Masters at Arms

Section Five

The Masters at Arms Club

Three months ago

Adam would be glad to get this meeting over. Damián wanted to add live music to the club. They’d finally opened in 2008 and were doing well, so they could afford it. Adam just didn’t go in for most of that heavy-metal stuff Damián liked.

“Edgy?” Damián asked.

He looked at Damián and Marc as they searched for just the right word for the classified ad. Well, Marc seemed about as much into the conversation as Adam was. What the hell ailed that boy lately?

“I like it.” As long as it doesn’t put me over the edge. Adam watched as the younger man he thought of like a son scribbled that addition onto the notepad on the desk between them. “Read me what we have so far.”

“‘Private club. Friday & Saturday performances only. Eclectic, edgy music—heavy metal and Goth welcome. Auditions start at 3 PM Wednesday. For location and additional info…’ Then the phone number and e-mail.”

“Sounds good to me,” Marc said. He seemed distracted this afternoon. Actually, he’d been that way for well over a year, but refused to tell Adam what was eating at him. Probably still hadn’t gotten over that woman who had dumped him last year. What was her name? Pamela? He’d only brought her to the club a couple times. She seemed nice, but there wasn’t much chemistry between the two other than the Dom/sub thing.

Marc hadn’t talked with him about the relationship, and Adam didn’t go looking to butt in. Still, he thought the younger man could benefit from some advice, if he ever asked for it. Sometimes he came across as too arrogant and manipulative to suit most women. He seemed to have some kind of wall up that always kept them in their place, but that place was never quite as close as women wanted to get.

Marc stood. “I’m sorry, but I’m pulling a night shift to help out a friend, so I’m going to have to hit the road. I trust whatever you both decide to do.”

They said their goodbyes and Adam watched him leave. Maybe he’d try to have a word with him before the club opened up Friday night. With Marc’s SAR work schedule, he didn’t see much of him, though.

Damián, on the other hand, practically lived here and helped run the club.

“Son, you’re in charge of hiring the entertainment.” Adam wouldn’t know what young people wanted to hear if it hit him over the head. Besides, he needed to keep Damián busy so he wouldn’t dwell on things outside his control. He said the nightmares were rare now, but Adam could tell when he showed up with circles under his eyes that he’d been visited by his demons.

Being a Dom helped Damián regain some of the control he’d lost over his life, but Adam worried that he sometimes went a little too deep into SM. He knew it wasn’t the boy’s nature to inflict pain and he thought maybe he was just using SM to release his anger, rather than as an expression of his sexual nature.

Damián slid the notepad across the desk toward Adam. “If we could hire two or three acts—have a mix of styles—we can rotate them and keep things from getting stale.”

Adam pulled the notepad closer. “Sounds good. I’ll e-mail the ad to the online newspaper.”

After discussing some other business matters, mostly about ways to improve the experience at the club for members and their guests, Damián went to set up a new piece of equipment in one of the private playrooms.

Adam watched him leave his office. Damián wore his trademark black leather Harley vest and black jeans. He had long ago ditched the crutches, then his cane. He’d gotten used to walking on the prosthesis and, only when he was overtired, did he walk with a limp.

Here in Denver, Adam, Marc, and Damián had gotten to know each other as civilians and friends. Whenever he thought back to that day in Fallujah, where he’d nearly lost them both—and had lost Miller. Thank God they, at least, had managed to get the rest of the troops home alive.

And these two men had become his family. When he’d lost Joni, he hadn’t thought he’d ever feel he belonged anywhere again.

The three of them were pretty much at the service of any of the subs at Masters at Arms who needed a top. A number of bottoms came to the club solo, just wanting to have a scene with one of them. Marc was the only one who’d seen anyone seriously and that had lasted only a few months. Usually, the three of them were able to accommodate the subs, which might be why so many of them kept coming back and bringing their friends.

Damián told him about a girl in San Diego he’d dated once. Still seemed hung up on her, but he said he hadn’t been able to find her when he’d been home to visit his sister and her kids last Christmas. She must have been something to keep him thinking about her all these years.

Under Adam’s and Marc’s tutelage, Damián had become a knowledgeable and attentive Dom. Good thing, because Marc had become more and more scarce at the club in the past year. A few months ago, Damián had taken over the training of the new unattached subs.

Even though Damián served the needs of the masochists when he wanted to get off, his gentle side seemed to come out with the more inexperienced trainees. He was very vigilant to the needs of the subs, knowing how far to push them without going beyond hard limits.

“All done,” Damián said, returning to the office. “It’s going to be fun trying that one out.”

Adam smiled. Marc had recommended the new spanking bench. Said his SAR partner had made him one for his home playroom. He wondered when Marc had time to entertain anyone in that playroom. He didn’t seem to have his heart in BDSM scening these days.

“Son, have a seat.”

“Yes, sir.”

“When are you going to quit that ‘sir’ shit? It’s Adam. Hell, even Dad’s better than sir. I only want to hear Sir from a subbie.” He’d reminded the kid of that many times. Damián just smiled. He’d probably ignore the order this time, too.

“You’re doing a great job with the trainees. The subs are raving about what an excellent trainer you are. And the doms have noticed the improvement in the subs’ level of discipline, too.”

“Thanks.” Damián looked away. He looked serious. Then his gaze met Adam’s again. “Remember how you wanted me to find a cause—something that would help me make a difference for someone else?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, I think I have.”

“Great! Doing what?”

“The Patriot Guard Riders. They provide motorcycle escorts for military funerals, and keep protestors far enough away they can’t bother the families. I’ve been supporting them as a non-rider for a while now, but my Harley is just about ready down at the shop. I’d like to ride now, too, whenever the call goes out.”

Adam felt a lump the size of Minnesota in his throat. As he came around the desk to sit on the edge in front of Damián, he cleared his throat before trying to speak. “I think that would be the perfect cause for you, son. I know you’ve worked hard restoring that hog, too.”

Damián looked away, then back again. “It might mean going on rides when the club’s open.”

Other than the club and his work at a local Harley repair shop, this was the first thing the kid had gotten interested in since he’d moved to Denver. “To hell with the club. Any time you need to go on a ride, go. I can get people to help out here as needed. Hell, most of our regular patrons are ex-military. They’ll want to support what you’re doing, too.”

“Thank you, sir.” He cleared his throat and surprised the hell out of Adam. “I also want to thank you for pulling me back from the edge.”

Adam reached out and squeezed Damián’s shoulder. “God didn’t bless Joni and me with children. We lost a son…” Adam stopped until he could control the shaking in his voice before this turned into an all-out bawl-fest. He still couldn’t think about Joni or their stillborn baby boy without regret and pain. “I couldn’t have asked for a better son. I’m proud of you for fighting your way back.”

Adam cleared his throat before continuing. “I’ve told you this before, but I think of you more as a son than a business partner.” He felt Damián’s shoulders shake with emotion. The kid had been very close to his own parents. But his father had worked himself to death trying to support their family, dying when Damián was only twelve. Adam surmised the loss of his father and the need to protect his mother and sister had played a big part in what led him into trouble with the law before he joined the Marines. Reminded him a lot of Adam’s own misguided youth and reasons for joining the Corps.

But the Marines had turned Damián into a fine young man. One anyone would be proud to call son. Adam certainly would continue to think of him as his son until the day he died. Even if Damián wasn’t looking for a replacement dad.

* * *

Would the ache ever go away?

Karla plucked a tissue from the box in her lap and stared at Ian’s photo lying beside her on the burgundy-velvet antique settee. Every day for the past two months, she’d fought to accept and understand Ian’s death. Fail. She’d lost the ability to function on a day-to-day basis. Last night, she’d been fired from the club.

Escape. She looked around her Soho loft, the place where she’d lived since college. Five of her college roommate’s oil paintings dominated one wall; their vibrant colors usually able to cheer her up. Not tonight.

She should be singing at the club. Ian had come to hear her perform whenever he was in the city. With the bright lights blinding her up on stage these past two months, she’d often imagined him sitting there in the front row, smiling up at her. But when the show was over, she realized he hadn’t been there. Would never be there again. Then last night, she hadn’t even been able to walk onto the stage as she was hit with a full-blown panic attack.

She’d never frozen like that.

Last week, her contract with the record label had fallen through. She just couldn’t concentrate long enough to write anything new. With her career sufficiently down the tubes, she needed to get away from the city and regroup. But where could she go?

Her parents kept trying to talk her into moving back home. She knew they needed her, but being in the house where she’d grown up with Ian was too painful. Every time she passed his room or stared at the empty chair at the table, she’d think of him. Her chest tightened as tears welled in her eyes. No, she couldn’t move back there.

Maybe a visit to her college roommate’s mountain cabin would help. She usually showed up at Cassie’s in the fall when the aspens were so beautiful. Her gaze moved to the painting of a stand of the trees with their yellow-gold leaves nearly quaking against the off-white bark. Karla remembered being with Cassie last year as she created the painting.

The artwork complemented Karla’s mix-and-match style furniture. The wooden dining table with funky chairs of aspen yellow, azure blue, and crimson. The bar with its vinyl-covered red, green, and blue lunch counter stools. No one could accuse Karla of being dull when it came to colors. Well, except for her wardrobe.

And yet, the joy she usually felt here was gone. Even the few walls of the loft were closing in on her. She looked at the bookshelf where Adam’s framed photo in his dress blues had been displayed proudly beside Ian’s portrait ever since she’d moved into the loft.

Adam, I need you.

Few days passed since that Thanksgiving weekend without some thought of Adam. Her heart still ached with images of his kneeling down before her in the bus station’s ladies room as she cleaned up the wounds he’d received trying to protect her from harm. Memories of his arms around her had infused her with the strength and courage to return home and face her parents.

The sight of him half naked in her parents’ kitchen in the wee hours of that Thanksgiving Day had made an indelible mark on an impressionable, young girl’s mind. The corner of her mouth lifted in a half smile. No man had ever measured up to Adam; not that she’d really seen many men without their shirts. She’d focused solely on building her career.

And now that was gone. Tears welled in her eyes.

The few letters he’d managed to write while deployed also were among her most prized possessions, along with the printouts of Ian’s e-mails. Neither was a prolific correspondent, but she understood how busy they were. But after Adam retired from the Marines, he’d kept in touch with a letter every month. In recent years, he’d even e-mailed her. But she preferred the letters. More personal.

Adam had surprised her when he told her how much he loved listening to the music she’d sent him while he was in Fallujah. She’d hoped to send him a copy of the professionally mastered CD of her Gothic rock love songs. But that wasn’t going to happen now.

Adam had always sent her a bouquet of roses dyed neon pink for her birthday, reminding her of that awful hair color she’d had when she met him. She smiled. He always seemed to have a genuine interest in what she was doing and wanted to make sure she was okay. He’d check to see if she needed anything. Offer advice whenever she’d asked on matters small or large.

Mostly small matters, she realized now. She hadn’t been able to tell him about Ian.

Guilt plagued her for not responding to his last two letters. Karla couldn’t find the words to tell him about Ian’s accident. Tears stung her eyes again. She grabbed a tissue and blew her nose.

Go to Adam. He can help.

Karla needed Adam more than she’d ever needed anyone before. With nothing left to hold here her in New York, she picked up the phone and booked a red-eye flight to Denver. She’d find some small club where she could sing that wouldn’t be as demanding as the one in Soho. Just enough to help pay the bills while she licked her wounds and healed.

Karla pulled out her suitcases and started packing. She’d keep the loft for now, until she knew what she’d do. Maybe she could sublet it to a friend. Only a few possessions would go with her, though. The two bundles of letters. Her performance costumes. Copies of the CD she recorded last year. Everyday clothes.

She placed Ian and Adam’s framed photos safely inside her carry-on bag, wrapped in one of the long gothic dresses she’d wear for auditions and, she hoped, performances. No way would she risk losing their photos if something happened to her luggage. Three years of living in the loft and everything that meant something to her, except for Cassie’s paintings, fit neatly into two suitcases and a carry-on.

She made out a check to the landlady for two-months’ rent to hold the apartment, just in case things didn’t work out in Denver. Then she called a cab and closed the door on her independent life in New York City.

Karla hoped she’d be able to find Adam once she got to Denver. She only knew his e-mail address and his Post Office box number. She’d reply to his last e-mail once she got settled in Denver.

* * *

Damián listened as the metal band’s lead singer spewed his gritty lyrics. He wasn’t sure the band was quite what the club needed. Not that any of the others he’d heard audition this afternoon were any better.

His mind wandered back to his talk with Adam last week. Adam had pulled his bacon out of the fire in San Diego back in 2005, when Damián had been just a day or so away from putting an end to his sorry life.

Plain and simple—Adam saved his life.

Damián cleared his throat, then noticed that the offensive music had stopped. He looked up at the stage and saw the lead singer waiting for a response from him. When had they finished playing?

“Thank you. We’ll be in touch soon.” The rote response rolled off his tongue after an afternoon of horrendous auditions. As the band packed up its equipment, he looked down at his appointment sheet. He had a few minutes before the next audition.

Since coming to Denver, he’d managed to put memories of Savannah, and all the pain she’d caused, behind him. When he was awake, at least. She still intruded on his dreams, but at least she was a better night visitor than the images from Fallujah.

Damián still couldn’t believe he was a Dom now. He even found himself enjoying some of the scenes with the submissives he was training. But he had to rein in the beast in those scenes, for fear of hurting someone—well, someone who didn’t want to be hurt, anyway. There were some nights he just had to decline a scene because he knew the rage was too close to the surface.

Of course, being the resident sadist, all the masochists found their way to him at some point. Even with them, he only indulged if he knew he could keep himself from going too far. Nothing compared to the euphoric high he got when he was in hyper-vigilant Dom space, tuned into the sub’s every breath, every gasp, every scream.

But, since he’d started working with the submissives in training, he’d learned he still knew how to please a woman without inflicting severe pain. While it didn’t do anything for him sexually, he’d long ago learned that sometimes it wasn’t about him.

Working at the club also gave him plenty of time to pursue the other things he loved, too. He’d been hired at a local Harley shop several years ago and finally had managed to fully restore his own classic. He never felt freer than when he was on his hog. When the physical therapists had told him he’d be able to ride again, they’d given him the motivation he needed to get his ass in gear and do what they told him to do.

He heard the door open behind him and turned to watch as a tall, slender young woman approached. He hoped she could hold his attention better than the last performers had.

“Come in, Miss…” he looked back down at his sheet, “Paxton. I’ll give you a few minutes to get ready. If you have a background disc, just put it in the sound system over there.”

Damián watched her prepare. Her long, wavy hair hung loose to her waist and she wore a medieval-looking dress with pointed sleeves. Her low-cut front exposed the inner sides of her breasts. No bra. Interesting look, although he’d like to see even more skin if she performed in the club.

Hell, at this point, he just hoped she could sing. So far, they hadn’t found anyone he’d want to hire. He looked back at her e-mailed resume. Her background indicated she was way overqualified. What was a Manhattan club singer doing in a small weekend private club like this one? Maybe she was like him, just needing a new start. Or maybe she’d lied on her resume.

When he glanced up at her again, he watched her bite her lower lip. Her eyes widened as she surveyed the room—homing in on the unconventional furniture, complete with chains and manacles. Hadn’t she understood what the ad in the alternative paper meant by a private club? If she thought the room looked wild now, she’d never make it through a night of debauchery this weekend.

Then she noticed him watching her. He continued to stare until she became uncomfortable and looked down at the floor. Shy? Or submissive?

It would be interesting finding out. Interesting indeed.

* * *

Karla nibbled at the inside of her lower lip. What kind of club was this? She’d been so rushed to request an audition when she saw the online ad while waiting for her flight at LaGuardia. She really hadn’t paid much attention to the reply other than to get the address and time right. With her flight delayed, she’d changed into her costume in-flight, which had been an interesting feat. She’d barely arrived in time for the audition.

Karla looked around the room. She’d never seen anything like this place. A private club. For what? Or did she want to know? There was a full bar and stage area, right in the middle of someone’s house. And the furniture! A few tables and chairs were scattered about, but what caught her attention were a number of ottomans positioned around the stage—each with manacles and chains attached to them. Talk about a captive audience.

A center pole in the middle of the house’s great room sported several thick eye bolts—and more chains and cuffs of varying heights spaced at regular intervals. Along the wall were any number of implements of torture whose purposes she didn’t even want to think about.

She cast nervous glances at the Hispanic man in the Harley-Davidson vest sitting at a table between the center post and the bar. While he studied her paperwork, she noticed that his shoulder-length hair was pulled into a ponytail. His moustache and goatee gave him the look of a—well, if she needed to put a word to it—“sadist.” Or what she’d imagine a sadist would look like.

Then he looked up at her and his black eyes bore through her, causing her stomach to drop with a ka-thunk. Unsettling. No longer able to maintain eye contact, she looked down at the floor. Maybe she should run while she still had the chance.

No. She needed this job. She looked up again, but her eyes gravitated to the center post first. Her stomach quivered, sending a jolt to her *.

Oh, my!

“Miss Paxton?” Her attention returned to the intimidating man. When he stood, she realized how tall he was. Almost as tall as she remembered Adam being, although even Adam probably wasn’t as tall as she remembered. She was only about five-six when they’d met. Everyone looked tall to her then.

“Are you ready?” His voice was stern. No smile. Would this man be her boss? Would she be able to work with someone who put her nerves on edge like he did?

Well, it’s not like you have a lot of options. The market for Goth singers was pretty small, especially in an isolated city like Denver.

“Y-yes.” She drew her shoulders back. Why did she feel she should bow down before him? Lord, he intimidated her.

“I’m Damián Orlando, one of the owners of the club. Just call me Master Damián.”

Her hand shook as she adjusted the microphone to her height. Master Damián? What had she gotten herself into this time?

“Nice to meet you, sir.”

He smiled as if satisfied with her response. Why did the thought of pleasing him seem so important to her? “Begin whenever you’re ready.”

She walked over to the sound equipment and queued up her music. When she returned to the mic, his intense gaze sent butterflies into frenzied flight inside her stomach. Shoot! She missed her queue.

“I’m sorry. May I start over?”

“Certainly.”

Come on, Karla. You need this job. Don’t blow it.

She went back to the CD player to start Track One again. Deep breath. She ran her clammy hands against the brocade dress covering her thighs, then returned to the microphone center stage. Unable to sing while he stared at her with that all-consuming gaze, she closed her eyes and felt the music flow through her.

For you, Ian. She almost felt as if Ian was watching over her. Not the sadist club owner in front of her, but her brother.

Then she sang Tarja’s I Walk Alone, as if she really could bring Ian back.

* * *

Adam closed the checkbook and crossed to his filing cabinet to lock it away. Aerosmith’s I Don’t Want to Miss a Thing blared from the speakers. He’d been trying to drown out the noise from the auditions, but that song put him even more on edge. Damn. One of Joni’s favorites. She’d play it almost every night he was home on leave.

They said time would heal the pain of her loss. Nine years had only managed to dull it. Rather than the sharp knife point he used to feel jabbing into his heart, the pain now felt more like his heart being squeezed in a vise.

God, I still miss you, Joni.

A particularly discordant note from the latest audition brought him back to the present. He hoped he hadn’t made a big mistake with this whole live music thing. He’d barely been able to hear himself think while trying to concentrate on his bookwork. How the hell would he be able to focus on his sub during Dom/sub demonstrations with that racket in the background?

Of course, there were the private rooms, but he liked to do demonstrations in the great room for some of the newer Doms. He usually worked with Grant as his sub. She’d shown up at the club six months ago, after hearing about it from Damián. She usually topped submissive women and men—but she liked to switch things up with her former master sergeant. Unfortunately, she wasn’t submissive so much as subordinate. Not the same as what he’d shared with Joni, but he didn’t expect to find that kind of woman again.

Now that his accounting was done and the bills paid for another week, he opened the door to his office and went back to the desk to check his e-mail account. If anyone had told him while he was in the Corps he’d become a keyboard jockey in retirement, at his laptop several times a day to keep his business records up to date or to cruise the Internet, he’d have shot them for a fool.

During a lull between his classic-rock station’s tunes, new music wafted through the door from one of the acts auditioning in the bar. Nice. A woman’s voice. He actually understood the words. For some odd reason, thoughts of Karla Paxton came to mind. He still pictured her as a pink-haired Goth, although she’d sworn to him in her letters that had just been a rebellious teenage phase.

Karla had written to him as promised since he’d said goodbye to her at the airport that Thanksgiving weekend. She’d often send something she’d made, including the most incredible chocolate-peanut butter brownies he’d ever eaten. He felt guilty, as though that thought was disloyal to Joni. She’d never been too interested in cooking or baking.

Then, during Karla’s senior year in high school, he’d received an MP3 player with a few songs saved on it that she’d recorded. Nearly every night in Fallujah, he’d lain awake in his rack and listened to her sweet voice through his earphones. She’d kept him sane, especially after the disaster there, reminding him there still was innocence and beauty left in this f*cked-up world. Somewhere.

He’d been so proud of her when she went on to complete a music degree at Columbia. Thank God she’d found a safe way to get to New York without having to pull another runaway stunt.

He drew his brows together. Why hadn’t she replied to his last two letters and numerous e-mails? That wasn’t like her. If they didn’t both keep such crazy hours, he’d have called to check up on her. Adam decided if he didn’t hear something this week, he’d make sure she was all right. He worried about her singing late at night at that club in Manhattan. Although she said she’d taken martial-arts classes after her encounter with Dickwad and friends in the Chicago bus station, she was still a tiny little thing.

The voice of the woman in the great room called to him like a siren’s song. The quivering lilt reminded him so much of Karla’s voice on her MP3, but then the woman auditioning belted out the chorus in a well-trained adult’s voice. She stirred something in Adam. He picked up the remote and muted the stereo.

“I walk alone. Every step I take, I walk alone.”

Damn. Adam stood up, drawn toward the open doorway where he could hear her better. His hand drew instinctively to the scar on his neck. What the f*ck? He forced his hand back down to his side.

The hallway to the great room wasn’t that long and before he knew he’d even moved, he found himself standing at the side of the stage. The woman’s thick, black curls hung in disarray over her shoulders and back. She looked as if she’d just tumbled out of bed. His cock throbbed at the thought of holding her beneath him by fists full of her gorgeous hair as he buried himself deep inside her.

Jesus. What’s gotten into you, old man? She’s a little young for you, isn’t she? Okay, a lot young.

Still, unable to take his eyes off her, he circled around behind the table where Damián sat. He hadn’t had a gut-wrenching response to a woman, well, since Joni. Sure, he’d participated with Grant in demonstrations for various scenes and techniques and occasionally took a submissive under his wing until she hooked up with her own Dom. But that was merely physical. No emotional attachments. Exactly as he planned to keep it. No one would ever stir his interest in being a committed Dom the way Joni had.

“Go back to sleep forever.”

He stopped and stood in front of her, about ten feet away from the stage. Eyes closed, tears spilling down her cheeks. His chest tightened. He fought the urge to go up on the stage to pull her into his arms to comfort her.

Little girl lost.

A distant memory sent his hand to massage that spot on his neck again.

“No one can help you.”

Tall, probably five-ten. She looked a little gaunt. Dark half-moon circles curved below her eyes. They didn’t look like make-up, although it was hard to tell with a Goth. Her breasts filled out the dress nicely, her curves exposed. Lovely breasts he wanted to press his lips against. Her hips flared beautifully under the loose dress, as well. At least she wasn’t gaunt all over.

If they hired her, she’d definitely need to wear something a little more provocative than this Maid Marian costume.

He tried not to think about removing the dress to expose her body to his gaze. But his mind had other ideas. He imagined taking her nipple between his teeth and tugging at it. With her gaze cast downward, much of her face hidden by her hair, he found himself wanting to push the curls away from her face so he could look into her eyes.

When the song ended, she drew several deep breaths, her breasts rising and falling gently.

“Well done, Miss Paxton,” Damián said.

No. Couldn’t be. No f*cking way!

As if in slow motion, Adam watched her brush away the tears and raise her gaze to Damián’s. She smiled. Just as he remembered, except that her blue eyes didn’t sparkle anymore. Then her gaze shifted as she noticed Adam for the first time. Her smile faded. What little color she had in her face drained away.

“Adam?”

When she swayed on her feet, he rushed to the stage and caught her in his arms before she collapsed. His heart pounded. Had she been sick? Was that why she’d lost so much weight? Adam felt a vise of a different kind around his heart as he lifted her and carried her to the loveseat near the windows. He laid her down, propping her head and upper back against the armrest and pillows there. Kneeling beside her, her framed her face with his hands, hoping to infuse some of his warmth into her. Her face was so cold.

He reached for an aftercare subbie blanket from the basket beside the loveseat and wrapped her in it. Her body began to tremble.

“Adam? How did you know I would be here?”

“I didn’t.” When she looked even more confused, he added. “You’re in my club.”

Her eyes widened and skittered from the chaining post in the center of the room to the manacled ottomans. Good thing she couldn’t see the theme rooms. She shouldn’t be in a place like this. Damn. Shifting from horny perv to paternalistic thoughts did nothing to shrink the raging hard-on in his jeans.

“So, I gather you two have met.”

Adam had forgotten about Damián. When he turned to look up, his surrogate son held out a bottle of water. Adam noted a bit of disappointment in the younger man’s face, but didn’t want to think about Damián taking Karla under his thumb.

Mine.

Where the hell had that thought come from? Karla was just a kid. Hell, he was old enough to be her father, as he’d told her all those years ago when she’d professed her love. Adam took the bottle, then opened and handed it to Karla. “Yes. A very long time ago.”

“He was my knight in shining armor.” Adam didn’t appreciate the look of hero-worship on her face. He’d never been anybody’s hero and didn’t plan to start now.

“I did what anyone would have done.” She quirked the corner of her mouth, as if to say “bullshit.” No, she wouldn’t use language like that.

When her full lips wrapped around the bottle, he tried not to think about them wrapped around anything other than the lip of that damned bottle. Still, his other head ignored his paternal censors. What in the hell was he going to do? No way could he hire her and have her so near while he entertained perverted thoughts about her.

“When can you start, Miss Paxton?” Damián’s words felt like a sucker punch to his solar plexus.

Shit.

“Wait here,” Adam said to Karla. Then he stood and turned to Damián. “I need to have a word with you.” He knew Damián followed him to the bar without having to look, then turned to face him. “She’s not working here.”

“What?”

“She doesn’t belong in a place like this.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? This is a decent club compared to most. Besides, she has a great voice. We need her. The other acts were crap. She’s the last one on my list.” Adam remained silent and Damián rattled off the list of reasons they should hire her. The younger man then pulled out his trump card. “You gave me hiring authority. I’m hiring Karla.”

What the f*ck am I going to do now?

“Who the hell is she?”

Adam shook his head, then ran his hand through his hair. He wouldn’t go back on his word to Damián. Maybe he could just make himself scarce and avoid her. Just how the f*ck do you plan to do that? This is your god-damned club.

Adam sighed. “Forget what I said. Make sure she’s okay. Then send her to my office to fill out the paperwork.” He needed to get his dick under control, even if he couldn’t control anything else anymore. Not trusting himself to go anywhere near her, he escaped to his office.

Good God, what the hell are You doing sending her here?

Then again, maybe it wasn’t God’s fault. Maybe he was being punished for all the things he’d done wrong in his life.

* * *

Adam doesn’t want you here.

Karla couldn’t mistake how quickly Adam had run away from her. She’d made a royal mistake coming to Denver. Tears stung her eyes as she sat up on the loveseat, swinging her legs to the floor and pushing the blanket away. At the back of her mind she wondered why you would have blankets in a nightclub. Well, she was in Denver. Maybe it got cold here at night.

She wiped her eyes, trying to compose herself before having to face either of them again. A facial tissue dangled in front of her field of vision. She looked up to find Master Damián holding the tissue out to her. For someone who looked like a sadist, he sure had a gentle side to him. Somehow gentle sadist just didn’t go together.

She accepted the tissue and dabbed at her eyes. Good thing she hadn’t worn full stage makeup. She’d look like a raccoon right now. Just as she had when she’d cried for Adam in the Chicago bus station all those years ago.

“Sorry. I’m just really tired. I only arrived from New York early this morning.”

“Well, the club won’t be open again until Friday night. Your first set will be at seven o’clock. Get some rest between now and then.”

“You mean, he wants to hire me?”

“I am hiring you, Karla. But Master Adam asked me to send you to his office to fill out the paperwork so we can get you on the payroll PDQ.”

Master Adam. The title caused warmth to spread into her stomach, then lower. She realized she didn’t really know much about Adam at all. How had he lived this separate life and not even intimated at such in his letters?

Because he still thinks you’re a kid.

Master Damián extended a hand and helped her to her feet. His grip was firm, warm. When she swayed, he steadied her by holding her elbows with both hands.

She wished Adam’s hands were holding her. Another tear ran down her cheek. He obviously wanted to have nothing to do with her. How could she stay here?

How could she leave?

“Could you point me in the right direction?”

“Better yet, I’ll take you.”

“Is it okay if I leave my bags in the entryway for now?”

“Sure. They’ll be safe there. I’ll be locking up after I take you to Master Adam’s office.”

As they started toward the hallway where Adam had disappeared, Master Damián discussed what was expected of her as far as a new wardrobe.

Oh, dear. “I’m sorry, but I…I don’t have any money for new clothes yet. Would it be okay if I wore my dresses from the Soho club until I get a couple paychecks under my belt?”

“Talk to Master Adam. He’ll probably advance you some money for appropriate clothing. Where are you staying?”

She bit her lower lip. “I’m going to find a motel when I leave here.”

“I think we can do better than that.”

Karla wasn’t sure what he meant, but by then they’d arrived at Adam’s office. She preceded Damián into the office and saw Adam seated at a large walnut desk, staring intently at some paperwork before him. He dominated the room, which was decorated in dark wood and black leather. When she hesitated, Master Damián took her elbow and led her to one of the leather chairs in front of the desk. But she chose to remain standing. Looking down at Adam gave her a sense of power she needed to feel right now. She wouldn’t stay if he didn’t want her here.

“Sir, Karla’s just gotten to town and doesn’t have a place to stay. She’ll need one of the rooms upstairs.”

Sir. Had Master Damián served with Adam in the Marines? He certainly had the body and stature of a Marine. Then Karla noticed Adam’s hand had tightened on the pen he held.

Adam doesn’t want you here.

She blinked rapidly and swallowed past the lump in her throat. Don’t let him see you cry. Taking a deep breath, she squared her shoulders and rose to her full height. She still only reached to Master Damián’s chin. The man intimidated the hell out of her, but she needed to stand up for herself and stop being led around by him as if she were a puppy.

“That won’t be necessary. I’m staying at a motel.”

Adam looked up at her, his piercing green eyes short-circuiting her bravado. “Nonsense. You’ll stay here.” His gaze sent a thrill down her spine at the same time as it caused her heart to come to a halt. She’d yearned to see Adam again for so long. Now that she was here, she wasn’t sure if she wanted to run to his arms, or run out the door.

To Damián, he said, “Take her things to the guest room on the east end of the house.”

Master Damián chuckled. She wondered what was so funny, but couldn’t ask. What had she gotten herself into? Live here with Adam? That was just wrong on so many levels. She just wanted to crawl back to New York and forget about this whole hare-brained idea. When Master Damián left, she remained standing as Adam stared up at her as if he didn’t have a clue how to deal with her.

“I was worried about you.” His voice came out in a husky whisper that washed over her as if he’d gently stroked a finger down her bare arm.

Of all the things she thought she’d hear him say after the scene in the bar room, that was the last she expected. Karla blinked away more tears, her bravado evaporating quickly. She’d expected him to continue to be all businesslike and distant, not so…caring.

Her tearfulness reminded her of the time she’d wrecked the family car when she was eighteen. She’d been fine until her dad had asked if she were okay.

“Are you okay?” Adam asked, concern in his voice.

The same question. Now all the emotions she’d tried to bury the last two months resurfaced. She began shaking, unable to form a coherent response. She steadied herself with a hand against the back of the chair. Tears blurred her vision. Then she felt Adam’s strong arms surrounding her, holding her up.

Safe. Adam.

She took in a ragged gasp of air, then a wrenching sob poured from deep inside her chest.

“Shhhh. It’s going to be okay.” He turned her around and pressed her against his rock-hard chest and his hands stroked her hair. She felt his heart beating against her cheek as she wrapped her arms around his back, holding on as if he were a lifeline. She wept grief-stricken tears mixed with tears of joy to be holding Adam once again.

She’d tried for two months to remain strong for her parents’ sakes at the funeral and to make sure everything was beautiful for Ian’s funeral. Then she’d tried to continue to tamp down her emotions and grief so she could return to New York and function again.

Fail.

“What’s happened, Karla?

She shook her head, not wanting to put into words what she still didn’t want to acknowledge. The tears she couldn’t dam up any longer spilled onto his chest. Oh, no! She pulled away and saw the blackened spots on his white shirt.

She reached out to touch the stains as more tears spilled. “I’m sorry, Adam.”

He cupped her cheek in his hands and tilted her head back until she saw his face swimming before her eyes. “It’s just a f…god-damned shirt. Karla. Tell me what’s wrong. Come. Sit with me.”

He led her over to a black leather loveseat she hadn’t noticed before. He sat down and, rather than have her sit beside him, pulled her onto his lap. She’d fantasized about being held by him like this, but he was her new boss, wasn’t he? Totally inappropriate.

Adam. Her friend. He knew everything about her. Over the years, in her letters, she’d shared more with him than she had with Ian, her parents, or her girlfriends.

He’d saved her once. She so needed saving again. But she was too broken this time for anyone to save her.

* * *

Adam hadn’t felt this helpless since he’d watched Joni dying, except maybe for Fallujah and its aftermath. Something tragic had happened to Karla. He needed to know what, so he could make it better. Nothing rotted his gut more than feeling so f*cking helpless.

“Are your parents all right?”

She nodded, but kept her gaze on her lap. Thank God. Jenny and Carl had taken him in that Thanksgiving morning and treated him like, well, a brother. He’d feared perhaps something had happened to one of them.

Then, was it Ian? No, her brother’s deployment had ended a while back. Adam knew he’d made it home safely from Iraq. But they were redeploying units so fast these days. Had he gotten hurt?

“Ian?”

She squeezed her eyes shut and wrapped her arms over her stomach, holding herself as she tried to curl over into a ball as if to contain the pain. She nodded her head, and a mournful sob escaped her lips.

Oh, God no. Not her brother.

He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her against his chest. He held her as she sobbed. She adored her older brother more than anyone in the world. He’d seen that in her letters as she’d bragged about his commendations and activities.

“Tell me what happened.”

He didn’t want to hear the words, but knew she needed to speak them, just as talking about his nightmares had helped Damián. Again, she shook her head. The scent of her citrus-y shampoo drifted to his nose. Adam brought his hand up and held her head closer to his chest. He stroked her face. Her hair. Her face. Her skin. So soft. She felt so right in his arms—and that was so f*cking wrong.

God, she was so young.

So hurting. He’d never been able to resist reaching out to help a lost soul.

“Karla, tell me what’s happened to Ian.”

He knew the sooner she got the story out, the sooner she’d be able to begin to function again. To heal. Whatever had happened, she’d already kept it bottled up way too long. She gasped for air, trying to control her sobs.

“Take a deep, slow breath, Karla.” She did as he told her. At least he knew she could hear him. She hiccoughed and he felt his gut clench—and parts south tighten. “Again.” He needed to keep his mind off how nice it felt having her curled up in his lap. If she didn’t spill the story soon, he would embarrass himself—and probably scare the hell out of her.

“Tell me. Now, Karla.” He didn’t mean to sound so gruff, but it was all he could do to maintain control over his wayward dick.

As if a dam had burst, the words spilled out in a jumble, with sobs obliterating most of the details in the story. But he managed to get the gist of it.

Motorcycle. Rain. Semi.

Ian’s dead.

Dead.

“Oh, God, no, Karla.” Adam held her tighter, resting his chin on the top of her head, trying to envelop her in warmth and safety. “I’m so sorry.” He ached for Karla and her parents. When tears burned his own eyes, he let them flow, knowing she couldn’t see them. He cried for Ian, who hadn’t been given a chance to live. He cried for Jenny and Carl, who had to be caught up in a living hell right now. He even cried for Joni, who he hadn’t been able to cry for since that Thanksgiving morning in 2002 at Lake Michigan.

But mostly he cried for Karla. She didn’t deserve this. Her world was supposed to be happy. Innocent. Full of hope. He wished he hadn’t ignored his instincts. He knew something was wrong and should have gotten in touch with her sooner.

He didn’t know how long she continued to sob, then her body suddenly went limp, sinking against him. Her weight felt good against him. She’d surrendered the last of her defenses. Thank God she’d come to him. Someone else might take advantage of her vulnerability.

While he and Karla had spent only a couple of days together face to face, they’d forged a deeper connection that spanned nearly a decade. She’d pulled him back from the brink when he’d thought there was nothing left for him in this world. Her letters over the years were honest, as if she were sitting right there at his feet telling him about her day.

No, don’t think about her sitting gracefully at your feet.

Her letters had told of her life, her dreams, her world. He knew her better than he’d known any woman other than Joni.

Something or someone had brought them together again. He’d taken care of Karla once before. He’d take care of her this time, too. And he’d refuse to give in to the baser thoughts running rampant through his mind since he’d watched her performing on the club’s stage a little while ago.

When her weight relaxed against him even more, he knew she’d fallen into a deep sleep. He held her a bit longer, stroking her arm, shushing her when her body convulsed with a shudder. Then he stood and carried her out the door into the hallway. They passed the theme rooms. Thank God she slept, although he knew she’d find them eventually, if she’d be working here.

Christ.

Damián came out of the medical theme room. He raised an eyebrow at seeing her curled up in his arms. No, this isn’t that kind of aftercare.

The man he thought of as his son grinned and looked up at him, a question in his eyes. Adam wasn’t ready to explain his relationship to Karla. He told himself it was because he didn’t want to wake her by speaking. In truth, though, he didn’t know how to explain her to Damián. He knew what their relationship had been before today. But how could he explain his feelings now without sounding like a f*cked-up pervert?

“Go back upstairs and move her things to your old room.” He kept that one made up, in case Damián ever needed it. His son’s grin widened. He thought he knew the reason for moving her so close to Adam’s own bedroom, when Adam had intended originally for her to be as far away from him as possible.

“I need to keep an eye on her.”

“Sure. Let me know if I can help…Dad.”

Why had Damián chosen now, of all times, to remind him he was so f*cking old? Hell, his surrogate son was only a couple years older than Karla. Maybe he should encourage them to get together. They both needed someone right now.

The thought of Karla being with Damián or any other man at the club rotted his gut, though. He carried her up the stairs. As he walked into the room where Damián had fought his demons all those years ago, he hoped Karla’s struggles would be much less. But in here, he’d be able to keep a close eye on her, just until she was ready to venture out and find a place to stay on her own.

* * *

Adam sat in the corner of her room and watched Karla sleep. He hadn’t wanted to scare her by removing her clothing, but had taken off her slippers and pulled a blanket over her. The thick black curls fanning out over the blue pillowcase sent his thoughts careening down dangerous paths yet again.

Demons flitted across her face a few times, but whenever he’d stand to go to her to fight them off, she’d become peaceful again and fall back into a deeper, more restful sleep. She couldn’t possibly be aware he was here, could she? He’d never admit he’d watched over her like this either. She’d think he was some kind of perv. But he was worried about her and she might not be as vocal as Damián had been when he’d battled his demons in that bed. Hopefully, she’d remain sleeping when he left her here alone.

Her black eyelashes flickered. Adam tensed. She moaned in her sleep and he was ready to go to her, to hold her until the nightmare ended. Then she sighed and returned once more to a deeper sleep.

Obviously, she hadn’t slept for a very, very long time. When had Ian been killed? Her last letter was two months ago and didn’t hint that anything was out of the ordinary. He probably should call Jenny and Carl and offer his condolences. Let them know Karla was with him. Safe.

Safe? Yeah, right. “Oh, don’t worry, Carl. Your daughter’s fine. She’s performing at my sex club—oh, musical performances only. Nothing to worry yourself about. She’s fine.”

Just fine.

Thoughts of her performing in other ways at the club flicked over his mind. Shit. No way would she be engaging in any activities other than singing as long as he had anything to say about it. He doubted she’d even be interested in BDSM. And, if she were, she’d probably lean more toward the Domme side, given the way she’d managed to order him in the head at the bus station.

He smiled. She seemed pretty taken with her ability to bring him to his knees, as he recalled. Well, Adam didn’t bottom for anyone. If he remembered her in that role, perhaps he’d be able to put an end to his carnal thoughts about her.

F*ck. How could he be thinking horny thoughts about the Paxtons’ daughter in the first place? God, Carl and Jenny had taken him in, patched him up, given him a place to rest. Hell, they’d even given him a plane ticket back to Pendleton.

He knew he’d have a battle on his hands to keep from thinking about having rough, kinky sex with their innocent daughter.

F*cking A.

Total clusterf*cking-A.