Master of Freedom: A Mountain Masters Novella Page 13

  To her surprise, Sawyer had been understanding and even willing to discuss his preference in counselors. They’d talked about each of the staff, and she was darned well going to see he got his first choice.

  More worrying, he’d said he’d terminate therapy if assigned to Slidell. His declaration had crystalized Gin’s resolve. Tomorrow, she’d document her concerns about what her inmates had said about Slidell. She’d add what she’d observed. Then she and the administrator would have a chat.

  Silence at the table brought her thoughts back, and she realized they were all looking at her.

  “Gin,” the administrator said, obviously repeating himself. “Do you have anything of concern?”

  “Yes.” She stood. “I’m dating the brother of one my cases, which means I need to turn the inmate over to someone else. His name is Sawyer Ware, and—”

  “I saw him before.” Slidell folded his hands over his paunch. “I’ll take him back.”

  “That won’t work,” she said in a flat voice.

  When Penelope lifted her hand, Gin ignored her. The woman would mess with his head. Thank goodness, the mental health department had only a couple of bad apples. The rest were highly competent and professional.

  Gin turned to Jacob Wheeler. Around fifty with dark graying hair, ex-military, lean and fit, possessing a sardonic sense of humor. He was first choice. Unfortunately, he was also always overloaded.

  “Jacob, Sawyer came back from Afghanistan with PTSD. He didn’t get the treatment he needed—and he made a mess of his life. He’s turning it around, but I don’t want to let his progress stall. I do believe you’d be the best one to help him.”

  Slidell’s face turned a dark red. “See here, you can’t—”

  Channeling Atticus’s more intimidating mannerisms, Gin firmed her jaw and flattened her hands on the table surface, leaning into the opposition. “Yes. I can.”

  “Did you talk with Ware, Gin?” Jacob rubbed his lips, concealing a smile and talking right past Slidell, as if he weren’t there.

  “I did. He agreed to the change in counselors. And to you, if you’d have him.”

  “You covered your bases.” Jacob tapped the screen of his tablet, checked the display, and looked up. His intent stare made her want to cringe. “Is this important enough to fuck up my entire schedule?”

  “Yes.” She lifted her chin. “Yes, it is. He’s a good man.”

  Jacob’s deep, focused gaze remained on her for a long moment before an approving smile softened his carved features. “Well fought, counselor. I’ll free up time for him.”

  Gin resumed her seat, happiness filling her. Success. Sawyer would have someone who would truly understand him. Who’d speak his language.

  And she could date Atticus with a guilt-free conscience.

  * * * *

  Midweek, Atticus swung by the prison.

  From a distance, he could see his brother in the concrete yard with the basketball court. He watched for a minute, his heart lightened. Sawyer hadn’t done anything active in the year he’d been imprisoned…not until the southern counselor had taken him in her soft little hand.

  He felt damned guilty though, as though he’d stolen Gin from his brother. He wished she could remain as his therapist, but she’d assured him that the new social worker was an even better fit. God, he hoped so.

  Sawyer sidestepped his opponent, made a basket—and laughed.

  A bit later, after some extra rigmarole and calling in a favor, Atticus entered a reception room.

  Sawyer was leaning against a wall, arms crossed over his chest. “Not visiting day, bro.”

  Fuck, how long had it been since Sawyer’d looked…whole? Not since his second tour of duty overseas.

  Atticus held his hand out and used the grip to pull his brother close enough to bump shoulders. He cleared his throat, ordered his thoughts to business. “I wanted a word.”

  “Lookin’ serious.” Sawyer commented, positioning himself where he could see the door.

  “We’ve got some increased crime in town—robberies, muggings. Any connection to the prison you know of?”

  “Huh.” Sawyer considered. “Always possible, but if so, my crew isn’t in on the information.” Prison populations tended to divide along color and gang lines, so independent prisoners could get badly hurt. And, although a SEAL could hold his own, it was good he’d found a few buddies.

  “I wish you weren’t in here.” And he had another year to go. Each visit turned Atticus’s muscles rigid as his instincts demanded he protect his little brother from danger. And he couldn’t.

  Sawyer’s face darkened. “I screwed up.” His pain-filled gaze met Atticus’s. “Maybe my head wasn’t screwed on good after coming back, but…I still don’t feel like I deserve a free life.”

  “Maybe you could—”

  “Bro, love you, man, but you’re not raising me anymore.”

  “What?”

  When Sawyer straightened, Atticus was surprised to see his little brother was an inch taller. Was packing on the muscle. Was an adult.

  Jesus.

  Sawyer’s lips curved. “The light dawns.”

  “This must be how a parent feels,” Atticus said ruefully. When their stepfather had gone to prison, Atticus had become the man of the house. And since their ill and overworked mother couldn’t, he’d essentially raised Sawyer and Hector.

  But Sawyer wasn’t a child any longer. Not even close. “You were gone so long I forgot you grew up. Fuck, are you thirty-three?”

  “Guess that makes you an old man, doesn’t it?” Sawyer grinned, and then turned a level stare on Atticus. “Cut the apron strings, Att. It’s my life, and I got this.”

  Hell. A Dom’s temptation was to control everything, ensuring anyone more vulnerable or weaker was cared for. Letting go didn’t come naturally. But there were times a Dom—or big brother—needed to step back.

  Pride swept over him. His brother had hit rock bottom and was fighting his way back up with all the determination and courage he’d shown throughout his decorated military career.

  “I got this.” “Damn straight you got this, bro.”

  Saldana appeared in the door. His marker had run out.

  Atticus lifted his hand in acknowledgment.

  “I’ll keep an ear out for trouble here,” Sawyer said. “And hey, congrats on the pretty new lady in your life.”

  Atticus jerked his chin up in acknowledgment, bit back a “Be careful,” and headed for the door.

  On the way out, he hesitated and kept going. No time to swing by and see how Gin was doing. And he was on call tonight, so he wouldn’t be able to take her out.

  He snorted. She wouldn’t appreciate a visit anyway. Although the “benefits” had been rewarding for both of them on Friday, she was striving to hold him at arm’s length. He’d backed off on the weekend to give her the illusion of control but had talked her into a meal tomorrow by playing the “I’m starving” card. The woman lived to feed people.

  He liked that. Liked her need to make people happy. Liked everything about her. Maybe she wanted to keep a distance, but he damn well didn’t. More and more, he was thinking he’d found the woman he wanted in his ropes, in his arms. In his life.

  Chapter Twelve

  “So, how is it going with Atticus?” Kallie asked through the phone’s speaker.

  In her kitchen, Gin used a fork to pattern the tops of the unbaked peanut butter cookies and thanked the stars her friend couldn’t see her blush. “Atticus?” she asked casually, trying for a who is Atticus tone.

  “Gin,” Kallie said in reproach. “You do know you live in a small town now, right? And Summer, Becca, and I are all friends? And that Summer must have told us about how very, very concerned Atticus was with your getting hurt. And, perhaps, how he laid a good one on you in the ClaimJumper parking lot…before you got into his truck.”

  Oh, spit. “I forget you Yankees gossip as much as Southerners.”

  “After a long winter of being s
nowed in? We’re far, far worse. Now, it’s Wednesday, so spill. Is this getting serious?”

  “No.” Gin looked at the poor cookie she’d flattened with a fork and winced. Sorry, cookie. She scooped it off the pan and turned. “Psst.”

  Across the room, Trigger lifted his head. He caught the tossed treat with a snap of big jaws, and his tail swept the linoleum floor in appreciation.

  “No, Snoopy-pants,” Gin said to the speakerphone. “We’re just having fun. Enjoying the moment. Nothing serious.”

  “Well, damn.” A pause. “You know, all the submissives in the area think he’s wonderful. Is he…um…”

  Gin grinned. Kallie might try to present herself as one of the boys, but bless her heart, she was as curious as any girl. And the way she hoped Atticus and Gin were serious made Gin feel all warm and fuzzy.

  But how to explain to her girlfriends the friendly, booty-sex clause? “He’s definitely um. And more.”

  “Oh wow. I need to find a fan,” Kallie muttered.

  Gin heard a car door slam. “Got to go. I have company.”

  “Really? Your cowboy and his big ol’ strumpet thumper showing up?”

  Gin was still laughing when she opened the door for Atticus.

  His eyes heated when he saw her. “You’re all flushed, sweetheart.” He moved in, inexorable as the tide, flattening her against the wall with his solid body.

  When he kissed her, slow and deep, everything inside her melted like buttery cookies in a hot oven.

  “You smell like sugar and vanilla,” he muttered, nibbling her jaw and down her neck.

  When he pressed his rapidly thickening…strumpet thumper…against her, she giggled.

  He straightened, set his forearm on the wall above her head, and studied her face. The side of his mouth tilted up. “That’s not a reaction I normally get,” he said mildly.

  She laughed harder, and even so, had to note that nothing shook his self-confidence. “Kallie called this piece of anatomy”—she tilted her pelvis against his rock-solid shaft—“a strumpet thumper.”

  “Ah.” He grinned. “Lucky for me that I have a strumpet right here at hand.” With merciless hands, he undid her pants and shoved her jeans to the floor.

  He stepped back and opened his jeans. “And I have the equipment to deal with her too.”

  “My stars,” she said faintly. He had a…thumper…to marvel at. Long and beautifully formed, perfectly straight. She traced a finger over the veins and velvety skin enclosing the iron shaft beneath.

  She almost whined when he covered all that beauty with a condom.

  “C’mere, strumpet.” He lifted her in the air.

  As her legs went around his waist, he placed her against the wall, impaled her on his cock, and thumped her so thoroughly, she’d walk bow-legged for a week.

  Atticus had enjoyed his little strumpet, especially the way she broke into giggles every time her hips thudded on the wall. Damn, she was fun.

  After a pause for a beer and fresh-baked cookies, he’d pulled her outside for a walk.

  As they strolled, Trigger danced around them. Atticus picked up a stick and threw it. A typical Labrador, the dog loved to fetch.

  In the coolness of the woods at the end of Gin’s street, they chatted about work and the town, Sawyer and their friends. Quiet time, Atticus thought, much like his parents would enjoy after his father finished the ranch work.

  Gin was fun to be with. She was knowledgeable about current events and could hold her own in political and sports discussions. She wasn’t a pig-headed fanatic—except about the Saints football team—and was willing to concede a point.

  When she scored on him, her gloating was cute.

  “My turn to throw,” she said, holding her hand out for the stick.

  He handed it over without a word.

  She let loose. The stick sailed over several stunted trees and landed in the tall-growing grass. Out of sight.

  “You have quite an arm,” Atticus said.

  “I was the catcher on my softball team.”

  Her lopsided grin appeared, dimple in the corner—and told him everything. She’d loved playing. “Any other school sports?”

  “Soccer now and then. Basketball until everyone got taller than me.”

  All team sports.

  He regarded her until she lifted her eyebrows and said, “What?”

  She was a bookworm though. “Did you belong to book clubs too?”

  “Well, sure.”

  She liked people. In fact, she’d barely unpacked her boxes, and she’d surrounded herself with girlfriends.

  He slowed, checking the brush.

  “What are you looking for?” She drew closer. “Are there wild animals or something? Snakes?”

  “No, baby.” He couldn’t quite smother his laugh. “I need a stick to replace the one you threw away.”

  “Oh, Trigger will find it. He always does.”

  Sure enough, Trigger was in the meadow, nose up, casting for the scent. A second later, he bounded across the field and pounced on the stick like he’d trapped a juicy rabbit.

  Grinning, Atticus waited while the dog tore back to Gin and dropped the stick at her feet.

  “Such a good boy. You’re amazing,” she exclaimed. And threw the stick again.

  “He’s got a better nose than some of the SAR dogs,” Atticus said.

  “He does?” Her gaze was on the Lab. “Jake’s talked about Search and Rescue. But it sounds as if training the dogs takes a lot of time. And I’m not sure I’m cut out for running around the mountains.” Her wry smile was adorable. “I’m very good on the flat, but not so hot on cliffs. Not like you. I saw the way you went up the climbing wall at the festival.”

  He felt his face tighten.

  “What did I say?”

  Hell. Looking away, he could feel her gaze on his face. The thought of explaining… “It’s nothing.”

  “I think it is,” she said lightly. “And I’d like to hear it if you can talk.” She’d pulled on her damned counselor’s hat.

  “Not a chance.” Who the hell… He groaned and rubbed his palm on his beard. Fuck, she was a counselor and a fine one. The hurt look in her eyes could rip his heart apart. “I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

  No, that wasn’t enough.

  He took her fingers. “Knee-jerk reaction. I don’t like thinking about… Fuck. I guess I should explain.” He slung an arm around her waist, pulling her closer, mostly so she couldn’t see his face.

  Her body was soft and warm and comforting flattened against his, reminding him that he was grateful to be alive. She didn’t speak.

  “A buddy and I got into free solo climbing.”

  Her expression said she wasn’t following.

  “Traditional climbing uses belay ropes and pitons and other people.” He ran his finger down her cheek. “Traditional is what got me interested in bondage and suspension.”

  She rubbed her face against his hand in a sweetly submissive motion. “Does free and solo mean you aren’t using some equipment?”

  “No gear except chalk and shoes. No help.”

  “That’s…scary.” She bit her lip. “I’ve seen people climb boulders in the park with mattresses underneath.”

  “Mmmhmm. Similar. Bouldering usually is limited to twenty feet or under. With free solo, you climb as high as you want.” He nodded toward Yosemite, where the tip of El Capitan could barely be seen.

  “Mercy.” Her eyes were wide. “A fall would kill you.”

  “Uh-huh.” His mouth tightened. “Bryan and I were climbing different routes on a granite formation about a thousand feet high. We were close enough to see each other. We got hit with an unpredicted afternoon shower; it turned the rock wet.” No quick way down or up since they were almost to the top. So fucking far up. He forced the words through a dry throat. “His hand slipped.”

  Bryan had clawed at the granite, unbalanced, his foot sliding. And he fell…

  Shouting, completely helpless to assist, A
tticus had slipped and barely recovered, but…couldn’t do shit. The gut-wrenching thud of Bryan’s landing had echoed off the surrounding rocks, like the fading beat of a heart.

  “Oh, Atticus.” Arms wrapped around him as Gin hugged him tightly, her cheek pressed to his chest.

  After a second, he put his arms around her.

  “He died?” she whispered.

  “Yeah.” Atticus had made it down. Called for help. Sat vigil by his friend’s shattered, empty body.

  “I’m so sorry.” She squeezed him harder.

  Finish it. “I lost a friend. And haven’t climbed above a few feet since. I was on the wall at the festival trying to force myself higher.” He shook his head. “Couldn’t.”

  “I see.” Gin tipped back and stroked his beard. And then she gave a quiet huff of amusement. “Honey, you’ve come to the right place. I’ve helped quite a few clients with this kind of problem. I’ll give you some things to read and then we’ll go through the exercises together.”

  He stared down at the top of her head. Sympathy was in her tone, but…also a matter-of-fact belief that he’d get past his fears.

  And that she’d help. No wonder she’d performed miracles with Sawyer.

  * * * *

  Sunday morning, she carried her cup of tea and a blanket out to her back porch and settled into the secondhand patio chair. With a canine sigh of content, Trigger sprawled out on top of her feet.

  Contentedly, she draped the blanket over her lap and sipped her tea.

  The florescent orange California poppies were a splash of color against the weathered gray wooden fence. A lilac bush in full flower brought her the enticing fragrance.

  The lawn…well, the lawn definitely needed mowing. Who knew grass could grow so fast?

  On the porch, white verbena spilled out over the dark green planters she’d bought last week.