Chapter 3

3

Leah

“Please,” I breathe.

Maybe if he’s eating me out, he won’t think about tugging on that cruel chain attached to my nipples.

Except he did say he was going to punish my nipples until I come.

I was going to leave without a conversation. The punishment is just, deserved.

His glasses frame those beautiful brown eyes. “Get ready, baby girl.”

“Yes, Sir.”

He leans forward and presses his mouth against my bare mound. His beard is scratchy, and the texture turns me on. He finds my clit and sucks. My hips buck forward, my body seeking more contact. I’m so full, and that dildo is not moving. I wish it would—I crave friction, the erotic slide of a cock.

I wonder, again, why Gage doesn’t fuck me. But the question dissipates in a fog of lust when he reaches up and tugs the torture chain.

The tingles of agony from my nipples mix with the sparks of pleasure radiating from my pussy. My cry of pain transforms to a moan.

He said it would transform me. This is what he meant.

The pain takes me apart, piece by piece. My soul. My body. My need. My desire. Fractured.

The pleasure washes over and through me, bringing it all together again.

And when I come on his mouth, riding the fake cock that doesn’t move, my nipples abused like he promised?

I am made whole again.

* * *

Dmitri

“Look, Patrick,” I say, “I don’t know what plan you’re talking about. And it looks like you’re in deep with…something.”

His torn T-shirt, black eye, dirty ball cap—he’s definitely in some kind of trouble. A shallow cut makes a red line next to his arm tattoo. It’s a dagger and crown—a symbol of the Aseyev family. I have the same one on my bicep.

“Yeah, some assholes tried to get smart. Don’t worry, I gave back as good as I got.” He rubs a hand over his tattoo.

The tattoo rubbing is Patrick’s nervous tell. Maybe he gave back as good as he got during his fight. But he isn’t as tough as he sounds.

This isn’t the first time Patrick’s gotten into a scuffle. He always talks a big game. Cocky bastard that he is, this doesn’t make him many friends. He tries bringing me into his beefs with other people, too. Started doing that in middle school. I distanced myself in high school, but he’s family. Granddad told me to look out for him. My parents agreed. What can I do?

“Come on,” he says. “You’re driving. I can’t fucking see straight.”

I stare, dumbstruck, as he spins around and marches toward my Mustang parked in the driveway.

Well, fuck. I follow him outside, locking up behind me. Maybe I can talk him out of whatever crazy shit he wants to do.

Patrick directs me through downtown San Esteban and then into the Bellefleur District. Not the best place to hang out, but thanks to Granddad’s connections, I’ve never felt like there was much danger. Hell, when I was a teenager, Granddad would ask me to run errands for him here. I would deliver messages, mostly, or check up on his friends.

“Where the fuck are we going?” I ask.

Patrick fiddles with the radio. He finds an oldies station. The song has a lot of tambourines and doo-wop s. “Just keep driving.”

“We’re going to wind up in Salding.” Unlike the Bellefleur, which is at least influenced by our grandfather’s connections, Salding is a tiny little district bleeding out of the city limits. It’s glamorous, but forbidden.

Granddad doesn’t go here. We aren’t supposed to go here.

Patrick jabs the radio dial, shutting the music off. “Yeah, that’s the idea.”

“Patrick, you’re not pulling me into a fight, are you? I can’t get involved. I have a job.” I let off the gas to slow down.

“Not a fight. Chill. I found us a place. It’s fuckin’ perfect, D.”

“For our club?”

“Yeah. The location is excellent. Not as good as, say, Dorado Heights, but Salding’s nice.”

“Salding is also run by the Layton family.”

“Just check the place out with me, okay? We’ll drive by, we don’t even have to get out.”

Frowning, I follow his directions to the far end of Washburne Avenue. The buildings here are similar to those in ritzy Dorado Heights, but the polish feels more forced. Dorado Heights is a beautiful area of San Esteban without even trying.

The difference between the two districts doesn’t seem to bother any of the people walking around. Even at this late hour, there’s plenty of foot traffic.

“There.” Patrick points at an ornate brick building. Three stories tall. “The upstairs are offices. Dentist, tax accountant, law office, those kinds of things. A jazz club on the first floor won’t bother any of ’em because they’ll close by the time we open.”

I gaze at the building, envisioning a jazz club. There’d be a bright sign, lit with blue and gold lights spelling out Smooth Riff . Lively sax refrains, accompanied by piano and a chill drumbeat, would spill from the windows in the cool hours of a summer evening.

“Perfect, right?” Patrick beams at me.

It’s true—as far as the building set-up, it’s perfect.

But there’s already a business here. “What’s going to happen to the current occupant? The Pizza Prince?”

“Going out of business. Nothing’s advertised yet, but I have some sources.”

“Not any of Granddad’s friends.”

His shrug tells me that his source is indeed someone in the Aseyev network.

“Patrick, I told you we have to do this without him or his friends. And this area? We should stay away from it.”

“Well, that’s the thing,” he says. “To start our club here, we’ll need Granddad’s help with security.”

“No way. This whole district is a bad idea. You know it. I know it. We can wait until the perfect place is available.”

“There won’t be one. Dorado Heights is more than we can afford…unless you want Granddad’s help with start-up cash.”

“Fuck no.” We’re not taking his money. If we do, he’ll want a say in operations, in clientele.

Possibly in money laundering.

I don’t want to think about that shit. I shouldn’t have to.

Patrick slumps in his seat. “So what, we get some shit hole in the Bellefleur?”

“Maybe,” I say. “Or we wait until we have the capital on our own.”

“Fuck you, you know that’ll never happen.” He gives me a beseeching look. “Come on, this was our dream. We’ve been planning this for years.”

I put the car in gear and get us moving again. I need the fastest route out of Salding.

“So you’re not even gonna consider it?” he asks.

“Tell me one thing.”

“Sure.”

“Who gave you the shiner?”

He mumbles.

“Say that again. I couldn’t hear you.”

“Edmund Layton.”

I nod. That’s what I thought. I can imagine what happened. Patrick came sniffing around here and they figured out who he was. They probably figured it out because of that stupid Aseyev tat on his forearm that he wouldn’t have tried to hide.

It’s one thing to be proud of our name. It’s another to be stupid.

“Maybe we should rethink our concept,” I say.

“The fuck? We’ve been talking about this for years, D. Years. Jazz club. You and me. A place like Granddad used to own. Great music, great drinks. The elite rubbing elbows.”

“That was when we were kids.” I get us back to Dorado Heights and let out a sigh of relief. Salding makes me itchy between my shoulder blades. “We’re adults now.”

“So you don’t want to do this?” He raises his voice. “After all our planning, all the shit we went through?”

“I’m not saying I don’t want to do it at all.” I cross Caro to take us back to my place. “I’m saying we should talk things out. Slow down the timeline.”

“You’re pulling back.”

“Yeah, I’m pulling back,” I say. “You keep doing risky shit. Even scoping out Salding, Patrick, looking like you do, was asking for trouble. I don’t want trouble.”

His jaw juts out stubbornly. “Granddad told me some stuff that happened to your friend Leah. Sounds like she’s trouble.”

“Through no fault of her own. And the trouble’s over.”

“Is it, though? When she comes to family things with Danica, I’ve seen the way you look at her. Maybe you’re too distracted by a girl to want to open up a club.”

“Fuck off, you know it’s not that.” Am I that transparent? Because yeah, I am distracted by Leah. I don’t want to think about anything else but her. Winning her back. Making sure she’s happy. Safe. Starting this club with Patrick isn’t going to help me with Leah.

But the main reason I don’t want to do this, is Patrick’s recklessness.

I say, “You need to grow up, Patrick. Stop taking stupid risks like walking around Salding with your Aseyev tattoo. Don’t pretend it’s a fucking accident that one of the Laytons beat your ass.”

“Yeah, okay.” He doesn’t believe me. “You can drop me off here.”

I look around. We’re on a busy side street right off Caro. “You sure?”

“Yeah. I want you to think about this, though. Smooth Riff has been our dream for too long to let it go. Maybe you’re just a little worried about a little trouble over some little girl.”

He’s deflecting, but he isn’t wrong, either.

* * *

Gage

My days used to be predictable. Wake. Work out. Eat. Scribble some poetry. Go to the office. Watch people have sex. Do administrative tasks. Go home. Masturbate. Sleep.

But now I’ve invited Leah into my apartment and into my life. Everything is more complicated. Dragging myself out of my bed and away from her soft, sleepy body is so difficult, I’m nearly panting with the effort.

Leah shows up in my workout room when I’m running on the treadmill. She’s wearing a pair of flannel pants and a thin, long-sleeved shirt. She gazes at my naked torso, an appreciative gleam in her eyes.

A part of me wants to throw on a shirt, but I stifle the inclination. Leah’s gaze is soft. Safe.

Pointing around the room, I say, “You’re welcome to use anything here. I’ll be off the treadmill in a few minutes if you want to do some running.”

“I’ve never been in a home with a private gym.” She walks up to the punching bag and gives it an experimental shove. When it swings back at her, she puts her hand up in a fist and hits it. “Ow.”

I chuckle. “If there’s anything you don’t know how to use, I’m happy to help you with it.”

“I’m good for now, but thanks.”

“Breakfast?” I ask.

“I’ll forage, if that’s okay.”

“Anything you want, it’s yours, little girl.” I should stop calling her this in casual conversation. But I can’t seem to help myself, and she doesn’t seem to mind.

With a playful wink, she says, “Thank you, Sir,” and traipses out of the room.

I groan because it’s hard to run with an erection. My arousal is soon doused, though, with an incoming call. Todd Evanston.

I ignore it. He can leave a message.

He calls a second time.

I will have no peace if I ignore him, will I? I answer.

“I even called instead of texting,” he says by way of greeting. “The least you could do is pick up the first time.”

“I’m busy.” I slow my run to a brisk walk. “What’s going on?”

“Javi’s funeral. We’re trying to set a date.”

“Okay.” I wonder what that has to do with me, if anything.

“If it’s Saturday, can you make it?”

It’s the last thing I want to do. My absence would be noted, however. Not only by my former castmates, but by any media invited. Javi’s career took off after Academy of Ghosts . He was a popular celebrity who formed countless connections. His funeral will be a circus. And the so-called “rivalry” between us means I’ll be scrutinized. Yes, almost two decades later.

“Gage,” Todd says.

“Yes, I’ll be there.”

“Are you even sad, though?”

Anger spikes in my chest. Why should I be sad? Javi and I hated each other. The worst part was, I didn’t realize his derision until far too late. I clench the phone tightly in my hand, but I draw on my training to keep my voice level. “I am sad for his friends and family. I will pay my respects because it’s the right thing to do.”

“You’re so fucking cold, Gage. Maybe you should stay home.”

Would if I could. I don’t have the energy or patience for the barbed remarks, the cutting words.

“Goodbye, Todd.” I hang up.

Claudia thinks the old crew miss me.

I think her rose-colored glasses are opaque.