Chapter 3
Chapter
Three
Fox
What the hell was I thinking? I wasn’t. But I’ve never been so grateful Bear got food poisoning.
What am I doing? I could’ve taken off the helmet, shown her my face … but that means she would meet Ryan. And she needs Fox right now. He’s confident and compassionate. She needed to be saved by someone cool, and Ryan would be a letdown.
When I walk back into the office, I’m greeted by Dimitri. “What the hell is happening?”
“She was about to be attacked. Probably worse.” I swallow down bile as I open the aftercare med kit looking for Arnicare and grab some aspirin as well. “Three against one. We came here to put some distance between her and the guys. I think they knew her.”
“Do you know her?” Dimitri asks. Reasonable question.
“Sort of.” Around him, I use my real voice. I've been trying to lose my Southern accent for years, but it slips out from time to time.
I open the mini fridge, shove his lunch aside, and grab ice packs from the freezer. She got hurt so fast. God, what if I hadn’t made it on time? No. Don’t go there. Focus on the logistics.
Dimitri gives me the side-eye. “Let me get this straight, you rescued a woman you sort of know from a possibly violent attack and thought, ‘Gee, a sex club owned and operated by the mob seems like the safest possible option.’ What the hell?” I kinda hate that a former Bratva is this logical and levelheaded.
“Where was I supposed to take her?”
“The police, a hospital, her place, your place? The options are endless. But no, you brought her here.” Dimitri waves his giant hands around the room.
He’s right, so I change the subject. “If I give you the address of the garage, can you send someone to check it out? See if those guys are hanging around, and maybe move her car?”
Dimitri cracks his knuckles, watching me from the desk. “I’ll send someone, but it’s gonna cost you.”
“I saved the Four Families from an IRS inquiry this week. We’re good.” I toss him my phone with the GPS pulled up so he can see where she left the car behind.
He leans back in his chair analyzing every movement I make. “You okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“You sure?”
“Yes,” I snap, which is a dead giveaway I’m not. Dimitri doesn’t push. Instead, he lets me sit on the floor, breathing in and out, centering, lowering my stress. One, two, three, four. I need to get back to her. Five, six, seven. “I’m good.”
I gather the supplies and return to Room five, my stomach tightening as I reach for the door.
She’s standing in the middle of the room, wide-eyed, staring at the table.
The pink blanket is oversized, swallowing her delicate frame.
Everything about her screams feminine: frills, skirts, soft colors.
Her dress is flowy with printed cherries, and she’s wearing a necklace shaped like a cat’s head.
She says, “I didn't know where to sit.” She frowns. “What if it's sticky?”
“The room hasn’t been used yet.”
Her frown deepens. “I hope they pay the cleaning crew enough so they can vacation in Hawaii.”
I say nothing. That earns me a glare.
“I’m funny. You’re allowed to laugh.”
“I’m wearing a mask. How do you know I’m not smiling?”
“Because you’re not.”
She’s right. Her little jokes aren’t enough to distract me from the swelling on her wrist or the red mark darkening on her neck.
I point to the couch. “Sit.” I get another grumpy face, but she does as she’s told.
She looks like a fluffy mountain as the blanket wraps around her body and over her head.
Damn. She’s cute—her brown ringlets tucked over her shoulder, her big green eyes, and those soft pink lips.
It makes me wonder what they taste like. Whoa. No. Rules.
She offers me her wrist, and I wrap the ice pack around it. She hisses at first, her body tensing, but after a few deep breaths, she relaxes. “Good girl.” It comes out reflexively. Her eyes widen and her cheeks turn the same shade as the blanket. Interesting.
“Do you have any questions?” I ask while putting a dollop of Arnicare gel on my finger.
“So many,” she says as I spread the gel across my gloved fingers and touch her neck. This time she doesn’t flinch at all. I nod, giving her permission to ask. “Why did you save me? How did you know I was in danger? Were you following me?”
I move my fingers in slow circles around her delicate skin. “I saw them following you and knew they were up to no good.” I dip my head lower. “I’m sorry I didn’t get there sooner.”
She blinks a few times. “Do we know each other?”
I close the tube before getting up to grab a water bottle from the cabinet where I got the blanket. “Not directly. We both work in the same building, but we don’t work together.”
She furrows her brow and sighs. “There are thousands of people who work in that building. Doesn’t exactly do much to help me deduce your identity or how you know me.”
The first time I saw her was six months ago.
I was running late and it threw off my whole schedule.
The elevator was crowded and I stood in the back when she came in.
She was cute—ponytail with a perfect spiral curl, a pink frilly shirt, a little pencil skirt with kittens on it, and a long raincoat hanging open.
She looked like she belonged in a movie.
As the elevator doors started to close, an arm jutted in.
He wore wraparound sunglasses, had buzz-cut blond hair, and chomped on gum.
Everyone knew exactly where he worked. He was on his phone, eyeing her up and down, talking about the new guest for the Alpha Dogggz Podcast.
“Let’s bring up his bitchy ex and see what he says. It’s only defamation if it’s not true.” He winks at Kitten as he hangs up. “You’re fucking hot as hell.” He handed her his business card. “Call me and I’ll let you sit on my face.”
“That’s quite an offer before nine a.m.,” she said.
It wasn’t exactly flirty, but it didn’t have the disdain I hoped she would have.
He stepped out of the elevator and shot her finger guns.
Once the door closed, she sighed. “Say you’ve never gotten a woman off without saying you’ve never gotten a woman off …
you work for the Alpha Dogggz Podcast.” There were a few chuckles from the little old lady next to her.
She shivered and said, “Does anyone have bleach for my soul?”
I laughed. It was the first time someone had made me laugh in my darkest year.
She turned back and looked at me with a quick smile when the elevator stopped at her floor.
She shot me little finger guns and winked before stepping out the door and said, “Don’t be a douche today, but tomorrow is fine. ”
Kitten was the best part of not just my day, or week, but my month. And she had no idea who I was. It’s hard to reconcile the woman from the elevator and the one in front of me now, waiting for more answers.
I motion with the water bottle up and down at her clothes. “You are memorable. I am not.”
She nods. “Why did you bring me here?”
“It’s safe.”
“Why not the police station?” So many reasons.
“You can call the police if you want,” I offer, but she frowns and wraps herself tighter in the blanket. “Keep me out of it.”
She rolls her eyes. “Like they’d believe me. It’s going to be hard enough to convince them I was attacked, much less saved by a masked man on a motorcycle.” She takes a sip of water. “I wish I had a stronger sense of faith in the justice system, but life has proven that not to be true.”
I wish she were wrong.
She’s quiet for a beat, her eyes scanning the room. “So you work in corporate America during the day and a sex club at night while rescuing women in between? Why?”
I stand and lean against the table, arms crossed, watching her every movement. “One pays well and has insurance, the other is fun. And I’m not in the habit of saving women.”
She motions her head from side to side. “Makes sense. But what’s with the mask? Are you hiding some hideous deformity?”
I lift my index finger and let out a low growl. “That’s one, Kitten.” She opens her mouth, but I raise my hand, and she stops. “Strike one. Questions are encouraged, but insults are not. Questions have the intent of knowledge. Insults intend to do harm.”
She pulls the blanket around her closer, like fuzzy armor. “What happens when I hit three strikes?”
“Punishment.” I nod to the wall next to us. “It’s a sex club, after all.”
She squishes her face and moves her jaw from left to right.
“Ok, give me a second, because I have questions about the mask, but I’m not trying to be offensive.
To recap: a half hour ago, I was attacked by my ex-boyfriend’s friends, hopped on the back of a motorcycle with a stranger who brought me to a sex club and wears a mask, provides medical attention, and we’ve both decided the police wouldn’t put me in a better situation.
And that you know me, indirectly, and we’ve never talked. "
Replaying the events, I say, “Yes, that is correct.”
She exhales and her shoulders sink into the blanket. She dips her head as she confesses, “Here’s the cognitive disconnect … I should have tons of red flags about you, but I don’t. Not exactly green flags either. And obviously the mask is a source of curiosity.”
Damn, she’s trying so fucking hard to be good. She keeps glancing up at my face for some sort of reassurance or reprimand, but the mask makes it impossible for her.
I explain, “It adds to the fantasy of the situation and heightens it. It’s a source of mystery. I could be anyone: a billionaire looking for love without someone using me for money, a bad boy on the road to redemption, your ex …” I trail off hoping I’ve made my point.
She shakes her head. “Nope. That’s not it.
He’s taller.” She pauses. “Um, I’m not trying to be insulting, it’s just a fact of your existence, not an evaluation of your identity.
He was six foot three and two-fifty of muscle, a gym bro”—she leans forward—“he was overcompensating.” She leans back.
“I’m not saying one is better than the other.
I am pointing out that you have different body types.
” She looks down at the ground. “Sorry for interrupting.”
Damn, she’s so cute. Not even in my imagination did I think she would be this adorable. “It’s fine. But if my client doesn’t know who I am, or can’t read my expressions, it enhances the perceived danger of the sexual encounter.”
Her eyebrow cocks up. “But you are dangerous. That’s what you said and why you wear the mask.”
“A little from column A and a little from column B.”
“Clients? You’re paid.”
I shrug. “I’ve been compensated with guest passes and a free membership.
I had a full background check and regular STI tests.
” But that’s never an issue. It’s not like I’m fucking them.
“Mostly, I work in the playroom and support scenes with couples. I get one of them aroused, and the other partner finishes the job.”
I motion to her arm and she takes it out of the blanket and hands me the ice pack. The swelling has gone down, and the ice has tinted her skin red.
“And you get off too? Right?”
I drop her hand and step away. “This isn’t about me or my pleasure, it’s for them. Think of it more like therapy.”
Her face furrows and she rewraps herself in the blanket. “I’m struggling with the wording, please give me a minute.” She looks at the ground. “Is there an expectation that I should provide you with some sort of physical payment for your help?”
“No!” The word sounds like a bullet ripping through our conversation.
She jumps back, eyes wide with flecks of fear.
I take a deep breath to calm myself. “No, I do not expect any repayment, money or physical.” I add quickly, “This isn’t a strike either.
It was an understandable assumption and a miscommunication on my part. ”
She stands and glances around, but is not willing to give up her fuzzy cape. “Oh, ok. I guess I should get going?”
“Strike two.”
She snaps with the harshest tone all night, “What the hell? Why?”
“You’re the most precious person in this room and I will not risk your safety because you feel uncomfortable. We’ll wait until Dimitri comes back with information about your car."
She sits back down, pushing her hair behind her ear, and stares at the floor. I’m worried she doesn’t see the connections yet. She’s too focused on the environment instead of the larger picture. The sex, the fantasy, that’s not what’s important right now.
But maybe that’s what she needs: the physical to break down the emotional barriers. It’s the surreal that will ground her in reality.
She laughs, a cold, harsh sound. “Precious? Because I’m fucking adorable?” She rolls her eyes at me, and the irritation builds. She doesn’t see it. No, worse, she doesn’t believe it. “You’re so full of shit,” she snaps.
Frustration rises inside of me. Why can’t she see what I see?