38. Chapter 38
Frankie
Frankie stood watching the door long after Evan was hauled away in handcuffs.
At some point in the last eight hours, numbness had taken over her thoughts, her limbs.
She’d been walking around in a fog since the second it became apparent what would need to be done.
Who she’d have to turn her back on. Never in her life had she expected to watch someone she loved get arrested.
And more than that, know she couldn’t do a thing to help them.
It had to be done. Yes, but that doesn’t mean it was easy.
“I can’t believe Evan stole your gun and then stupidly left it in their locker,” Sloane remarked, wiping the bar counter Frankie had been leaning against.
“I’ll be in my office,” Frankie said, fatigue creeping into her voice. Her body felt trapped in a lethargic state as she dragged herself down the hallway. It was like she was inside a dream and walking , but reaching nowhere. Exhaustion and dejection made it difficult to be coherent.
I miss Evan.
Only thirty minutes had passed, but that half hour felt like a goddamn lifetime. Had it been just that morning when they’d been snuggling in bed and speaking of the future? Or last night, when Evan had helped her into the harness and afterward, happily bent over her desk while she’d fucked them?
This betrayal ran deeper than Frankie thought possible. The way it stabbed at her heart pained her in a way she hadn’t felt in a long time.
Fuck McCoy’s philosophy about loving and trusting everyone.
That soft butch was nothing but a sappy golden retriever.
In reality, untethered trust was for fools.
The moment you started letting your guard down, people took advantage.
And instead of asking for help, they preferred to steal right out from under her.
You might not know it yet, you slippery fuck, but you’re dead to me.
Frankie wasn’t, and never would be, a doormat.
She gave a person one chance, that was it.
No games, not with her. She hadn’t pulled herself from the depths of hell— twice —just to be toyed with by a brat with apparent addiction issues.
Hell, that information had been hard to wrap her head around.
Frankie wanted to say that, as a former officer, she should have caught the signs.
But if she were honest, there was more than one reason she’d left the force and not returned.
She’d discovered that although she had a natural protective trait, her Sherlock skills left a lot to be desired.
The hours crawled by at a snail’s pace. Frankie watched as the second hand reached the minute mark too many times to count, but still, she remained in her office.
She was hiding, that much was clear, but at least she was on the premises if any of her staff needed her.
Anger and just plain hostility burned a warpath inside her, but she couldn’t escape work and go to the gym.
She wanted to. God, she wanted to. Her body craved the kind of ferocious release only pain could offer, and yet, she stayed put.
At one point Rain came to check on her, and then Andy a little later, both offering their condolences and disbelief. It was comforting to know she wasn’t the only one who’d believed Evan’s innocence.
Thinking about her little thief caused tears to sting her eyes and her throat to tighten uncomfortably. Why? Why did this have to happen?
It was late evening when doubt began to creep in. Frankie was back from a brief, albeit emotional, stint behind the bar. She sipped a glass of scotch at her desk as silent tears dampened her cheeks.
She didn’t feel like much of a Domme now. In fact, she felt pretty shitty about herself. Had she done the right thing, allowing them to carry Evan away like that?
“Frankie, I-I love you. I didn’t do this, I swear. You know me.”
For hours, she’d replayed Evan’s words. They’d sounded genuinely scared. Was it possible Frankie wasn’t seeing the whole picture?
“Frankie, I-I love you …”
“I love you too.” Fuck, but she did. Even after everything that had happened, she still loved Evan. And witnessing their arrest hurt her .
There was a knock on the office door. Frankie halted her bleak scroll through her phone’s gallery and looked up to see Sloane stepping inside.
“What is it?” Frankie asked, wiping her tears away and despising Sloane’s sympathetic look. She pushed her glass of scotch to the side.
“Umm.” Sloane chewed her lip, an annoying habit she’d started over the last little while. Her eyes were bloodshot, like she’d been crying as well.
“Spit it out or fuck off, Sloane. I’m not in the mood.” The words caught in Frankie’s throat. Her shoulders trembled, and for a moment she feared she’d start sobbing in front of the other woman.
“Andy’s at cash. He … um, took over my till,” Sloane said, pacing back and forth in short bursts before Frankie’s desk. She started pulling at strands of her hair but appeared unaware of the action.
Frankie scowled, feeling less empathetic than she likely would have in any other circumstance. But she’d lost all her patience and then some. “Sloane.”
Sloane’s gaze, wide and wild, flew to Frankie.
She noticeably paled at whatever emotion Frankie wasn’t able to conceal on her face.
“I-I thought I could do it. I’m so stupid.
So fucking stupid.” Frankie watched as she yanked at more hair, successfully pulling out a few strands.
Pink and chestnut floated to the office floor.
“Jesus, will you quit that? And do what?” Frankie shoved her chair back and rounded the desk just as Sloane was going for more hair. She snatched her arms just in time. Sloane’s chapped lips parted, and the column of her throat bobbed up and down as she lifted tear-filled green eyes to Frankie.
“P-put the blame on someone else. God, it’s tearing me up inside. I can’t breathe. All day I just—”
“What. Are you. Talking about?”
“It was me,” Sloane whispered, and Frankie got hit by the stale stench of weed and vodka on her breath.
“Have you been drinking?”
“Yes, but not nearly enough for this conversation.” Sloane pulled out of Frankie’s hold, headed right to her desk, and swiped up Frankie’s scotch, tossing it back in one gulp. “I am not a good person.”
“What are you doing?” Frankie’s eyes narrowed on Sloane, watching as the younger woman brandished a pair of scissors from the desk drawer.
“I hurt people I care about, like all the time,” Sloane continued and yanked at her hair again. Tears soaked her cheeks, her gaze red-rimmed and feral as she stared across the desk at Frankie. “I can’t quit. Mostly I like it.”
“What the— Stop!” Frankie shouted as Sloane began chopping away at her long hair.
“No!” More strands fell to the floor. “I-I hurt people and don’t know why. Hurt them before they can hurt me.”
Frankie inched forward, but Sloane stopped long enough to wave the scissors at her. A high-pitched, hysterical laugh left her. “Did you know I came in here to confess? I did it, boss. I stole from you. And it was so fucking easy. Shit, I’m doing it again. Hurting people.”
Frankie scowled so hard it was a shame Sloane didn’t spontaneously combust. She stalked toward her, grabbed hold of the wrist with the scissors, and growled, “Explain to me why. Or how you could set your friend up like that. God, you let me think the person I love was stealing from me, you fucking coward.”
“I know.” Uncontrollable sobs racked Sloane’s shoulders.
She tried to dislodge her arm from Frankie’s grip but was too weak.
“And I’m sorry but framing them was easy too.
I needed the money, you see? I’m so over my head in gambling.
Cleaned out all my savings I had from mine and Coy’s YouTube channel, but it wasn’t enough.
It’s never enough with them, you know? So I started taking bits at a time from you.
You never even noticed. A-and then I bet Sara since I didn’t have anything else.
My car, I bet my car! I didn’t want to, I love Sara.
Coy rebuilt her from the ground up for me, and I lost her.
I lost her. I-I figured I could borrow more money from you to get it back. I’m so stupid.”
“Yes, you are.” Frankie rolled her eyes as Sloane’s weeping got louder. She wrangled the scissors away, and when Sloane got into her bubble trying to get them back, Frankie put her hand in Sloane’s face and shoved her away. “Enough.”
“Give them back, I’m not finished.”
“Yes, you are. For good. Do you understand me? You are done here.” Frankie moved around Sloane, picked up her office phone, and punched in a few numbers.
“Who are you calling? Not Coy? Please, not Coy.”
“I’ve said it before, but some days I can’t believe you’re McCoy’s identical twin.
You’re nothing like her. You should be ashamed of yourself,” Frankie said.
To the 911 dispatcher, she relayed the necessary information and hung up.
To Sloane once more, she barked, “Sit your ass down and wait. I wish I still had a badge ‘cause I’d already have you in handcuffs.”
“You … you were a cop?” Sloane did sit, but she was still trying to rip her hair out as she rocked herself back and forth.
She reminded Frankie of a disoriented, untamed animal as she peered up at her with tears dripping from her long eyelashes.
“And yet you love Evan? I know they went to prison. Evan told me themsel—”
“Fuck you, Sloane. You have no right.” Frankie ripped open her desk drawers, searching for something, anything she could use to shut Sloane up .
Spotting a roll of masking tape and an old suit tie of McCoy’s, her hands shook as she pulled them out.
This’ll have to do. Because if she had to listen to Sloane speak one more time, she was going to haul off and smack the bitch.
“What are you doing?”
“What I should have done earlier.” Frankie tore a wide piece of tape off and wasted no time slapping it over Sloane’s mouth.
When she reached up to remove it, Frankie quickly grabbed her wrists and tied her to the chair.
Then she turned Sloane around so that she was facing the wall. “There. Much better.”
Frankie’s pulse was racing as she sat back down. She took in the chunks of hair scattered on the floor around her desk and exhaled loudly. Fucking hell, what just happened?
When Sloane was finally arrested and lugged out the front doors just like Evan had been, Frankie trudged back to her office and made another phone call. It connected after the second ring.
“Hey, Frankie, I was sorry to hear about Evan.”
Frankie took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. And then she spoke. “Hello, McCoy.”
By the time O’Rourke’s was closed for the night and the staff had gone home, Frankie was dead on her feet.
Too many whispers had circulated among her employees after Sloane’s arrest, and she knew she’d need to arrange a staff meeting sooner rather than later to discuss matters.
There was so much piling up on Frankie’s to-do list for the next several weeks.
She had to hire an accountant for one, to help her figure out exactly how much Sloane had stolen.
Plus, she was out a bar manager, but maybe that was for the best. Perhaps it was a position only she could fill.
After all, she would never steal from herself.
As Frankie climbed the stairs to her apartment, she wanted more than anything to take Evan in her arms and beg for forgiveness.
She reached the top, yawning as she fumbled for her keys.
She unlocked the deadbolts first, and then the doorknob, sliding the keys back into her purse before swinging the door inward.
The hallway light was on, beckoning her to step inside.
A tired smile lit Frankie’s face as she crossed the threshold, shutting and locking the door behind her.
“You were right,” she called out, bending to take off her wedge heels.
A faint cigarette smell hit her, like Evan had gotten close to someone who smoked.
Frankie wrinkled her nose, stripping off her blazer and tossing it on the bench in the hallway as she moved further into the apartment.
“Baby? Sloane confessed, just like you suspected. She was a little unhinged at the end, though, I think—”
Frankie stopped dead in her tracks at the sight before her.
Fear crippled her voice. There in the middle of her living room was Evan, gagged, unconscious, and restrained to the bondage A-frame she’d set up that morning.
Their clothes were torn and bloody, with more blood splattered on the floor.
“Oh my god!” She charged forward, completely forgetting the years of training telling her not to do that.
Frankie registered the third occupant, and the gun, seconds too late.
Bang!