Pushing back, she falls on her ass, crying out as I keep walking. I don’t look back.

  I drop my stuff in the room at the Extended Stay and quickly follow up with my boss so that my job won’t be in jeopardy from my absence. I got lucky the fight was on a Friday night. Now I just need to get a few days off to heal so no one will question what my outside activities are. I can take this time to find a new place to live and get my shit from Missy’s. I’ll also take the cash for the next three months’ payments to the branch manager at the bank so that is handled.

  I need to make a clean break and not give her any reason to seek me out. Old habits die hard, and she is a habit I don’t need to get tangled with again.

  My phone blows up with call after call from Missy. I ignore each one. Breaking up is hard to do, but as much as this hurts her now, in the end, it is what is best for us both.

  “Thanks for the help, man,” I say as Brock brings up my last bag.

  “No problem. You really need to stay away from that one. She’s a viper.”

  I smirk. “She’s something.”

  “All that passion may be hot in bed, but, Jay, that shit is seriously dangerous in every other part of life.”

  I run my fingers through my short blond hair and sigh. “That’s for damn sure.”

  “Catch up later,” Brock says, laughing as he exits.

  Laying down, I rest against the headboard. My mind doesn’t go to Missy like I would expect it to. After three years together, I should miss the woman I claim to love. After three years of creating something and thinking of a future together, I should mourn the loss or some shit. That’s not where my head is, though, not in the least. No, I can’t shake the blond angel in hospital scrubs.

  She lives in a family home within a well-developed family neighborhood. Does she have a family? I don’t remember a ring. Then again, I should still be in the hospital. Maybe my mind isn’t seeing things clearly. Does she have a husband? Kids?

  I smile, thinking of little blond, cherub-cheeked babies in her arms. Then I shake my head. What the fuck is wrong with me?

  I can’t help wanting to know more about this woman. In time, I will visit her again: 415 Hollow Terrace. It stays with me, as if her house contains all the answers to every question I have about the stranger who saved me.

  My body is healing, and the pain has settled after the adrenaline rush of fighting and leaving Missy. I close my eyes and find myself drifting to sleep with Lorraine on my mind.

  I blink in rhythm with the beeping of the machine beside me. The light gleams around her as she leans over me.

  “Beautiful,” I whisper, and she smiles.

  Her fingers rest on my wrist’s pulse point. The simple touch has me building a tent out of the thin hospital sheet. There is shyness in her eyes, but there is also a hidden boldness wanting to come out.

  With my free hand, I reach down and stroke myself.

  She gasps, but then I see the fire in her eyes.

  “I see you’re coming around,” she says softly.

  “When you’re here, I’m definitely ready to come”—I wink—“around.”

  “Is that so?”

  I continue stroking. “I think I could use a sponge bath, Nurse Lorraine.”

  She steps away and gets a basin with warm water and a sponge. I can’t help laughing. She’s really up for playing my game. Well, baby, so am I.

  When she pulls back the sheet, I have no shame over the cobra I keep in my pants. With practiced ease, she removes the hospital gown and starts wiping me down, beginning at my neck. Her finger grazes my neck tattoo, and the beast inside me is ready to strike.

  Squeezing the sponge, she drips water over my chest, causing my muscles to tighten. She licks her lips in appraisal, and I envision those same lips over my cock. With the sponge in hand, she slowly washes me, teases me.

  At my hips, she traces the seam of my V, leading to the place I ache for her to touch.

  “Baby,” I groan, needing relief.

  I close my eyes, feeling her small hand wrap around my throbbing cock. She slides up, and I fight back the urge to thrust into her grip.

  Up and down, she moves her hand. Then I feel the tightening of my balls.

  Wrapping my hand around hers, I move her faster. Up and down, we slide over and over. I move to sit up as I release while she keeps stroking, working out every drop from me.

  The wetness of the sponge hits me, and my body aches.

  The pain wakes me from my dream. I am a sticky mess, and the open cuts on my hands burn from the contact.

  Damn, I haven’t had a wet dream since I was a fucking teenager.

  This chick has me all twisted inside. I have never been this caught up in a woman.

  The pain is intense, but my need to have her still tops everything I physically feel. I pop an over-the-counter pain pill from my nightstand then go into the bathroom to shower.

  When I lie back down, anger hits at the thought of my situation. I can’t believe I’m in a damn hotel without the luxuries of home while I’m laid up, broken and beaten. What a mess my life is, just like my fucking bed. Well, as the saying goes, I made it, now I have to lie in it.

  Chapter Seven

  Heidi

  I don’t normally venture out in the dark. You can’t see everything as vividly. However, we sometimes have to do the things we don’t like in order to find out the truths we seek.

  The suspect list dwindles with each task I complete. Each time I give my attention to them, I can narrow down my focus. I have three people to watch now: Adrian, Charlotte, and Waters. I need to see what they do when the sun has set and no one is watching.

  Target one this evening: Charlotte.

  The house: 7930 Brown Avenue.

  The time: six-forty-eight p.m.

  The garage door opens as she pulls in her black BMW. Without shutting her garage door, she opens her car door, and her feet hang out in just her nylons. She tosses her heels from the car as she slides out with the grace of a ballerina.

  She is certainly slow and smooth with her movements. Her day-to-day processes are thought out. Her dark hair is once again twisted up and away from her face. Even after a day of work, not a strand is out of place. If she were to slide back into her heels, she would be able to walk into a courtroom, boardroom, or any office as if it were nine a.m. That is how crisp and put together she is. Everything about her is clean-cut.

  Opening the back door, she pulls out her blazer and briefcase, tossing the jacket over her arm as she walks into her home. At the door, she taps the button, and the motor slowly turns, closing off the garage from view.

  I maintain my position in my car across the street. I can see into the main parts of the house as long as she doesn’t adjust the blinds. She moves as a woman who has nothing to hide, but looks can be deceiving, and I can’t be wrong about anything in this. There is too much at stake.

  Staring at the kitchen window, I watch as she lays her briefcase and blazer on the table. With her standing at the sink, I pause, hoping she doesn’t look out the window and find me staring in. She reaches up and lets down her dark hair before moving out of view.

  I give it another few minutes before she moves into sight again, her profile in view, sipping a glass of wine. Her face is relaxed, her mind off in thought. Her day is done.

  She’s home for the night.

  Moving on to the next target.

  Suspect two this evening: Adrian.

  The house: 732 East River Drive.

  The time: nine-seventeen p.m.

  His house is bright, the lights on and windows open. I watch as his wife brings him a drink. Baldy doesn’t move. He sits in his recliner as the king of his castle. This irritates me. His demeanor is that of a tyrant.

  Something is said, and he bolts up, slamming the recliner shut and standing in his wife’s face. His hands go up in the air.

  They are having a domestic dispute. Noted.

  She walks off, and then he settles back into his chair as the man in charge. All is well in his world. He is in control. The man is on his perch, and his subjects are back to their tasks. He is comfortable. His day is done.

  He’s not going anywhere tonight.

  Moving on to the next target, I fight back a yawn.

  Suspect three: Waters.

  The house: 746 Wesley Drive.

  I pull up as he pulls out. Okay, we are on the move.

  I follow Waters’s Lexus SUV outside of town until he turns and parks in an open lot. I pull over to the side of the road and wait, hoping to see him do something incriminating. Instead, I see a yellow taxicab pull up, and he gets out of his vehicle and jogs toward it.

  What the hell? Why take a cab?

  Questions play in my mind, but I don’t have time to make notes except in my head.

  His hair isn’t slicked back tonight. He is dressed in jeans and a polo shirt. He looks younger, handsome, like he’s going out for the night. Well, good. That means this isn’t a waste after all.

  I follow the taxicab about five blocks away until it pulls over in front of a club. He gets out and walks in quickly. The bouncer doesn’t stop him, not even for an ID check.

  I look at the neon sign over the entrance: The Lion’s Den. I should get out more.

  I park in the garage across the street then start to make a plan to follow him in.

  Pausing, I look over my outfit of black leggings and a black fitted top with a whole lot of cleavage popping out.

  Can I do this? Yes, I can do this.

  Reaching into the backseat, I grab my boots: knee-high, five-inch heels, all black—hooker shoes at their finest. Digging in the glove box, I find a chain and lock from an old shed we haven’t used in years.

  “Thank you, Daddy,” I mutter to the empty car.

  Good thing he was driving this the last day he was in the shed and left me some great accessories.

  Wrapping the chain around my waist, I hook it with the lock, letting it hang at a sexy angle that draws attention to my hips and ass.

  Clubbing. I can do this!

  I give myself the mental pep talk before I snag my ID and some cash to get me in. Stepping out of my car, I do a quick flip of my dark hair to give it volume before I reach back into the car and add some red lipstick.

  My eyes pop without makeup needed, but I add mascara for the sultry appeal.

  Well, here we go, boys. Time to follow Mr. Waters and see what he is up to tonight.

  The bouncer moves the red velvet rope to close me off from entering. The man in front of me is a good six foot six, all broad shoulders and angry face.

  “Invitation only,” he clips out.

  Cocking my hip out and pushing my breasts forward, I twirl my hair around my finger. With a pouty lip, I do the only thing I can think of. “I wanted to surprise Mr. Waters tonight.”

  I didn’t want to use my mark’s name, but he obviously got in without an ID. Once inside, I’m sure I can blend in with the thumping bass and moving bodies. If I get caught, they will just kick me out. Waters should be none the wiser.

  With a wink, the velvet rope is unclipped, and the massive man steps to the side, letting me by.

  “Your sir will most certainly be pleased, pet.”

  Sir? Pet? What the hell is he talking about?

  The entryway is dark, and my eyes struggle to adjust. I see a dim glow ahead and follow it. When I enter the space, I am in no way prepared for what is in front of me.

  Along a back wall are rooms, the bright white doors a stark contrast to the charcoal gray walls. Five doors, all numbered, and all have ribbons hanging on the handles as couples fill the spaces nearby.

  There are women in nothing more than bras and thongs who are on their knees beside men with leashes hooked through collars. There are men in a variety of outfits—from simple boxer briefs to complicated leather pants with chains. They, too, are on their knees beside what I will assume to be their partners. Some sit with men, and surprisingly, others kneel before their women.

  To the right are multiple couches and chairs, all of them full of couples in different stages of undress.

  I watch as a woman rides a man, publicly fucking him, her cries warning of her building orgasm. Her partner nods to the woman beside them, and she leans in, pulling the woman’s breasts from her bra and taking one into her mouth. The woman riding the man goes off with a loud wail as the man laughs under her, continuing to thrust upward with his hips as he reaches around the back of the woman sucking and begins to finger her. She rocks against him, losing her suction as the first woman reaches out and pulls her to her, returning the favor by sucking her breast.

  I stumble as someone bumps into me from behind, pushing me into the open space. Desperately, I look for the flashing lights, music, or any sign of the nightclub life I’m used to. Instead, I’m deeper into The Lion’s Den, and my body quivers in anticipation. This club was certainly named appropriately.

  Mind back to the task; where is Waters?

  Looking to the right, I see the soft glow of red neon lights following the length of the bar. I make my way to a stool. From here, I can scan the space inconspicuously until I find my mark.

  The bartender, who is shirtless and in black leather pants with his Mohawk tipped in blue, smirks as he comes over. Mixing a quick cosmopolitan, he places the martini glass in front of me.

  “On the house,” he says, leaning onto the bar with a half-grin.

  I push the cocktail back. “I don’t drink.” I try refusing his offer.

  His half-grin moves into a full-out smile, revealing perfectly straight, white teeth. “It’s your first time in The Den. You need to loosen up.”

  Reminding myself I need to blend in, I sip the drink and nod my appreciation.

  “You look like a deer caught in the headlights. What’s your kink?”

  I nearly choke on my drink as I raise an eyebrow at him.

  “Definite submissive. You’ll make a nice pet for someone. Who gave you the invite?”

  Shit, I have showed my cards too soon and to a stranger. I need to focus. Think, Hi, think! Kink, he wants my kink. Obviously, The Lion’s Den is a private club. I needed a name drop to get in. Submissive, pet, my mind goes over the words used.

  I blow out a breath, making my chest rise and fall dramatically. Leaning into him, I whisper, “Don’t mess up the scene.” I settle back onto my stool with a wink.

  Mohawk man gives me a thumbs-up and moves away to serve someone else.

  Okay, now back to my target. I scan the area yet still have no sight of him.

  Casually, I sip my cosmo, hoping Mohawk man isn’t watching for my partner to arrive.

  A tall man in a snug, black V-neck T-shirt takes the stool beside me. His tailored, black dress pants are definitely accenting his ass and toned thighs as the shirt clings to his every muscle, making me wonder if the arms will bust at the seams from his size. The tattoo of a snake head striking stands out boldly on his tanned neck as the green eyes of the cobra seem to come to life, watching me from the side as he throws up a finger to the bartender for a beer.

  Mohawk man serves him and winks at me. Shit, he thinks this is my scene. I move to slide off the barstool, accidentally bumping into snake man.

  He turns. His spiky blond hair is devilishly styled, making his eyes pop. When the green hue meets my blue stare, he looks as if he is ready to strike, like the tattoo on his neck. His face shows signs of healing injuries, making me wonder what happened to him.

  As he watches me, I can’t help worrying he sees right through me, because that’s how it feels. With every blink of his eyes, I feel like he is seeing deep into my soul.

  “Angel,” he whispers raising an eyebrow in question.

  Breathlessly, I reply, “I’m no one’s angel.”

  Chapter Eight

  Tuesdays aren’t my usual Lion’s Den night. Swingers looking for an open fuck usually come on Sundays. Tuesdays are for scenes, training, and the occasional person looking for a new partner or a couple looking for assistance. Missy and I have come a few times and before her I frequented the club regularly.

  I need release, though. I need a drink. I need to be in a place where names don’t matter, jobs don’t matter, nothing matters but getting off. I need to be here where no one cares who my father is. I need to be where no one cares about the secrets I hide from the world.

  I settle on a barstool, and the bartender gives me a wink and a nod. I hope to hell he doesn’t think I’m his type, because I’m fucking not.

  “Shot of Jack and a draft chaser,” I order, reaching in my pocket for some cash.

  I pay the man and look left. Immediately, my eyes settle on the dark-haired beauty beside me. She’s not dressed like the other kinky bitches in here, but I wouldn’t mind tying her hands up in those chains around her hips.

  She slides off her stool and bumps into me.

  I know her type. She wants to play submissive tonight and then probably go home to her old man or maybe a vibrator. She wants to step outside of her comfort zone, but only by dipping her toe in. She’s too timid to be excited, which means this isn’t her scene.

  I can see the steady tick of her rapid pulse in her neck. I can feel the fear along with the anticipation coming off her.

  She looks up from behind that mess of dark hair. The blue of her eyes is soft and pops out at me. For a moment, I see familiarity . . . No, she can’t be familiar. I focus. I see weakness, vulnerability. She is damn good at this game. I can’t tell if it’s an act. Maybe she is afraid to get caught, or maybe she didn’t realize, once you walk into The Lion’s Den, there is no turning back.

  “Angel,” I whisper wondering if her eyes are indeed one in the same of the angel I just met.

  “I’m no one’s angel.”

  She is fresh meat and could walk out any moment. The lions in this den seem to be very watchful of her. At her reply, I can’t help but feel wound even tighter. I need release.

  She glances around, noticing. Her eyes widening and shifting, she looks like a trapped gazelle. She could make an easy escape, but she doesn’t. Her eyes train on me, almost begging me for something. I know what that something is. She is here for the same reason I am.