by E J Frost
I haven’t met the other Dom, Rob, although I recognize his name from the barbed wire tattoo around Brenna’s thigh, which makes my smile fade. He’s around Logan’s age, has Logan’s rangy build, and tops it all off with the kind of open, trustworthy face I’d have been happy to have in my platoon. But the idea that this guy topped the girl I want for my own with that annoyingly-handsome face makes me hate him on general principal. I have to drag my smile back onto my face when he holds out his hand.
“Harry’s mentioned you have a Chieftain Dark Horse,” Rob says after we shake.
“I do. Do you ride?”
“Yeah.” Rob grins. “A Ducati.”
Okay, that makes him marginally more likeable.
Harry snorts. “Crotch rocket.”
“I’m not a Harley purist,” I tell Rob. “How does it ride?”
“Urban lion,” Rob says. “Nothing like the tank the old man here wheels around.” He elbows Harry. Harry lifts his lip in a playful snarl while he holds a finger up for the bartender.
Tee ambles down the bar, pops the tops on two bottled beers, puts them on the bar in front of Rob and Harry, turns his back, and returns to the crowd. Either he knows their drinks, or they don’t warrant anything off the top shelf.
Harry chortles. “You’re still in the shit, buddy. I need to remember not to come in here with you.”
Rob picks up his beer and takes a long draw. “I’m lucky he didn’t spit in it this time.”
Logan gives a low whistle and I chuckle at Rob’s misery. “What did you do to piss him off?”
Rob cuts his eyes at Harry and Logan.
I hold up my hand, realizing I’ve overstepped. “Sorry, club business.”
“Let’s just say Tee’s very protective of the nightclub submissives and I fucked up with one of them. Tee’s taking it much worse than she did.”
Remembering his name on Brenna’s thigh, I frown at him. “Not—?”
Logan’s hand lands on my shoulder and squeezes. “We were hoping to catch DirtyGurl dancing. I don’t suppose either of you have seen her tonight?”
Harry nods. “Not sure if she’s still there, but she took Cappa’s shift on the upstairs door tonight. She said he’s sick?”
I hear Logan grind his teeth even over the nightclub’s pounding electronica. “Something like that.”
Harry pushes back from the bar and gives Logan a hard stare. “Something we need to talk about?”
“Probably,” Logan agrees. “But not today.”
“Give me a call. Tomorrow, eh?”
Logan nods. “Mac, if you’re done, let’s go find DirtyGurl. See if she can give you a dance.”
I toss back the last sip of bourbon, not wanting to waste it, but also not giving it the attention it deserves, before saying my good byes to Harry and Rob and following Logan out.
The hallway up into the main club is blessedly cool and quiet. Logan leads me through a series of security doors and into an elevator. As it speeds upwards, I ask, “Is Rob one of the fuckers who let Bren down?”
“I don’t pay much attention to club gossip,” Logan responds, leaning against the elevator’s mirrored wall. “I’d have thought if anyone made her question her submission it was Ten, but I know Brenna used to scene with Rob regularly.”
“Have you seen the tattoo on Brenna’s thigh? It’s all names. Rob’s is two along from Theo’s.”
“I haven’t looked closely at it,” Logan says. “But I know about it. She got permission from the management committee before she had it done.”
“Is your name on there somewhere?” I ask warily.
“No. She makes her own determination about whose name to add to the tattoo, but I’m pretty sure it’s Doms who have topped her a number of times. Other than a few training scenes, I’ve only done group scenes with her.”
“And had sex with her?”
Logan rubs his hand over his face. “Mac, are you sure about this? She’s been a house sub for years. She’s done scenes with at least a hundred Doms. She’s had sex with most of them—”
“You’re right,” I interrupt because I really don’t want to hear any more. “Sorry. It just catches me by surprise sometimes.”
“Look, sir, I don’t know how I’d feel if I came face-to-face with Emily’s ex. I’d probably punch him. But I’ve come to terms with her previous Doms. I even feel grateful to some of them for training her so well. The Blunts Doms aren’t Brenna’s exes, but you’re going to have to come to terms with them somehow.”
I nod. I will. Somehow. Maybe when Brenna’s come on my cock a few hundred times, I won’t feel this burning, sour jealousy towards everyone she’s slept with when she hasn’t yet slept with me. And, yes, I know that’s my own damn fault. She was perfectly willing to hop on my cock the other night, but I’m serious about protecting her health. I haven’t been tested in over a year. I’ve only had penetrative sex with two women since then. One was a pro and the other was Amy, who has been with every single man in the state of Florida and quite a few that weren’t. I used condoms with Sirena, but Amy did her usual number on me. I didn’t use protection any more than I used my damn brain.
We step out of the elevator into a vestibule with another security door that Logan opens. He leads me around the corner to a massive, wooden reception desk with a huge digital display hanging on the wall behind it. The computers on the desk and the digital board are the only modern things in the long hallway. Everything else is straight out of a British country house: a rich, red-patterned, Turkish carpet that cushions our feet, wood paneling on the walls broken up by doors, classical statuary, and huge oil paintings of hunting scenes. Wall sconces soak everything in soft, golden light, and there’s the scent of leather and tobacco in the air, even though I’m sure no one has smoked inside this building in a decade. Oh, except in the smoking lounge, because Logan’s told me they have one of those.
“Good evening, Master Logan.” A woman’s soft contralto greets us. She steps out from behind the reception desk to curtsey to Logan and then to me. With a black bob, bright blue eyes, and delicate features, she could be Cappa’s sister. “Is there anything I can do for you and your guest, sir?”
“Is DirtyGur—”
Logan breaks off when a door down the hall opens and Brenna walks out.
My heart nearly leaps through my ribcage. She definitely gets more beautiful every time I see her. Her dreadlocks are down, swinging against her shoulders, providing a jewel-toned backdrop for her colorful skin. If I thought black rope looked great framing that skin, I had no idea what black leather and lace would do. Fuck, she is stunning. She’s wearing the same basque set as every other house submissive: corset, G-string, and fishnet stockings. On Brenna, they give her cleavage I want to bury my face in and never breathe again, a nipped-in waist worthy of a pin-up, and legs that go on not just for days but for centuries. I have to swallow to keep from drooling.
I take a step towards her that turns bow-legged when I nearly stumble over my own damn cock, I’ve shot so hard.
Her warm brown eyes land on me and she smiles, genuinely happy to see me. She tosses her hair back and begins walking toward me. My heart’s pounding so hard I can feel it in my temples and my throat and my cock.
Then Theo steps out of the room behind her and my heart freezes. He’s bare-chested, barefoot, wearing just a pair of low-slung jeans. He’s flushed, his hair standing up in spikes.
I can’t help my eyes going from him to her. Bren stops walking and the smile slides off her face. I feel the frown forming on my own.
Theo shuts the door behind him and catches up with her in two long strides, slinging his arm around her shoulders. He walks her over to the reception desk and gives us each a nod. “Logan, Mac. Char, we’re finished with the Medical Suite.”
“Yes, Master Theo,” Cappa’s twin says, heading back around the desk.
From the circle of another man’s arms, Brenna says, “Master Mac, I hope your daughter’s okay?”
I nod, unable to say a word around the constriction in my throat.
Her eyes narrow. “Everything okay?”
A growl breaks free of my throat. “What the fuck are you doing?”
“Giving Master Theo his rain-check. Remember?”
I don’t. Didn’t. Now that she says it, I vaguely remember that both Theo and I asked to scene with her that morning at Logan’s and she offered us both a raincheck, but I didn’t remember until now.
I shake my head slowly, feeling like I’ve caught a gut wound.
“Are you judging me?” Brenna asks, her voice low and not at all friendly.
“Bren—”
“It’s DirtyGurl,” she hisses at me. “And don’t you fucking dare judge me, sir.”
“What’s the problem—” Theo begins.
He’s the fucking problem. I lunge at him, but I’m pulled up short by a heavy pressure around my neck.
“He’s a cop,” Logan hisses in my ear. “You do not want to spend the night in jail for assaulting a police officer.”
In this moment, I’m willing to risk it.
“Get your hands off her,” I growl at Theo, straining against Logan’s arm.
Theo frowns at me. “What the fuck—”
Brenna shrugs his arm off and pushes right up into my face. “You don’t get to say who touches me. Not when you fuck off the morning after and leave me to drop into the Grand fucking Canyon of Subdrops. Fuck all the way off, Mac. I won’t be making any more time for you.”
She turns on her high-heeled boot and stalks off. She slams through another door in the long corridor and her heels clack on wood as the door closes behind her.
Theo frowns at me, then at Logan, before he turns to follow Brenna. “School your guest, Logan. That kind of shit doesn’t go down here.”
“Sorry,” Logan says, tugging on my neck. “Come on, Mac. Time to go.”
I try to shake him off, but he’s got a fucking grip and too much experience holding back his brother sailors in bar fights. “I need to talk to her—”
“Nope, not now. Not until you both cool down. Come on. We’re gonna have a cigar and another drink.”
I don’t need either of those things. I need the girl who just walked away from me.
“I don’t—” I begin.
“I’m not asking, sir. Come on.”
Logan manhandles me around the corner and back into the elevator. Once his glare breaks through my red rage, I lean against the mirrored wall and press the heels of my hands into my eyes.
“What did I just do, Lo?”
“Lost your head over a woman. Can’t be the first time.”
“I’m pretty sure it is.”
I can’t remember ever fighting over a woman. I never fought for Amy. Quite the opposite: I shared her with the worst assholes I knew. She was an innocent and I broke her on them, and I kept breaking her until I married her, and she figured out how to break me.
“I’m just glad you didn’t end up in cuffs,” Logan says. “Theo’s pretty quick to throw his badge around. It’s one of the reasons Emily’s not his biggest fan. I’m glad you listened to reason.”
I didn’t. If Brenna hadn’t moved away from him when she did, I’d have gone for him. The idea that she was just in that room with him, submitting to him, letting him touch her, taking his cock—
I grind my palms against my eyes to shut out that mental image.
“Lo, I don’t think I can do this.”
He takes my arm and steers me out of the elevator. Down a short hall, he thumbs through another security door and into a huge, glass-enclosed space, dimly lit by the city’s twinkling lights and the soft, blue, backlighting of a round bar in the center of the room. Logan tugs me over to the bar and orders two Padron Family Reserve cigars and two more bourbons, before he steers me to a seating group with a commanding view across the roof and over the city.
I sink into a deep, leather armchair and contemplate how deeply I’ve fucked up.
“We’ve done one scene together,” I grumble to Logan as he hands me a lit cigar and a glass of amber liquid. “But she feels like mine.”
Logan takes a long pull on his own cigar before rubbing his forehead. “This is going to sound judgmental and I’m trying not to be, because you know my history with Emmy, but you’re jumping the gun, sir. I’m not sure DirtyGurl’s built that way.”
She is. I feel it. Or maybe I just want her to be so badly that I can’t envision her being any other way.
“I need to find out. I can’t leave it here, Lo.”
He smokes in silence for a moment and, reluctantly, I join him.
“How do you feel about grand gestures?” he asks at length.
“Such as?”
“Something you feel good about. I’ve made that mistake, sending a woman something I thought would be meaningful to her. I wasn’t sure about it myself, and then she questioned why I sent it, and I had no good answer.”
I blow out a breath. “Call me old fashioned, but in my day, when a man fucked up, he sent flowers.”
“I wouldn’t go down the red roses route with DirtyGurl, but flowers are a solid choice.”
I ponder flowers as I puff on the cigar, trying to savor the rich taste and let it soothe me. “Do they work with Emily?”
Logan grins. He’s such a smitten fuck. “You notice the pink roses that are always on the dining table? I get them delivered every week against the eventuality of me fucking up.”
That wrings a laugh out of me.
“Maybe I should place a standing order, because this isn’t going to be the last time I lose it if she keeps doing scenes with the Doms here.” I puff on the cigar then rub the bridge of my nose with my thumb. “I think about her walking out of that room after fucking him—”
“Don’t go there in your head, sir,” Logan interjects. “That’s a bad, bad place. If you’re thinking of DirtyGurl as yours . . . if Emily . . . just don’t.”
I nod and take a sip of bourbon to wash away the bitter taste of jealousy and regret. “I shouldn’t have left. The other morning, I shouldn’t have left.”
He rubs his palms over his knees, which is another of Logan’s tells. He’s about to say something I won’t want to hear. “Emily mentioned that you’d left DirtyGurl plugged. That bothered her. I don’t know, Mac. Brenna’s a tough nut. Do you think it made a difference?”
“She said she’d take it out herself and that she’d be fine. I let her convince me because I was worried about Naomi and knew it would take me hours to get to her campus and track her down. But I should have taken the time to do it myself. I should have checked that she was okay and given her rules while I was gone so she felt my control. I feel like she’s stepped back from me, and that’s my own fault.”
Logan pats my leg. “Good thing women are forgiving creatures.”
“Are they? That hasn’t been my experience.”
My experience has been so, so much the opposite.
“That’s because your experience is with Amy. Fuck, Mac, don’t project any of that on DirtyGurl. There couldn’t be two more different people.”
“I know that here.” I point at my head with the cigar. “It’s just knowing it here that’s the problem.” I point at my heart.
“Look, Brenna’s not perfect. God knows, I couldn’t top her. She’d drive me around the twist. But she’ll never pull the shit that Amy pulled. She’s loyal, and under the hair and the tattoos and the attitude, she’s pure platinum.”
“I like her hair. And her tattoos. And her attitude,” I growl.
“Good thing, you have to put up with them. Mac, Amy only ever tried to divide and conquer. She pitted Naomi against you. She manipulated your friends, your own fucking C.O. DirtyGurl will never, ever do that.”
“No,” I agree. I know that in my gut. Brenna’s nothing like Amy. Which makes me all the more desperate to get her back. “You really think flowers, huh?”
Logan nods. “They work for me.”
I puff on
my cigar and pray they work for me, too.
Chapter 7
I glance at the coffee-shop window and give my reflection the once-over.
My dreads are bound up with the silver, skull clips. The wing on my eyeliner is sharp enough to cut glass. Between the lack of sleep and heartache, my cheekbones are prominent enough that I don’t need any contour, but I’ve highlighted them anyway. My matte purple lipstick screams badass, as does my spiked dog-collar, my leather trench coat, open over a sheer, lace halter, and my oxblood leather pants. Am I way over the top for a morning coffee with my friend? You bet. But no one is going to see past the shiny surface to the pile of quivering, raw meat I am inside.
From here on, all anyone gets is shiny Brenna.
Except that Ruby knows me too fucking well and by the time we’ve gotten our coffees and muffins, my eyes are burning and I’m wiping my nose with my freshly-manicured fingers because of her perceptive questions.
“And he just let you walk away?” Ruby asks, pushing a wave of deep magenta hair over her shoulder. Ruby’s not her real name. It’s what we called her at Mother Kay’s because of her mane of frizzy, red hair and that stupid song by Kaiser Chiefs. She grew into it, taming the frizz and turning it this arresting shade of purple-red that she’s worn like a fucking boss for the last decade. Nothing hurts this girl. She turns her imperfections into strengths and wears them like fucking body armor. I’ve wanted to be her every day since we met. “He hasn’t called or anything since?”
“No.” I swipe at my nose again before taking a sip of too-hot coffee and sucking on my cheeks to try to relieve the burn.