CHAPTER 5
Zeke
Seeing the pretty boy’s panic-stricken face brought back memories of my mother.
The first time I recalled her having a claustrophobia-induced panic attack was when I was twelve.
My baby sister—two at the time—had been sick with a weird, almost strangling cough.
Croup, I think they’d called it. My mother had asked me to go to the doctor with them to help out.
I was big at twelve and carried Jamie around almost everywhere we went.
It was a regular trip, nothing out of the ordinary.
We piled into my mother’s Ford Taurus. Although she was worried about Jamie, she was in good spirits, chattering on about nothing, a smile on her face.
Right up until we walked into the building and approached the elevator.
I’d known immediately that my mother wasn’t eager to get in.
Perhaps it had been a premonition, but a few minutes later, we got inside, the doors closing securely behind us.
About thirty seconds into the ride up, there was an abrupt jerk, and the elevator stopped suddenly, the lights flickering, then going out before some sort of backup light clicked on.
My mother had let out a panicked gasp. I thought nothing of it, moving to the buttons, wondering whether or not it would start if I simply pressed the one for our floor again.
It didn’t. I punched it several more times with the same result. Nothing.
Jamie had fallen asleep on my shoulder at that point, clinging to my neck, her body—warm with fever—making me sweat.
Still, I remained calm, trying to figure out how to fix the situation.
My mother, on the other hand, wasn’t faring so well.
I looked over to see her pressed up against one of the walls, her fingers curled around the thin metal bar behind her.
When she started gasping for breath, I knew something was wrong.
“Distract me, baby,” she had pleaded. “Please, Zeke.”
To this day, I could still hear the terror in her usually sweet tone.
Not sure what she wanted me to do, I had walked over and stood in front of her. “Count backwards from ten, Momma.”
She had. Twice.
“Now the alphabet,” I had suggested. “Starting with J.”
That had been one of the toughest days in my childhood. Watching my mother, the fear in her eyes, her voice trembling. A man’s voice had come over the speaker, advising they were aware of the issue and looking into it immediately. I’d wanted to tell him to hurry, but I knew to remain calm.
Someone had to.
Luckily, the elevator had kicked a few minutes later, then began its ascent to the higher floors.
A short time later, my mother was stumbling out of the elevator, her face pale, hands trembling.
It had taken another fifteen minutes before she was able to breathe regularly, and the tremors in her fingers stopped.
From that day forward, my mother never took an elevator again.
Seeing the pretty boy’s face as he stumbled along behind the cowboy had stirred something inside me.
A strange urge to protect him from whatever had put that terror-filled look in his eyes.
At the same time, I wondered how he would fare in the cage beneath my bed.
I’d purchased it with the intention of utilizing the confinement but hadn’t yet had the chance.
However, in recent days, I’d entertained the notion of putting the pretty boy and the cowboy in there, keeping them safe while I slept.
Now, as we strolled into the dog park—the same one Tank and I had left only a few minutes earlier—I wondered why the fuck I’d bothered to get involved. This wasn’t like me. I wasn’t prone to worrying about anyone who wasn’t Jamie.
Good news was the pretty boy was getting some of his color back. Now that he was sitting, I didn’t have to worry that he would fall over.
“You stay there,” I told him. “Tank, looks like it’s your lucky day. Let’s play ball.”
That word ball had Tank’s ears perking up.
As I strolled across the park, I didn’t look back, refused to be concerned for the pretty boy.
He wasn’t my problem. The last thing I needed to do was concern myself with his well-being.
It would ruin everything. No way could I play with those boys if they thought I gave a shit about them.
That was only asking for trouble. I’d been down that road before.
Submissives who thought I was denying my feelings when, in actuality, I didn’t have any. Not for them.
However, I still had an overwhelming urge to give them exactly what they needed. Something they were missing from the sweet little love fest they’d built for themselves.
Now, I simply needed to figure out whether or not I could get in that pretty boy’s head and chase out all those nonexistent demons so I could fill the space with only one demon.
Me.
Brax (the cowboy)
After ordering a large black coffee and a bottle of water, I headed in the direction Zeke had told me to go. It took a little longer than it should have because, while I dodged the people walking toward me, I was busy searching my phone for potential rentals in the area. A house, to be specific.
Ever since Case learned we would be staying in an apartment once we moved here, he’d been giving me shit. Since he gave me shit about a lot of things, I hadn’t put any stock in it. I thought it was his way of bitching and moaning just to get a rise out of me. He was good at that.
I honestly thought he would get used to living in the same building where he would be working.
Convenience was a big thing for Case. That was one of the reasons we’d lived relatively close to Trent Ramsey’s Dallas home.
Most of our time had been spent there unless Trent was traveling.
At that point, Trent generally had a place for us.
If not, hotels were the norm, and Case was usually the one who picked those out.
Like I’d said, Case was the diva in our relationship, yet it worked for us.
The image of his face, so pale and drawn, popped into my head again.
I’d never seen him look like that in all the time I’d known him.
Not much scared the man I loved. But the second I’d realized how labored his breaths had become, it had dawned on me that he wasn’t fucking around.
For whatever reason, that apartment sent him into a tailspin.
It had scared the shit out of me, and free rent or not, no place was worth seeing him like that.
So, I was on a mission to find something we could move into that would allow him the space he needed to breathe.
Preferably, before our belongings arrive in the truck next Thursday.
There were a ton of options, but I had no idea where they were—good area or not.
Maybe it was time I found a Realtor, someone who could navigate the city for us.
I kept walking until the dog park appeared in front of me. I saw Zeke first. He was on the far side of the park, throwing a ball while Tank hauled ass to retrieve it, only to dutifully return and drop it at his feet before sitting and waiting for another round.
I found Case sitting on a bench in the sun, elbows on his knees, with his head in his hands.
“Hey, babe. You okay?” I took a seat beside him and passed over the water bottle.
He glanced over at me and smiled. “Much better.” He took the water but didn’t open it. “Sorry about that. I’m not sure what came over me.”
“Don’t be sorry.”
I should’ve seen this coming. Somehow.
I nodded toward Zeke. “He say anything?”
“Nope. Probably tryin’ to figure out how to let me down easy. Who wants a masochist who’s claustrophobic?”
“For one, Zeke doesn’t let anyone down easy. And two, I’m not sure this is claustrophobia.” Although I wasn’t sure what else it could be called.
Truth was, as far as I knew, Case had never had this sort of reaction to anything.
While I had waited in line at the coffee shop, I’d thought about all the scenes he had done at the club.
A time or two, a Dom would find it amusing to put Case in a cage.
Not once had I seen him panic, even when a heavy padlock kept him from escaping.
So what was it about the apartment?
“What are you doing?” Case nodded toward my phone.
“Trying to find us another place to live.”
His back went ramrod straight, and he dropped the water bottle. “No. Don’t do that. I just need some time to get used to it. I’m sure I’ll be fine after a while.”
“Nothing about that situation was fine,” I told him, picking up the water bottle and passing it back. “And I’m not about to let you suffer, so just sit there and breathe.”
I could tell he wanted to argue, but thankfully, he didn’t. His attention shifted to Zeke and Tank.
I continued to skim through my phone, glancing at rentals.
Nothing even remotely caught my attention.
It wasn’t that money was an issue, because between the two of us, we made a decent living, and over the last year or so, I’d managed to save quite a bit.
Working for Trent Ramsey had afforded us a comfortable lifestyle.
I’d prefer to own a place, but not knowing the area, I wasn’t sure that was feasible at the moment.
Even if that was the route we took, we would have to stay somewhere in the interim.
However, I also wasn’t sure I could take Case back up to the apartment and watch him fall apart again. Masochist or not, no one should suffer like that.
*
Half an hour later, we were back at the Chatter building, wandering through what would soon become the upscale restaurant.
As of right now, it was laid out for the bank that had once inhabited the space.
Tiled lobby area, counter where the tellers had worked, even the cheap carpet where the cubicles were, desks still there but empty.
It looked nothing like it would once the conversion was complete; however, I could see the potential everywhere I looked.
As soon as I stepped into the space, I felt a strange sense of peace.
As though this was where I belonged. I could imagine people filling the dining room while I worked away in the kitchen, producing the meals they would be consuming.
Damn, I longed for that day. When people would come here because I was here.
I envisioned them telling their family and friends to check it out because it was amazing.
I’d never imagined myself becoming an Emeril or Gordon Ramsay or even Bobby Flay.
I simply wanted people to eat what I prepared because they enjoyed it.
I wanted my restaurant to be on their list of top three.
The place they wanted to go on a Friday or Saturday night for a romantic, elegant escape from their everyday.
And yes, perhaps I wanted to hear my name on their lips when they mentioned the reason they came.
This was what I’d spent my life dreaming about.
Ever since I was a kid in my mother’s kitchen, working alongside her to prepare the family meal.
I’d started cooking at a young age. Due to the size of my family, the kids—eight total, including me—had been required to pitch in for everything.
Cooking, cleaning, mowing the lawn. I had grown up knowing it was my responsibility to help out.
Any arguing would’ve earned us a nice wallop with my dad’s belt.
It only took a couple of times before I realized that wasn’t the route I wanted to take.
I had spent a lot of time in the kitchen with my mother.
She loved everything to do with the kitchen.
Cooking, baking, casseroles to cookies, it didn’t matter.
She could make a meal for twenty and have a variety of pies to go along with it, never breaking a sweat.
Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners were always held at her house—to this day—and she never asked for help, although I insisted on being there to offer my services.
While I pitched in with the cooking, my sister—who owned a bakery—helped on the baking front.
“I’ve come up with a timeline,” the contractor stated as he followed close behind me. “It’s not locked down at this point, but I think it’ll give you a good idea of what to anticipate.”
The man passed over his iPad, and I scanned the screen, although I had absolutely no idea what I was looking at. It outlined what I assumed were the steps. Demolition, electrical, plumbing, plus names of people I assumed he had hired to handle it.
Truth was, I was a chef, not a building inspector.
I didn’t give a flying fuck about drywall or electrical panels or any of the things necessary to construct the space.
I simply wanted to have input on the design as well as full control of the kitchen.
I sincerely hoped Ben and Justin weren’t looking for me to provide input on how to get from here to finished product.
Not only because I didn’t want to, but also because I was bound to fuck it up somehow.
Once I’d given the document a good once-over, I passed it back.
“Honestly,” I told him, “we’re gonna look to you to keep things on track.
As much as I wanna help you there, it’s not my area of expertise.
However, I will have a say in the kitchen.
That’s my domain, and I have something specific in mind.
I’ll do my best to help out in the interim, but like I said, it’s not really my thing. ”
“I was told you’ll be the one signing off on everything,” he stated, his confusion evident.
I frowned. “Who told you that?” I damn sure didn’t want to be responsible. Not for everything.
“He won’t be signing off.”
My head snapped over, and I saw Zeke standing in the doorway, his eyes trailing over me briefly.
The man—Jay or Jeff or something—didn’t look happy about that. “I was told—”
“Don’t. Argue,” Zeke snapped, his eyes going cold as he stared the contractor down.
I almost felt bad for the guy. Zeke was a very intimidating man. And the thing was, I didn’t think it was necessarily intentional. He simply came across as the alpha and the omega, the be-all, end-all.
I had the sudden urge to drop to my knees in front of him.
Not that I would.
Not here.
And certainly not unless he told me to.
“I’m gonna…” I motioned toward the door.
I didn’t know what I was going to do, but standing here wasn’t serving any purpose.