Make Me: Twelve Tales Of Dark Desire - Make Me: Twelve Tales of Dark Desire Part 114
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Make Me: Twelve Tales of Dark Desire Part 114

He ran his private investigation business remotely, though most of his time was focused on gathering evidence against Roy. He'd made little progress in three years, and his frustration radiated from his pores. It seemed Roy Oxford's payroll extended to members of the FBI and law enforcement in most major cities.

"Fine. He doesn't own this one." He squeezed a lime over a taco and dug in. "Yet," he amended around a mouthful of shredded beef and dragged his sleeve over his clean-shaven chin. "We need to stay hidden until I can gather enough evidence to nail him."

Screw hiding. She longed to confront Roy on the street and oust him where the oblivious world could bear witness. "I used to be a girl with ambitions and fanciful dreams, you know?" Her dream of teaching children to paint might not have been fanciful, but the notion still caught in her throat. "He took that from me. Now my only aspiration is running as far and fast as I can. I'm tired of it." Damned tremors crept into her voice.

"Shh. I know." He reached over the table and patted her hand. "I need more time. We have to be smart about this, and I'm regretting this move to New York. Three thousand miles doesn't make us safer, sweetheart. He's buying up corporations from coast to coast. He's everywhere. And his"-he dropped his voice-"arms-trafficking activities are headquartered on this coast. Please be mindful of that."

She slunk down into the seat. He was her voice of practicality and her only comfort. He was also an ever present reminder of the man she lost.

Despite her pleading, Nathan refused to return to his life in St. Louis. Roy was looking for an overweight, bearded man named Matthew Linden, not a thin, clean-shaven private investigator and Marine. And Nathan excelled at his job, covering his aliases and securing his connections. He was certain Roy hadn't connected Matthew Linden to Winslow Investigations, which meant he didn't need to be on the run with her. Yet here he was, taking care of her in some kind of noble dedication to Noah.

He picked up his fork. "How much money did you make today?"

Two tattoos. Not much, but inking out of his temporary PI office in the Village didn't exactly tantalize would-be customers. "A hundred and fifty dollars."

Laughter barreled from across the room and stole his attention. His eyes cut back to her, and they were stone-like in resolve. His you-don't-need-to-work lecture was imminent.

She held up a hand. "Don't say it. I earned this money to see Duke again. I made an appointment for tomorrow. Will you take me?" She straightened her backbone and waited for his disappointment. Just saying Duke's name brought out his overprotective tension.

His face paled, and he pushed his plate away. "There are other kinds of therapy."

The deadness in his tone raised her hackles. "The normal kind, you mean. And what exactly would I talk about with a psychiatrist?" She lowered her voice to a whisper. "That I was held as a slave and I'm on the run because my captor is too powerful to bring down? How many red flags would that raise? How much bribe money would it take for the therapist to turn my confession over to the man hunting for it?"

A swallow bobbed in his throat, and his eyes darted between her and the rowdiness across the room. "Then talk to me."

She leaned over their plates and closed the distance between them. "I do talk to you. I tell you everything. And goddammit, you've seen it all firsthand."

He closed his eyes, no doubt remembering the night in Roy's dining room. Or his two months of monitoring the cameras in the stockroom. Or maybe he was reliving her first appointment with the Dom in Shreveport. He'd been adamant about remaining in the room during the scene. She was certain he regretted it, because he never attended another one, and her bondage therapy continued to be a driving wedge between them.

His eyes were closed for so long, she kicked his shin under the table. "Look at me."

He did, with torment-glazed eyes, and their hands joined at the center of the table. Her relationship with him was a complex tangle of revenge and preservation. She suspected he loathed her and cared about her in equal measures. Noah saved his life in Afghanistan, and now Nathan had found a way to repay him by protecting her. Nothing she could say would deter him.

She rubbed a thumb over his. "I have so little control over my life. I need this." She needed to control when to be shackled, to name the limits, and to speak the safe word to stop it. So she paid the Nathan-vetted Doms to give her that. "I need those few hours of power. I know you understand this."

He let out a breath. "You're resilient, you know that?"

"I'm a survivor." If she kept telling herself that, maybe she would be at the end of this.

"I look at you every day and wonder how you do it, how you don't break down under-" He squeezed her hands, swallowed "-under it. So if these appointments help you hold it together..."

She nodded. He understood the reasons she gave. What he didn't need to know was she used the physical pain to push her past her emotional barriers. When arousal tormented her, relief could only come from a choking restraint, the cut of a cane, the dry penetration of a cock. The notion was shameful, but each visit with a Dom guided her closer toward acceptance of her fucked-up desires.

"I need to run a full investigation on this Duke guy again."

"Of course." She straightened his fingers in her hand, tried to smooth out the tension there.

"And I'll be there. Right outside the room." His mouth twitched, and it could've been mistaken for a smile. She knew it was nerves.

The front door swung open and the whoosh of motoring traffic filtered in, followed by the footsteps of multiple people. The restaurant broke out in excited screams.

"We need to go." Nathan dug out his wallet.

Her pulse spiked as she twisted in the booth. A crowd had gathered around the new-comers, blocking the view. Was it them? Had to be. A chill spread through her, and perspiration surfaced on her breastbone. How would she approach them without showing her face? Her plan hadn't gone further than steering Nathan to the restaurant.

A man climbed atop the table at the center of the commotion, his head rising above the throngs of women. Chunks of hair spiked over his large sunglasses. He shoved two fingers in his mouth and whistled. "Good evening, wonderful patrons of El Sabor Outpost. My buddies and I have a wager going, if you'll be so kind as to oblige us. You see, they are questioning my mojo."

Women hooted around him, hiding his lower half, but the jerk of his shoulders implied he was thrusting his hips.

She bent around the high back booth, craning her neck. "Let's just wait it out."

"No fucking way." He ground his teeth, flicking his eyes in every direction, and waved at the server. "Check, please."

Laz Bromwell, lead fucking guitarist, bounced on the table to peek over the crowd. "My friends don't think I can get a date with the most beautiful woman in this restaurant. My manhood demands I take that bet. What do you say?"

The women screamed and jumped up and down. Charlee's heart mimicked in kind.

Camera phones waved in the air. Dammit. Fuck. She flattened a hand beside her face to hide her features and met Nathan's wild eyes. "This isn't so bad." Holy shit. Oh fuck, he was never going to forgive her for this.

"We're going to slip down that aisle on the far side and out through the kitchen." He threw a wad of cash on the table, grabbed her hand and hauled her from the booth. "Do not look at him."

Shit. She couldn't leave. Not without making contact with Jay. Where was he? She arched her neck, couldn't see through the horde of people.

Nathan tugged her toward the door. "Look. The. Other. Way."

Laz surveyed the room, making a show of eyeing each woman with his charming smile. Two others joined him on the table. The bald drummer, Rio Ketch and surfer boy bassist, Wil Sima. Where the hell was Jay?

She dragged her feet, her heart sinking.

Three pairs of well-known eyes locked on hers. Her heart sprinted into a marathon, urging her to run, but her legs were paralyzed. She didn't know what had led Jay Mayard into her shop three years earlier, but this possibility of seeing him again might be the only one she'd ever get. She couldn't walk away.

Chapter Eighteen.

An arm wrapped around Charlee's midsection, lifted her, and carried her toward the kitchen.

"Wait." She bucked against the unbreakable hold. At twenty-five years old, she could behave like a swooning fan just like the squealing girls across the room. He didn't need to know her true intentions. "I want to meet them."

He growled in her ear. "I know you know the singer."

"What?" How the hell would he know that? She elbowed him in the ribs. "Put me down."

"Hey, Red. Wait. Don't leave." Laz pointed at her, jumped from the table, and pushed past the grabbing arms of the crowd. If she continued moving toward the back exit, would he follow? She hoped, because escaping the camera phones that would soon be turning her direction was the priority.

A team of stiff, plain-dressed men held back the fans as Laz closed the distance.

Nathan reached around her waist and pulled her through the kitchen doors. "This is the worst scenario imaginable. What if the paparazzi show up?" He spun them in a circle, likely scanning for an exit. "Great, just great."

"Hey there. Don't hide." A few feet away, Laz's smile filled his adorable face, the doors swinging behind him and muffling the screams. She dropped her hands.

"Sweet God in heaven, you are undeniably-"

"My wife, Maylynn." Nathan held out his hand, his jaw clenching in her periphery. "I'm Hank, the guy who cost you a bet. And we were just leaving."

Hank and Maylynn McGraw. Nathan's ridiculous aliases made her fist twitch.

"Is Jay here?" She couldn't keep her anticipation from pitching her voice.

Laz ignored Nathan's hand and dropped his smile. "No. Why is he always the ladies' first pick?

"Where is he? Is he in New York?"

"You're wounding my pride, babe." He spread out his arms. "What do you say? A date with Laz Bromwell? Since you're married, I'll do you both." He shrugged. "I'm magnanimous like that."

The body pressed against her back turned to stone, pushing her to the side and out of view if the door opened.

She patted Nathan's hand where it clenched on her arm. "I think we'll pass on the date."

Laz hung his head, shuffled to the door and poked his head into the dining room. "Shut down, folks. This bet is going to hurt like a motherfucker."

They responded in a roar of boos that rallied into "Pick me. Pick me."

Nathan grabbed her hand and moved them deeper into the kitchen, weaving around cook stations, his eyes probing the hallways and doors.

Laz ran behind and skidded into her path, stopping her. "Just my luck I find the most beautiful woman on the fucking planet, and she's taken." He brushed a strand of hair from her face.

The bold gesture made a slow curl through her stomach. She was such a glutton for tender touches. "What did the bet cost you?"

His face flushed. "A tattoo."

A thrill kicked through her. "Any tattoo?"

Nathan's hand pulled her elbow. "We need to go. Now."

Laz laughed, and it had a nervous hitch to it. "The tat has to be a ruler."

"Like a king?"

"Like a standard unit of measurement."

Weird. "Where?"

He looked pointedly at his groin and back to her. "Know a good tattoo artist?"

Nathan squeezed her hand. "Absolutely not." He stopped a passing server. "Which door leads to the access road out back?"

Charlee snorted. "A ruler on your dick?"

Laz lifted his shoulders. "Marked off in inches. Or feet." He grinned. "My friends are sick, I know. Change your mind about that date?"

She needed money, but more than that, she needed to see Jay. "I'd consider doing the tattoo for the right price."

"Maylynn." Nathan's warning tone.

"No shit? You do tattoos?" He pushed his hands through his hair and the spikes bounced back. "Five grand."

A Hell Yes tried to jump out of her gaping mouth. She caught it with a snap of her jaw. Think first. Then leap.

He misread her expression. "Fine. Ten grand. I'd pay that just to stare at you for an hour with my cock in your hand." He flashed a spread of white teeth. "I'll double it to twenty grand if you'll do it with your shirt off."

Nathan put his mouth next to her ear. "I don't like this. They're fucking media darlings."

"Twenty grand. Shirt on. In a private, secure area. No media."

He threw his fist up. "Done. How do I reach you?"

She waved over a hovering waitress and borrowed a pen and a napkin. "Here's my address." Nathan's office address.

He stuffed it in his jean pocket and blew her a kiss as he walked backward toward the doors to the dining room.

She snapped herself out of the surrealism of meeting Laz Bromwell and realized she'd never hear from him again. He didn't have to pay for a tattoo. He'd have busty artists lining up to do it for free. And stroke him off while they did it. "Laz?"

He put his hand on the door and raised his brows. "A parting kiss?"

Since she hadn't been able to find on photo of Jay without his shirt, she had to ask. "What did Jay end up doing with his tattoo? The one on his back?"

A strange expression fell over his face, and he stared at her as if he were staring through her.

Nathan blew out a loud exhale. "Fuck."

Fists banged on one of the doors behind them. A clamor of voices shouted on the other side.

Nathan jerked his head toward Laz, his face red. "Paparazzi?"

Laz lifted a shoulder. "Probably."

Shit. If their only way out was through a barrage of snapping pictures, Roy's facial recognition software would find her.

A kitchen rag landed on her chest, and she caught it. Nathan grabbed another one and pushed her toward the banging door. "Keep your face covered with that. Head down and away from the cameras."