to have to make alternative plans to stay somewhere else.
His response was still just as short, just as quick, but it made me smile. Look forward to your cooking.
It's my hope he appreciates my efforts, although knowing Rand, that's sort of a given. The more I come to know him, the more I admire the type of man--no, human--that he is. In all my dealings with him before at The Silo, I never looked past the exterior. He's a glorious package and was one of my select favorites there. But let's be honest... he was fucking a shell of a woman then. I closed off everything on the inside and would only let my body feel. With all the things that make me uniquely human shut down, there was nothing available by which I could see inside someone else. Not that I wanted to since it never occurred to me I could have a life outside of Samuel. That I could have someone truly care for me. I never even hoped for such a thing because you can't hope for something that you don't even understand.
That you don't even know exists in the world.
So without that knowledge, there was never any need for me to look past the exterior of any man who had me. I was nothing but a vessel to them, and they were nothing but a few moments of physical pleasure that hopefully outweighed the shame of what was happening to me.
After our text exchange, I drove to the grocery store and put a dent in my meager funds, coughing up $9.63 for some ground bison, an onion, and some milk. The milk was for the box of macaroni and cheese I found in a cupboard. He had butter, ketchup, eggs, and spices, so I had everything else I needed for meatloaf and macaroni and cheese. Very simple and basic. I considered throwing in a green vegetable too, but I actually got sidetracked in the grocery store when I started thinking about Rand and how perfectly he was able to play my body last night. Which is weird. I never think about sex in general, but I seem to be obsessed with Rand and how he makes me feel in bed. Out of bed too, so to speak, as he got me to easily open up to him. Telling him my secrets and shames last night was freeing. The fact that he listened without judgment speaks volumes.
So yeah... I got sidetracked thinking about Rand and walked out of the grocery store without a veggie. Rand doesn't have any vegetables among his canned goods, which leads me to believe he probably doesn't like them anyway.
I think I'm a decent cook, and it's something I enjoy doing. Granted, I haven't had a lot of opportunity to experiment, but I can hold my own with the basics. Growing up, I had to fend for myself so I could get pretty damn creative. Once I left home, I took whatever food I could get, and it was often just a stolen candy bar or something. With Samuel, we had a chef when we were in Vegas. In Jackson, I did get to cook for us, although he'd never hand down a compliment to me even if he thought it was th
e best food ever. Not going to say I didn't think about poisoning him a time or two, especially when he'd farm me out to others, but I just don't have that in me, I guess. Samuel's food remained healthy and poison free, even though I hated him enough that I hoped his advanced age would get him sooner rather than later.
Or that he'd choke on a chicken bone, it being fortuitous that I did not know how to do the Heimlich maneuver.
The macaroni is done boiling, so I go about fixing the cheap box of Kraft, adding in extra butter because that makes everything taste better. By the time the meatloaf is done and I'm pulling it out of the oven, I hear the door to the apartment open. My entire body goes on hyper-alert, and a rush of giddy excitement runs through me.
Rand's here.
The sensation is so startling that it takes a moment to realize the heat from the glass dish of meatloaf is starting to sting through the towel I'd grabbed it out with. I hurriedly set it on the stovetop.
"Smells amazing," Rand says from behind me. I turn to him, feeling my cheeks get warm from the praise and the anticipation of seeing him.
God... I've never felt this before. It's how I imagine children feel on Christmas morning when they wake up and are beside themselves with excitement to know what Santa left them. I've never had that experience, but I had friends at school who did, so I could easily envision it.
I've most definitely never felt it for another man because I never really had a serious relationship before. I've made attempts, but I always picked poorly. When you're sometimes homeless and occasionally stripping to pay rent, the choices for "good guys" are relatively lacking. I guess that's why Samuel seemed like such a godsend at first when he showed interest in me.
Rand's eyes flick from the meatloaf to me. His gaze lingers in a long, slow slide up and down my body. The giddiness ramps up as I feel a rush of dampness between my legs. Normally, when I feel the signs of lust coming on, my body and persona tend to take on a life of its own. I know how to work my assets and incite the same lust in someone else with either a particular look or a sway of my hips.
But right now, I'm not feeling the need to do that with Rand. In fact, I feel a little off kilter. Rather than give him a sensual look of invitation, because let's face it--I would not say no if he wanted to have sex right now--I blush even deeper if the heat in my face is any indication.
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