Collateral Read online

  The cane comes again. This time I can’t stop myself from screaming. “What was that, Sloane?” Zeth asks, hissing through his teeth.

  “Eight! That was an eight!”

  I hear the sound of something clattering across the other side of the room, and then Zeth is slamming himself into me, his cock thrusting deep and hard and fast.

  “Fuck, Sloane. Your ass is so red. I want to spank it.”

  “Please. Please.” That’s all I can get out. I want him to spank it. I want to feel throbbing, stinging, smarting ache charge through me as he slams himself inside me, over and over again.

  “Shit.” Zeth uses his palm on me. A loud crack fills the room as his hand connects, the pain less bright than with the cane but still enough to make me scream.

  Every muscle in my body is locked tight and singing with sensation as Zeth fucks me. He fucks me so hard I can literally feel my orgasm building with each and every thrust, the tension hitting me like a punch to the gut. Over, and over, and over, and then…

  “I can’t—oh, fffffffuck. Zeth, I can’t—”

  Zeth covers my body with his own, still pounding himself into me. He reaches up my body and takes a hold of my nipple, and he pinches, hard. At the same time, I feel his teeth bite down into the skin of my shoulder, sending a wall of raw energy slamming through me.

  I scream. I scream violently as I come, my throat feeling like it’s being torn to shreds. I don’t scream his name, or ask him to stop. It’s just sound, splintering out of me—the purest of releases.

  Zeth roars as he comes, too. Up until now he’s been holding his own body weight, but he goes boneless as he climaxes, his arms and legs quitting on him. The result is instant and bone crushing. We both go down, him on top of me.

  “Fuck. Sorry,” he apologizes, gulping in air. He shifts slightly, dragging himself to the side. It clearly costs him energy he doesn’t have when he reaches up and unties the blindfold from around my eyes. We’re face to face, then, staring at each other, noses only a couple of inches apart. His cheeks are slightly red from exertion, his lips parted. He looks so freaking angelic—dark hair tousled everywhere—that it’s almost hard to believe he’s the little deviant that just flayed my ass raw. I start laughing first. Zeth joins me a second later. He kisses me roughly, pretending to growl.

  “Oh my god, woman. You’re not supposed to burst out laughing after something like that,” he tells me, mastering his face into a fake stern expression. “That’s it. You are in so much trouble now.”

  We climb up onto the bed and Sloane passes out without a word. I don’t, though. I lie there staring at the ceiling, fighting the desire to close my own eyes. I’m fucking tired, but I can’t let myself go to sleep. I just can’t. I’ve been dreaming about my mother recently, the beach and the boardwalk—but there’s nothing to say I won’t dream the other dream tonight. Nothing to say I won’t freak out and try and strangle my girl to death if I wake up and she’s lying beside me. I can’t risk that. I lie still a little longer, enjoying the slow draw of her breathing in the darkness, her hand resting lightly on top of my stomach, her head resting on my shoulder, dark hair spilling out behind her onto the plumped up pillows, and I know I have to go.

  The problem is I really want to fucking stay.

  She barely stirs as I slide out from underneath her. In the kitchen, I make myself a coffee with a healthy shot of Jack instead of milk. I feel like shit. I’ve never wanted to sleep in the same bed as a woman before. It’s a brutal shock to the system, this urge to hold her against me all night, to protect her. Worse, because I’m the one she’d need protecting from. Is this what our life will be like? Having sex and then me ducking out on her every single night, having to creep out of a warm bed so I can go and lock myself away? That doesn’t sit well with me. Not fucking well at all.

  I finish the coffee, and then I make myself another one, this time without the Jack. As soon as the caffeine kicks in, I throw some clothes on and head over to Michael’s room. He answers the door on the third knock. His instant appearance surprises me.

  “Whoa. Going somewhere?” He looks like he is. With his black suit and crisp white shirt, it’s either that or he’s prepped and ready for the Duchess’s funeral already. Michael treats me to one of his rare, broad smiles.

  “Oh, just planning on seeing a friend.”

  He’s going to go screw someone. In all the time I’ve known him, Michael has never offered up any information about women—he’s been so tight lipped, I’ve often wondered if he bats for the other team—but I know he goes off to have a little fun of his own every once in a while. I don’t think I’d trust him if he didn’t.

  “Right. Okay, well…” I’m not the kind of man to come between another and his fuck buddy. I begin to back away from the door.

  “You okay? You need something?” Michael asks. “Everything’s set for the morning.”

  “Yeah, no. Everything’s fine. I just...” I am the most awkward person on the face of the planet. I try to turn and make it back behind door A, but a hand lands on my shoulder, stopping me in my tracks.

  “You worried? About sharing the apartment alone? With Sloane?” Michael asks.

  A few months ago, I would have laughed at him for making the suggestion. A few months ago, I probably would have punched his arm hard enough to leave a bruise and told him to stop being so fucking ridiculous. But now…I turn and face my friend, fighting for the right words. “I’m not…I don’t…” I take a deep breath. “It’s not about the apartment. I’m worried about sharing a bed with her.”

  Michael doesn’t laugh, which is the only thing that saves him from a fist to the face. He pouts, nodding at me. “So, you’re worried about the sleep thing? Because you want to share a bed with her?”

  God, why is this so hard to admit to another person? “Yes.”

  Michael carries on nodding, his eyes serious as he thinks this over. “Well,” he tells me, “it hardly seems fair that you should have to worry about that your whole life. Does it?” Maybe Michael has foreseen the same future for Sloane and myself that I just did, lying in the dark in that room, hating myself. “I guess the question you ought to ask yourself, boss, is…do you think she’s worth facing that particular problem? Is she forever? Because you can only keep one of those elements in your life forever—the girl, or the monster that plagues your dreams. The choice is yours.”

  The candor of his response makes me a little edgy—we don’t talk about this sort of stuff—but I’m at a crossroads here. And what he’s saying actually makes sense. It’s all well and good being a man about things and showing the world a hard exterior, but sometimes being a man means admitting you need a little help. And…and I think I’ve reached that point. Even thinking that makes me uneasy, but the girl…Sloane is worth it. She has to be. “Michael, I need a ride.”

  He doesn’t question this. He doesn’t say a word. He steps out of his apartment and closes the door behind him, straightening his tie. I already know the answer to the question, but since we’re having our own version of a DNM, I have to say I’m interested in what Michael thinks to the question he posed me a moment ago. “Just for argument’s sake…” Michael hits the call button for the elevator. We wait in silence a moment, and then I man up and ask the rest of the question. “Do you think she’s forever?”

  Michael stares straight ahead, waiting for the doors to the elevator to open. “Oh, I knew you were her forever as soon as I saw the way she looked at you, Zee.” He slides his hands into his pockets, clears his throat. And then he turns and looks me straight in the eye and says, “I’m just really glad you’ve figured out she’s yours, man. Because you deserve that. And so does she.”

  ******

  It’s almost midnight by the time Michael drops me off across the city at the entrance to a very familiar park. I didn’t give him directions; he just knew where I wanted to go. Well, not wanted to go, per se. I definitely don’t want to be here. But fuck…the woman is the only option I have
open to me at this time of night without an appointment.

  “Make sure she’s safe, man?” I ask, as I climb out of the generic hatchback Michael’s procured from “the getting place”, as he calls it. He knows which she I’m referring to perfectly well.

  “’Course. I’ll see you later.”

  “Right.” I slam the door closed and slap my palm on top of the car, and Michael burns off down the street. That leaves me standing in front of a building I quite honestly never thought I’d set foot inside of again. Pippa Newan’s apartment building is the kind with a night guard and concierge—a smart move if you’re a shrink that treats aggressive criminals all day long. However, if you’re buzzed into the building and say you’re visiting a friend, there’s not a great deal anyone can do to keep you out. I pull the Girl Scout trick; I press the first button and drag my finger down the thirty or so call buttons that are lit up on the intercom panel. It only takes a moment for the door to buzz open.

  The guard and the concierge don’t even question me as I head straight for the elevator. I’ve often found if you exude confidence and look like you know where you’re going, you don’t get hassled. I guess in this particular case, it also helps that I look like I could bench their combined body weight. My insides are humming as I ride the elevator up to Newan’s floor. I don’t know if it’s excitement or dread cycling through me, but whatever it is, I feel like I’m gonna throw up. Fucking ridiculous.

  When I reach Newan’s door, I make myself pause. Is this a great idea? The last time Sloane came here, the bitch turned her over to the DEA. Admittedly, she didn’t believe anything bad was going to happen to her friend; she did it because she wanted Sloane to hand me over. There’s little stopping her from making that phone call again. So no, I suppose it’s a seriously terrible fucking idea, but I have to risk it. Sloane is worth it. It feels like there’s a lot riding on this. I ball up my fist and thump it hard against the solid wood door.

  I wait.

  Nothing.

  Maybe she isn’t home. I’m reaching into my pocket for my lock-picking tools—nothing says surprise! like a convicted felon waiting for you in the dark—when there’s a soft scraping on the other side of the door. There’s a spyhole in the door, but I don’t cover it up. I step back so the good doctor can get a good look at who’s on her doorstep.

  “What the hell do you want?” Newan snaps through the door.

  I shrug my shoulders. “Your help.” That’s putting it as plainly as I possibly can. “You offered your services not so long ago. I was hoping that offer still stood.”

  There’s a long pause while Newan takes this in. She laughs. “You kidnapped me and handcuffed me to a toilet.”

  “You betrayed your friend. You earned that.”

  More silence. “What makes you think I’d risk letting you inside this apartment? Alone? How do I know you’re not here to kill me?”

  “If I were here to kill you, I wouldn’t have fucking knocked. If you don’t want to let me inside your apartment, Dr. Newan, then we can easily talk through the door. I’m fine with that.”

  A distinct stillness develops. The kind that makes me think Newan’s slipped away from the door—maybe to grab her phone? Perhaps Lowell will be here sooner than I’d hoped. “What do you think, Newan?” I ask.

  I’m surprised when she answers right away, and louder than before. She hasn’t gone anywhere. “Tell me why. Tell me why you want to do this now.”

  “Because I don’t want to hurt her. Because I want to make her happy.” These are two of the truest statements that have ever passed my lips. I’ve never meant anything more. There’s a pause, and then the gentle clicking of a lock being turned. The door opens an inch, revealing a suspicious-looking Pippa Newan. She’s in her PJs, her hair in a messy knot on top of her head. For all the time she spends making herself look so polished and immaculate, she’s far more attractive like this. I can actually see why a guy might check her out. Maybe.

  “Stay right there,” she tells me.

  I take a step back away from the door, leaning back against the opposite wall. I show her my hands—no weapons. She opens the door a little wider and leans against the framework. “You’re never going to be able to make this work, Zeth,” she informs me.

  “And why’s that?”

  “Because you’re a control freak, and participating in therapy means you have to hand over control to another person. Or at least concede that someone else might be better equipped to deal with a situation than you are.”

  I haven’t thought of it like that before, but I suppose she’s right. Maybe that’s why I was so fucking offended when she tried to bribe me into her session room the first time I came back into Sloane’s life. “I can admit you’re qualified to help me. Isn’t that enough?”

  She narrows her eyes at me. Folds her arms across her chest. “Maybe. Wait here.” She backs away, not turning her focus from me until she’s disappeared into the shadows of her unlit apartment. I do as she says and don’t move a muscle. When she returns, I can’t keep the smile from my face. She’s got a Taser. She holds it up so I can see it clearly. “If we’re going to do this, I’m going to have this on me at all times. You understand that I will shoot you and call the cops without a second thought, right?”

  “Yes. I understand.”

  “All right, then. You can come inside.”

  To be honest, I’m a little surprised she’s agreeing to this. If I were in her position, I probably wouldn’t have even opened the door. She melts into the shadows again, and I follow her into her apartment, my movements very fucking slow, and very fucking considered. I’ve never been tagged with a Taser before, but I can’t imagine it’s any fun. Newan hits a light somewhere inside the apartment, and her cold, sterile little world comes to life under a series of halogen spotlights. She jerks her head toward a massive couch, which has been parked right in front of a vast wall of glass. No sign of a TV. It’s as though the sweeping view of the city in the distance, visible through the floor-to-ceiling windows, has negated the requirement for such a thing. I stalk through the apartment, my mouth aching from the effort of keeping myself from smirking as Newan trains the Taser squarely on my chest. I shrug out of my jacket, mainly so she can see I’m just wearing a T-shirt and I’m not packing anything under the leather, and then I slump down onto the couch.

  Newan sidles past me and perches on the edge of an arty, thoroughly uncomfortable-looking armchair. If the chair were a person, it would be a supermodel—far too skinny and far too pretentious. “So what do you want to talk about?” Newan asks.

  “Aren’t you supposed to tell me?”

  She rolls her eyes. I bet this woman was such a spoiled brat in high school. “Zeth, it’s midnight. This is hardly your typical session, okay? Let’s cut to the chase.”

  “All right.” I fix my eyes on her, wondering how she’s going to take this. I haven’t told anyone about the darkness that plagues me. Not a single soul on the face of the planet. I’ve imagined the reaction of others enough times, though. Disgust. Horror. Pity. Pity is the worst. “I have nightmares,” I tell her. “And I’m often violent when I wake from them.”

  “And what happens in these nightmares?” she asks. The change in her is subtle enough, but I see it a mile away—she suddenly becomes a doctor, albeit a highly suspicious, cautious doctor, instead of a woman holding a grudge. The way she asks about my nightmares is so perfunctory, so clipped and clinical, that it’s almost easy to tell her. Almost.

  “I’m asleep in my bed,” I tell her. “I’m young. I don’t know how old.”

  “Before or after your parents were killed?” Newan cuts in. No softly, softly approach with that one. She just comes out with it.

  “After,” I say.

  “Do you know where you are?”

  “Yes.”

  She gives me a look.

  “I’m in my bedroom. I’m in my bed at Charlie’s place.”

  “Right. And what happens while you’re in bed
at Charlie’s place?”

  “I wake up, and there’s a pillow over my face. I can’t breathe.”

  Newan nods, passing the Taser from one hand to the other. Shouldn’t she be writing this shit down or something? “And what do you do?” she asks.

  “I freak the fuck out. I kick and scramble and fight myself free. I fall out of the bed, and I hug the wall. I see…I see him, then.”

  “Him?”

  “He says he’s me, a shadow of me, but I know he can’t be. This man is fully grown and smells like bourbon, and I’m small. I’m really small.”

  “So you talk to him?”

  “He talks to me.”

  “Does he say anything else?”

  “He tells me he’s going to kill me.”

  “And how do you react to that?”

  I shoot her an unimpressed look. “Badly.”

  “I’m just trying to get a sense of who this version of you is, Zeth. Sometimes our subconscious embodies our secret fears, making us weak in our dreams, stripping us of our power so we feel incapable of protecting or defending ourselves. This often relates to a sense of insecurity we may not even be aware we’re experiencing in our day-to-day lives. And given the life you lead, I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s what’s happening with you.”

  “That’s not what’s happening with me,” I tell her.

  “Oh no? Because you’re invincible, I take it? Because you’re the big, bad Zeth Mayfair and you don’t worry about a fucking thing?”

  I laugh at that. She’s doing a relatively good job of hiding it, but I feel like pointing it out—Hey, Doc. Your contempt’s showing. “No. I’m not invincible. And I do worry about things. More and more every fucking day, it seems. I say that’s not what’s happening with me, because it really isn’t. My subconscious doesn’t fuck with what happens in my head when I sleep. It’s more like a broken video recorder. It plays back the same thing on repeat over and over. It replays what actually happened.”

  That takes her a second to process. “So this is real? Was real?”