Chapter 3 #2
He flushed. “I secured the perp.”
“Anne had already cuffed him,” Aaron pointed out.
Anne glanced at the downed bull and saw the remnants of shaving lotion on his cheeks and jaw. Hair wet. Shirtless. “You didn’t check the bathroom, did you, Robert? And if you’d stayed on guard as ordered, he wouldn’t have gotten through.”
Robert’s lips twisted in a sneer. “You gonna cry because you got hurt?”
Oh, honestly. The station where she’d once been assigned as a cop had been famous for its misogynistic attitudes. And now she had to deal with it here.
Insecure men who were threatened by competent women were a pain in the ass.
But the stupid bullshit they spouted no longer made her furious. Now, the feeble yapping of men like her cousin was merely irritating, similar to the buzzing of a persistent fly.
“Actually, Robert, I’ll simply note in the report that you disobeyed orders and were out of position which resulted in unnecessary violence and injury during a pickup.
I’ll also add that you sat on your ass while your teammates were fighting.
” She motioned to the fugitive. “Grab him, please, Aaron. I’ll call Dude and Mitchell in. ”
Robert glared, muttered, “Cunt,” and stalked out of the room.
She shook her head, frustration simmering in her gut. His insolence could be ignored, but his incompetence and inability to work as part of the team put everyone at risk.
As Aaron led Wheeler out to the van, Anne called in Mitchell and Dude, receiving “Good going, boss,” from Mitchell, and “Rock on,” from Dude.
“Miss, please.” On the porch steps, the mother intercepted Anne. “My house? Since Eddie fought back, does that mean my house will be lost?”
Anne took her hands and spoke gently. “No, Mrs. Wheeler. As soon as the jail takes custody of him, the collateral papers are no longer in force.” She squeezed the trembling fingers. “Your home is safe.”
As she walked out into the downpour and wind, she glanced at her watch. Still fairly early. She might as well dispatch Mitchell to deliver the fugitive to the jail and fill out the Statement of Surrender form. The rest of them would see if any other skips had decided to stay home in the storm.
The wall sconces in Z’s lanai cast enough light that Ben could see the rain pouring down. Drops slammed against the sidewalk violently enough to bounce. Pools of water were streaming through the tropical landscaping.
His buddies stopped behind him in the open screen door.
Lightning seared his eyes followed by an ear-splitting clap. As the cool air turned hot and arid, filled with the grit of a sandstorm, Ben froze. All around the team, flashes from artillery shells lit the night with cracks like thunder.
No.
Slowly inhale. In. Out. He was in Florida. It was raining. He growled, half under his breath, “Damned thunderstorms.”
“No shit,” Digger’s eyes met his in complete understanding. “Sounds too fucking much like an aerial bombardment.”
Z walked up behind them and set his hand on Ben’s shoulder. Warmth and reassurance flowed from the strong grip. After a second, he asked, “Can you stay a moment?”
“I’m okay.”
“You are, indeed.” Z squeezed his shoulder before releasing him. “This is another matter.”
What would that be? “Yes, sir.”
Z turned his attention to the others. “Gentlemen, I’ll see you next month.”
“Later, Dr. Grayson. Later, Haugen,” Digger said, starting a chorus of good-byes.
Ben lifted his hand as the men headed out.
Guided by the rain-dimmed solar lights, they dashed for the fence gate and the Shadowlands parking lot.
A long zigzag of lightning lit the night as Ben returned to the screened and covered lanai. Z had resumed his seat on the dark-red cushioned, oak-and-iron chair.
“What’s up?” Ben asked, sidestepping a hanging planter. A chill breeze rustled the trailing blooms and carried the scent of ocean and tropical flowers.
“Can you sit for a minute, please?”
Hell, that didn’t sound good. Ben hadn’t had any problems recently—nothing he couldn’t handle, so he doubted Dr. Zachary Grayson, psychologist, had called him back to assess his PTSD.
More likely, he was dealing with Z, the owner of the Shadowlands, who was one of the most protective motherfuckers Ben had ever met.
And stubborn as hell. Refusal was futile.
Ben scowled. “If you’re planning to grill me for more than five minutes, I want a beer.” Since two of the veterans were recovering alcoholics, the psychologist didn’t serve anything stronger than sodas during the sessions.
Z gave him a relaxed grin. “Fair enough.”
Against the wall, the fridge was filled with junk food, healthy snacks, juices—and alcohol of all kinds.
As in the Shadowlands, Z made a point of stocking people’s favorite drinks.
Ben looked for a green label and found a Brooklyn Lager.
Thinking of the strain on Z’s face, he also splashed a shot of Glenlivet into a glass.
He handed Z the glass of scotch, then dropped into a facing chair and set his feet up on the heavy oak coffee table. He had to appreciate a décor designed for living as well as style. “What’s on your mind, boss? Problems?”
“Not exactly problems.” Z eyed his drink and took a sip. “Although I see you for group sessions and serve as your employer, I also consider you a friend.”
Well, damn. Didn’t that give him a fucking fine glow? Unable to come up with a suitable response—he didn’t have Z’s diplomatic vocabulary—he muttered, “Same here.” He tipped the bottle back and drank down a good third to get his balance back.
Heartwarming words or not, he had a feeling he should’ve escaped with the others. “Sounds as if you’re leading up to something.”
“That’s a very good guess.” Z swirled his scotch and pinned Ben with a gray gaze. “By relieving you for an hour last Saturday, I essentially gave Mistress Anne permission to play with you. Did I make a mistake?”
Yep, his guess had been spot on. Unfortunately, he didn’t have an easy yes or no answer since anything he said could cause problems for Anne. Ben selected his words with the exact brevity and care he’d give to an interrogator. “No mistake. I liked the scene.”
Amusement showed in Z’s expression before he set the glass down.
Oh shit.
Zachary studied the man sitting across from him. Muscles slightly tensed, eyes level but wary, face blanked of expression. Protective posture. Protective thoughts. For Anne.
Of course.
Benjamin had grown up on New York streets, caring for his mother and sisters. He’d joined the U.S. Army to protect his country and moved into the Rangers to do an even better job. Anne might be the Dominant, but this soldier operated under his own priorities.
Zachary did the same.
“Should I sign you up for membership in the club?” he asked in a flanking maneuver.
“Shit.” Benjamin choked on his beer and coughed. “Ah, no. That’d be like pulling the trigger before aiming.”
“I see.” What he could also see was that Benjamin had, indeed, enjoyed the session and wanted more.
As the Domme, Anne had the next move. She’d apparently not made one.
These weren’t two people he’d have predicted to be a good match, but their scene on Saturday had held tremendous energy and chemistry. They’d been caught up in each other.
Normally a good thing. But…
Z regarded his glass, seeing the reflection of the lightning in the amber liquid. Although the scene in the Shadowlands had shown that Benjamin was sexually submissive, he didn’t possess a slave’s mentality, and it was doubtful the man could adapt to that lifestyle.
He doubted if Anne would even allow Ben to try.
“Spit it out, Z.”
Z looked up. “Mistress Anne is one of the finest Dominants I’ve ever met. She is also exceptionally reserved. Her slaves don’t live with her. Her control when she is with them is absolute. She picks her ‘boys’ carefully and they worship the ground she walks on. I’m not sure—”
“I’m not her type. I knew that.” Ben’s jaw was firm. “And you delivered your warning.”
“I’m not finished. If a submissive isn’t her slave, she might play with him in the club. Once or twice.”
“Right.”
“She’s also a sadist.”
“I do know that”—Ben held up his hand—“and I know she went lightly on me last week.”
As thunder boomed, the wind picked up, sending cold, moist air across the lanai. The sconces on the wall flickered.
Uneasy, Zachary glanced at the steps leading to the third floor, the private quarters. He’d left Jessica on the couch, Galahad on her lap, both contentedly watching an old Die Hard movie. He checked his cell phone. No, she hadn’t messaged.
“Is Jessica all right?” Benjamin rose. “I’ll get out of your way so you can check on her.”
“Nice try, Benjamin, but I’m doing that now. Remotely.” Zachary half-smiled. “She gets grumpy if she thinks I’m ‘babysitting’ her.” So he texted, “I’ll be up in a few minutes. Can I bring you something?”
“Shhh. This is the best part of the movie!”
Damn, he loved his woman. “She’s fine.” He sat back and continued with the topic. “If Mistress Anne doesn’t call you, will you be comfortable with that? With seeing her pick up a new slave?”
He got a frown. “Z, we shared a scene, not a marriage.” Unfortunately, the words weren’t echoed by Benjamin’s emotions, which were primarily regret and disappointment.
“D/s sessions can unsettle submissives, especially new ones. When you trust someone to care for you—and they do well for you—then a bond develops. It’s easy to confuse that tie with other feelings.”
“Good to know.” Benjamin finished off his beer. “My friend and counselor,” he said in a lightly ironic tone, “what happens between me and the women in my life—whether the woman is Dominant or vanilla—stays with me. All respect to you, Z, but butt out.”
There were reasons he’d always respected the big Ranger. “Sergeant, you know I won’t do that.”
“You’re fucking stubborn.”
“Indeed. Since you enjoyed the scene, should I match you up with other Dommes?”