2. Chapter One
Chapter One
Kane
New York City, Present Day
The sounds of the city echo outside; sirens and blaring horns, the unrelenting pitter patter of rain on the window.
My head hurts like a bitch; a heavy migraine forming between my eyes and my throat is parched as fuck.
I feel like absolute shit. But I guess that’s par for the course because I can’t remember the last time I felt good, especially after a night of drinking.
And fucking, because I know these aren’t my sheets clinging to my dick, judging by how rough and scratchy they are against my skin. I swear they feel like cardboard.
I open my eyes, staring up at the popcorn ceiling, or more like the water stain that looks like it’s been building for a while.
“How long’s your ceiling been leaking?” I call out.
A moment later, a man—whose name I can not for the life of me remember right now—appears in the doorway.
He’s a good-looking guy; but of course he is. I have good taste in men, at least when it comes to their appearances.
The insides, however?
Well, let’s just say I have a type, and it’s fucked up in more ways than one.
Which is why I prefer not to get into relationships.
And being a professional Dom, well… it scratches the itch enough, I guess.
Especially because I don’t actually have to see my subs.
I mean, yes, I see them—virtually—which helps with the detachment.
At least, that’s what my therapist says.
I just think it’s easier to serve my clients, knowing what they need from me; knowing I’m doing the right thing by providing them the discipline and care they crave in a way that feels safest for them.
I care about my subs to an extent. I have to.
They come to me for guidance and order, for structure and discipline.
And it’s my job to make sure they are in the right space to engage in the first place. To make sure that they are okay…
Even though I’m not quite sure I ever will be.
But that’s why I go to the survivors support group in the first place. Because there’s still some stupid part of me that wants to believe maybe one day I will be able to remember what really happened that day and move past it. Not let him control my life or lack thereof anymore.
Though, I am grateful at this moment that I am not shackled to some nine-to-five gig; otherwise, I’d be freaking out a lot more about waking up in some stranger’s bed God knows where in this city.
I don’t work until the evening most nights; save for tonight. Because tonight is Tuesday, and Tuesday is the one night out of the week where I can pretend for a few hours that I’m totally normal.
Which I’m not. Not in the least.
I don’t have friends. Kind of hard to trust people when you’re never quite sure who’s looking over your shoulder; who might be looking for you.
I mean, there is Carter, who’s probably the closest thing I have to a friend.
And maybe a couple of the guys who I sometimes go out and get drinks with after group sort of count.
There’s also Mrs. Burnside, my next-door neighbor who has more cats than brain cells because she thinks it’s her job to save every stray in the city.
Though, I’m not sure I’d consider us friends in the typical sense; more or less, I check on her to make sure she hasn’t keeled over every couple of days because her kids never come to visit or even check on her like they should.
Assholes.
If my mother were alive, I’d spend every second I could with her.
But people are selfish and don’t realize what they have until it’s gone.
No one ever makes the effort when you’re alive.
But sometimes, being alive isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be, especially when you know you could have prevented someone’s death if you would have just spoken up or moved or…
The nameless man stands in the doorway in his underwear, his dark hair a bit of a mess. In the light of morning, he looks roguish; his chest hair sticking out in thick tufts, his jawline sporting that five-o-clock shadow that makes him look older; more sophisticated. He smirks at me.
“I honestly don’t know,” he says.
“You should get that checked out,” I grumble, throwing my legs over the side of his bed.
It squeaks. I grunt in annoyance, because I hate squeaky box springs.
It reminds me of my childhood, of all the nights I couldn’t sleep because of the endless squeaking.
My parents’ room and mine were next to one another, and the walls were thin.
I didn’t know at the time what was going on, of course. Sometimes I wish I could have remained ignorant, but after the investigation opened up, it was impossible to stay ignorant for long. Not when my mother—and the eleven other women my father had killed—were all over every paper and news network.
Which is the last thing I like to think about, especially first thing in the morning when I have a headache and need to take a piss.
I let out a groan and adjust my cock and ask, “Where’s your bathroom?”
“Down the hall and to the left,” Roguishly Handsome Mystery Man says, his gaze roving over my naked body.
I should feel good at the way he’s checking me out—because judging by the look on his face, he’s clearly remembering the sex we had last night—I don’t.
If anything, it just makes me feel guilty and strangely empty.
But then again, that’s how it always is when I give in to that stupid unrelenting ache to feel something.
Or rather, to feel someone, to forget just for the moment about everything else except the pleasure I crave more than anything like some sex-addicted love junkie with more issues than Vogue.
When are you going to give this shit up, Kane?
Probably never.
I shove the dreary self-depracating thoughts aside as I find my way to the bathroom; which is exactly at the end of the hall.
Though this shouldn’t even be considered a room with how small it is.
But that’s New York City for you. A damn broom closet counts as a room here most of the time and no matter where you rent, it’s expensive as shit.
I do my business—which takes longer than it should because I drank so much last night.
After hearing Carter’s admission during the group session last week, that he was seeing someone, I guess it hit me harder than I realized.
I’m happy for the guy, or at least as close to happy as I can be because I don’t know if I’ve ever felt truly happy about anything in my life.
My memories of before my mama’s death are vague; hazy. But I know I wasn’t happy then.
So maybe I’m a little jealous, too. Jealous that even someone like Carter—who lost the love of their life—can just…
When I make my way back to the bedroom, I find Mister Right Now waiting on the side of the bed, still dressed in his underwear. His gaze holds mine, and I know what he wants.
The same thing every man wants from me.
To be chosen, plucked from the vine like a ripe tomato.
I fucking hate tomatoes.
And I hate letting people down, though I have more experience with that than anything else, I suppose, given my line of work and my self-imposed boundaries.
If I was a smarter man, I’d give in and stay, because the prospect of tasting more than I allow myself is far too tempting, even for a masochist like me.
Like a fool, I long for those sweet, fragile moments of bliss; those endless grins and warmth that spreads in your veins like lightning.
Eating some burned bacon and stale toast with jelly and runny eggs and bitter coffee.
Showering and fucking around until the water runs cold.
Laughing naked in bed, kissing, praising one another until we can’t breathe.
But those moments; that future, doesn’t exist for a man like me, and it’s best I remember that.
Lest I want to end up with a stage five clinger on my hands.
Which is why I need to get the hell out of here as fast as I can, so that we both avoid the awkward morning after conversation I can feel percolating between us.
I make a point to avoid his gaze as I pick up my clothes off the floor.
“You… in a hurry?” he asks carefully.
I give him my back as I fasten the button on my jeans, grunting out an acknowledgement.
“Always,” I mutter, trying to remember every detail from last night, but… it’s still hazy. Though there are enough bits and pieces, I can string together what happened, and even if I couldn’t—the sheets smelling like sex and sweat and waking up naked is enough to cement the truth.
“Lemme guess… you have to head out for work or you’re going to be late?
” he asks, his voice empty. I hate this sort of thing; which is why I also try to avoid sleeping with people if I can help it.
I might not do relationships well, but that doesn’t mean I’m one of those guys who enjoys going home with a different guy all the time.
Quite the opposite, actually.
And maybe there’s a part of me that knows that; commiserates with it, even.
“Yeah,” I say, my voice sharp and firm. Occupational hazard, I guess. I expect him to try to make small talk; I’m relieved when he doesn’t.
“Well, this was fun,” I say as I grab my phone out of my back pocket; noting it’s almost dead. Five fucking percent. Just great.
Then I notice the time.
Shit!
It’s nearing ten o’clock, which means I have therapy in a fucking hour!
“But I—”
“Yeah, I know,” the guy says, his smirk fading. “Not my first rodeo.”
My heart breaks a little at his admission; part of me wanting to know who hurt him. But it won’t change anything.
Pain is inevitable. The only way to not let it consume you is to learn how to control it, how to use it to your advantage.
“You really should get that ceiling checked out,” I say as an alert chimes on my phone.
A new DNA match has been found!
I freeze, staring at the alert from FamilyTr33, the app I downloaded two years ago.
Hope and fear swell in my chest.
Is this it? Have I finally found what I’ve been looking for?