5. Judge
CHAPTER FIVE
“This is Judge,” I answer as I hit the speaker button on my cell.
“You busy?” There’s a hint of panic in Golden’s response that puts me on edge.
“Not particularly. Why?”
I’m already walking out of the clubhouse when Golden replies. “Can you come to the ranch?”
“Everything okay?”
“It’s Myla. She’s freaking out, and she won’t let me call Rigger, Lucky, or her sister.”
“On my way.” I disconnect the call and hop on my bike.
My brain runs wild as I ride out to the Honey Pot, wondering what happened. Did she have a flashback to what happened all those months ago? Was she attacked by a rogue client? And why wouldn’t she at least want Tinleigh with her? I’m also unsure why Golden called me. If one of my brothers was having a hard time, it would make sense, but Myla doesn’t even like me, and she sure as shit doesn’t listen to me.
Even knowing that, I’m glad they thought to involve me. I don’t know why I want to be there for her; I just do. Then again, I’ve always been drawn to the broken ones. Even as a boy, I’d seek out the outcasts and lonely, giving them my friendship. Some might think it’s because I’m a man of God, but I know better. If I’m helping someone through their own trauma, I don’t have time to focus on mine.
I don’t bother parking in a designated spot, pulling right up to the front. Mary spots me the second I walk through the door and, without a word, leads me in the opposite direction of the security room. A pit forms in my stomach because the only rooms down this wing of the property are what they call the experience rooms. Basically, they have a themed room for any kink you might have, and if that’s not your thing, there are regular bedrooms.
There’s a great deal of soundproofing between each room, except for the Nature Room, which was made for voyeurism and exhibitionism. However, that room’s not occupied, so hearing a pained cry echo through the hallway makes it easy to deduce where Mary’s leading me. That, and Golden is standing in the doorway, looking close to losing his mind. His hair is disheveled, and I can see the muscle in his jaw ticking.
“Thank fuck,” he says when he notices me. “I don’t know what to do. She won’t stop but won’t allow anyone else inside the room.”
Shit. It’s worse than I thought.
“Why is she in there?”
Golden and Mary share a look that tells me I’m not going to like the answer. I’m not a particularly violent man, but I can get there quick if I need to, and as my hands clench into fists in preparation for what they might say, I know I might need to.
“She was the one who suggested it. I was against it.” Golden holds up his hands. “I swear it.”
“Against what?” I snarl.
“Now, Judge. . .” Mary rests a hand on my shoulder that I shrug off.
“Tell me.”
“There was a client who didn’t pass the background check,” she says carefully. “We wanted to turn him away, but Myla said this guy was some kind of important politician and could make things complicated for the ranch if we kicked his ass out.”
“That doesn’t explain why Myla’s howling like a wounded animal.” My anger grows with each passing second. I want to get in there and assess the situation, but I need all the information first.
“She said she’d do it because she used to be the one who handled guys like that before she quit working here,” Golden says.
“It’s true. She knew how far to go to keep a man like that happy without crossing a line. It was a talent none of the other girls had.” Mary’s clearly proud of Myla, but I’m not sure that’s the compliment she means it to be.
“After everything you know about what happened to her, you allowed her to go into a room with a man whose background is so bad you would’ve turned him away had he not been a politician? Am I getting this right?”
“She didn’t give us a choice,” Golden says.
“You always have a choice.” I bypass Golden, and with careful, slow steps, I walk into the room.
“Get out.” The words are a rumble, coming from a place low in Myla’s chest. She’s sitting on the floor next to a simple teacher-type desk. Her short black hair forms a curtain around her face and she’s rocking back and forth. The red satin dress she has on is pulled up over her hips, and her knees are drawn to her chest. From where I’m standing, I can’t be sure she has on panties, but I do see her shapely legs and a bare hip. My notice isn’t sexual; I’m simply memorizing how this man made my girl feel so I can kick his motherfucking teeth in.
“Can’t do that, sweetheart.” I swallow my anger, knowing she needs me calm—until I notice a pool of blood on the floor next to her. “You bleedin’?”
“It’s not mine,” she chokes out through sobs.
“That’s real good.” Well, shit. Maybe she can take care of herself after all. “Keep talkin’ to me.”
“He deserved it. They all deserve it.”
I take two more steps, bringing me to within arm’s length of her. Crouching, I scan her body more closely, looking for any outward signs of injury. Not that it matters; wounds on the outside heal much quicker than ones on the inside.
“What’d he do?”
“I told him no marks. We agreed.”
“Where’re the marks?” I ask. “Can you show me?”
Her head turns, and through the fluorescent lighting that matches what might be in a real classroom environment, the pink and purple bruise on her cheek glows.
“Fuck.” I glance over my shoulder, meeting Golden’s gaze. “What happened to him?”
“I wanted to beat the shit out of him, but when Myla. . . well, when she flipped, there was too much going on all at once. Mary thought it best to just kick his ass out. Not that she had to try hard to get him to leave.” He nods toward Myla. “She broke his nose.”
“He wanted his money back, but I refused. I sent Dutch to follow him and make sure he got gone,” Mary says.
That explains why Golden is here alone. Rigger is insistent on having multiple brothers here at all times. A lot of good it did in this situation, though.
Turning back to Myla, I inch a little closer, hoping I can convince her to get the hell out of here. I don’t care if this is bad business. I’m more worried about getting her somewhere she can relax and feel safe.
“Listen, Myla. I’m ready to get out of here. You wanna come with me?” I ask.
“I can’t.”
“You can, and I’ll help.”
She rests her forehead on her knees, still rocking. I give her a minute to think, but after watching the hands of the clock on the wall make a full rotation, I’m convinced she’s not going to answer and that I need to come up with a new game plan.
“I fucked up, Judge. I knew I shouldn’t have done it, but I thought if I became Fiona, Myla’s problems wouldn’t matter,” she says, her tone pitching high. “The old me would’ve been able to handle it. I would’ve seen he was going too far and reeled him back in. But then it happened, and I just lost it.”
“Yeah, well, you’re as weak as your deepest wound, and your wounds are as deep as they come, sweetheart.”
“You probably feel pretty vindicated right now, huh?”
I cock my head. “How do you figure?”
“You’ve been following me around, just waiting for this to happen.” She sniffles. “Now it has.”
“You’ve got me all wrong.” I lower my head. “Well, I guess you’re right in that I knew you would break, though I’m not so sure that’s what this is. But there’s no feeling of vindication. I just wanted to be there to help so you didn’t have to go through it alone.”
As if just realizing she’s nearly naked sitting on the floor in a brothel, everything in her comes to attention. Her posture straightens, her legs extend, and her eyes go wide. “I gotta get out of here.”
“Can I help with that? I don’t think you’re in any state to drive.”
“I’m fine, Judge.” She falters as she stands. I go to place a hand on her elbow and steady her, but she jerks away. I wouldn’t expect anything less, but when her wobbly legs threaten to give out on her, I’m done playing her tough girl games.
“It’s not a sign of weakness to ask for help. It’s a show of strength that you’re brave enough to be vulnerable.” I remove my cut and set it down on the desk before lifting her into my arms.
As if she knows it’ll take more energy to fight than she has available, she wraps her hands around my neck, her eyes welling up with another round of tears. “Yeah, ’cause that’s worked out so well for me.”
“It’s true that most people don’t deserve your honesty.” I hold her with one arm as I drape my cut over her lap and tuck it under her legs, mindful of where the armholes lie. It occurs to me that all I’ve been thinking about is what it would feel like to hold this woman in my arms, and here I am, her floral yet woodsy scent all around me, not enjoying even a second of it. This is my punishment for being lustful.
“So maybe it’s better to only trust myself.”
I keep talking to her, hoping to distract her enough to get her out of here without incident. “Maybe, but imagine how good it would feel to find your people. The ones you can say who, without a doubt, would never betray you.”
“I don’t think that exists.”
Mary leads me down the residential hall to a room where a woman is waiting with what I assume are the clothes Myla came to work in. I set her down but keep an arm around her just in case. “I assure you, it does. Why don’t you get dressed so we can get out of here?”
She hands me my cut. “Okay.”
Mary and I step out of the room to give the girls some privacy. Judging by the way Mary’s features harden, I know I’m about to be the recipient of her anger.
“I don’t want her here anymore. Not working security or anywhere else.” She folds her arms. “I’m not saying that asshole didn’t deserve what he got, but we have clients here, and all this was a huge disruption.”
“Understood, but you have to take some responsibility too.”
She sighs. “I know, and I’m sorry about that, but that girl needs some help.”
“Do you know how long it takes a barrel cactus to flower? Ten years. During that time, they aren’t much to look at, and if you try to touch them, you’ll end up with a painful spine in your finger. But it’s more than worth the patience and energy when they bloom with the most beautiful and vibrant flowers.”
“If you got something to say, just say it.”
The door opens, and Myla emerges. Any emotion she was displaying just minutes ago is gone, and she’s back to the steely woman she was before.
“Ready?” I ask, not bothering to answer Mary.
“Hold up.” Golden jogs down the hall and hands Myla a black leather purse. “You left this in the security room.”
She takes it and without another word, we walk out of the building.
“I’ll have one of the prospects pick up your car,” I say.
“I can drive, but I’m all out of energy, so just tell me now: do I have any chance of winning this argument?”
“Can’t say you do.”
“Fine.”
“Can you ride?”
She perks up the smallest amount, but I see it. “I guess.”
I walk her out to my bike and climb on, offering her a hand. “Just keep your feet on the pegs.”
“Okay.” She tentatively climbs on and rests her hands on my hips.
I stiffen. This is the first time I’ve ever had someone on the back of my bike. Not because I have some antiquated idea about only allowing an ol’ lady that honor—I don’t give a shit about that—but for reasons more personal and private, I don’t allow anyone to get this close.
Briefly, I debate changing my mind and taking Myla’s car instead. I can blame it on my lack of helmets since I left the clubhouse in a rush and didn’t plan ahead. She’d believe me, and it’d be fine.
“Are you okay?” she asks, probably wondering why we haven’t moved.
Why are we still sitting here? I already have an excuse to get off the bike on the tip of my tongue. All I have to do is open my mouth and say the words. She wouldn’t think anything of it, and I could avoid the anxiety I feel when someone is close to the healing wounds and scars on my back.
Her barely-there touch over the top of my belt disappears, and I realize I’m making her nervous. After what she’s been through today, the last thing she needs is me acting like a lunatic, so I say a quick prayer, asking for strength.
“You gotta hold on tight,” I croak out.
“What?”
My voice fails me as I reach back, holding my hands open. She hesitates but finally understands and places her palms on mine. I wrap her arms around me, pressing her body tightly against mine. Suddenly, I feel like my brain has lost its ability to differentiate between real and phantom pain, so my skin feels like it's on fire, every scar and wound reopening and throbbing with unrelenting agony as I release her hands and start the engine.
We eat the miles between the ranch and her house, and it’s all I can do to focus on the road and keep us safe. Sweat drips down my hairline, soaks my shirt under my arms, and trickles down my back. Thank God for the leather cut between us, or the front of her shirt would be drenched. God, if she knew the ugliness that’s only millimeters from her face, she wouldn’t be okay being this close. It’d make her sick like it makes me.
Then she rests her cheek against my back, and I’m tormented for a whole new reason. Despite the phantom pain from her touch, I don’t want this moment to ever end. Fighting against my own mind and its lies, I cling to the fact that my scars have healed and that her touch feels good. Because damn, it feels incredible to have her this close, and for the first time in my life, I revel in physical contact instead of recoiling from it, and it's exhilarating in a way I never thought possible.
Too soon, or not fast enough, I pull into the parking lot of her apartment complex. I cut the engine and am surprised at how much I don’t want her to let go. Now that I’ve experienced her touch, the thought of it never happening again is a new and worse torture. Unable to delay the inevitable, I climb off and see a sleepy-faced Myla, who stretches wide and produces a big yawn.
“Did you fall asleep?” I ask.
“I must have.” She blinks. “That can’t be safe.”
“I’d have to agree with you there,” I say, dumbfounded. The woman was flying down a highway going fifty-five miles per hour and passed out cold. Either she’s exhausted, or her concussion is affecting her more than we know.
“Thanks for the ride,” she says. I help her off the bike and follow her to her apartment. “Oh, you don’t need to come in. I’m okay, I promise.”
“I need to take a piss,” I lie because she’s definitely not okay.
“Fine, but then I’d like to be alone.”
Once inside, she disappears into her bedroom, and I see myself to the bathroom. The adrenaline from the past half hour has worn off, and now all I want is a moment to collect my thoughts. Leaning against the vanity, I take a calming breath before looking in the mirror and laughing. It’s an almost hysterical sound fueled by a giddy excitement. I’m in utter disbelief. Had she been anyone else, I would’ve wanted to crawl out of my skin, unable to steer straight. But Myla seems to be the exception.
Not that it matters. She’s not mine, which is sobering. What if she’s the only person in the world my psyche decides is safe, and I can’t have her? Even more than that, what makes her so special? She’s only been in my life for a few short months, and we spent most of that time arguing. She hasn’t once given me any sort of kindness or reason to think the feeling is mutual. If anything, I have every reason to believe she despises me. Well, that’s not exactly true because occasionally, her body disagrees with her mouth. What happened on the bike was the second time in as many weeks that she’s fallen asleep on me. Surely, that means she subconsciously feels safe with me, right? Could she be keeping me at a distance because she feels this connection too and it scares her?
I splash cool water on my face before leaving the bathroom and seeking out Myla. She isn’t in the living room or kitchen, so I take a seat on the sofa to wait for her, having no intention of leaving. I already know she won’t tell her sister about what happened today, and she shouldn’t be alone after such a bad episode.
Minutes tick by, and my eyes catch on her bag one cushion over from where I’m sitting. The top is open, and there are haphazardly folded pieces of paper hanging out. Looking over my shoulder to where her bedroom is, I notice the door is shut. Maybe she went to lie down. If that’s the case, then she won’t know if I take a peek. I scan the spreadsheets full of names I don’t recognize, plus a bunch of information about each: date of birth, address, phone number, and legal charges. I read through that column, disgust washing through me. Each man is more despicable than the last, and I can’t help but wonder why Myla has this list. Maybe it accidentally got tossed in there in the rush to get her out of the ranch?
“Why are you going through my things?” Myla bites out, ripping the papers from my hands.
Fuck.