Beneath the Scars Read online

  The display read Uzuri. He swiped ANSWER. “Hey.”

  “Oh, good. I called earlier, and you didn’t answer. Where are you?” Uzuri continued without pausing for air. “Are you still at Jake and Rainie’s house? Or—”

  Holt grinned. She really was his favorite female friend. “I’m in your place, although I should probably call it my duplex now. Thank you, and thank your Doms for moving my stuff from my apartment. I know you couldn’t have had much spare time before your vacation.” Alastair and Max had taken her to their family’s ranch up in Colorado.

  “Pffft, there wasn’t much to do. Your moving company handled almost everything.”

  “And you unpacked it all. I noticed.” Before all this shit happened, he’d been living in Uzuri’s duplex while his apartment complex was being remodeled. After the attack, Uzuri had moved in permanently with her men, and Holt assumed her lease.

  She’d called him crazy, since this was where her stalker had almost knifed him to death. He rubbed the scar on his cheek carefully. Maybe he was insane, but damned if he’d let his choices be limited by memories of that asshole.

  He added, “I also appreciate that you took care of the cleanup.” There’d been broken glass and his blood all over the place.

  Her voice went thin. “Max’s fellow cops knew of companies that handle…stuff.”

  “Stuff? You’re such a girl. The company did a good job.”

  “I’m glad. When did you get back? I can’t believe Rainie let you leave already.”

  His best friend’s woman had thrown a fit, actually, predicting he’d die before he got through two stoplights. “This morning. Rainie fed me before I left.” Then he’d taken a fucking long nap once he got here.

  “Do you have food? We get back tomorrow, so I can bring some over Sunday, but if you’re out, I can call some of the—”

  “Zuri, I’m fine. Relax and enjoy your last day of Thanksgiving vacation. How’s Colorado?” Holt sat down carefully, gritting his teeth over the sharp burn. Next time he got knifed, he’d request either the back or the gut. Not both. No matter how he moved, something felt as if it was ripping.

  “Oh, Holt, the Drago ranch is huge. They have horses and are teaching me to ride. Both their dads are amazing, and everybody’s so nice and not even freaked out about them both being with me. Their cousins told me Max and Alastair shared everything all their lives, so why would they ever stop?”

  “I’m glad.” And he was. Little Zuri deserved everything good, and the Drago cousins would make sure she had it. Good Doms; good men. Gave a man hope for his gender.

  Before he’d been sliced and diced, he thought he’d found himself a sweetie like Uzuri.

  Life was full of disappointments.

  He shook that thought off and smiled as he listened to her descriptions of ranch life. So cute and so in love. “Do me a favor and don’t pull any of your jokes while you’re there, okay? You’re supposed to be good.”

  “I am. Besides, Max said if I was bad, I’d be liable to find a rattler in my bed.” She huffed. “They wouldn’t, Holt, I’m sure they wouldn’t…would they?”

  He bit the inside of his cheek. “Oh, well, I’m sure they wouldn’t.” He made his tone singularly non-convincing. And didn’t bother to mention that snakes were never aboveground in cold weather.

  Her pitiful whine made him bust out laughing.

  After more chatting, promising to behave himself, and refusing her offer of sending a bunch of submissives to care for him, he ended the call and leaned back.

  He needed another nap.

  His endurance was definitely shot. But, fuck, he was tired of sitting around, feeling puny and sorry for himself. There’d be no immediate cure, either. The chief at the fire station told him not to even try to show up for another couple of weeks. Human Resources for his second job as a pediatric ICU nurse said the same thing.

  With the surgeon’s eight pound lifting restrictions, he hadn’t even been able to help his neighbor carry in her groceries. Hell, she’d probably have screamed and run if he’d offered.

  He ran his finger down the long scar from beside his eye to his jaw. Here was irony. When younger, his pretty boy face had seriously affected his life. He’d barely escaped being raped more than once. Had almost gotten sold as a prostitute. Later, he’d earned a living as a model.

  Few people saw past his surface to the man beneath, and he’d hated his good looks. Now he looked like someone fresh out of a war zone and hated that, too. That’s me, shallower than a California creek during the drought.

  In the hospital, his now ex-girlfriend, Nadia had stared at his ripped-up face, turned green, and hadn’t even approached his bed. Her unexpected revulsion had been a kick in the teeth. He’d thought she was the one. That they had something special.

  He leaned his head back against the chair. No, dumbass, it hadn’t been special, or she would have stuck with you. She would’ve had tears in her eyes and rushed over to the bed. Instead, she’d told him she was late meeting her friend for happy hour.

  Well, he’d learned a lesson about surface appearances, hadn’t he? With his schedule at the fire station and the hospital, their time together had been limited—and lightweight. He’d always seen her at her best, never in a challenging situation.

  He was a Dom; she was vanilla, so he’d only indulged in mildly kinky sex with her. He’d never tested her boundaries or pushed for more; otherwise, he might have discovered she was showing him only her good side.

  With a grunt of exasperation, he pushed himself to his feet. Yeah, he’d been stupid. When it came down to it, he wanted a D/s relationship. While D/s in sex was a must, he also enjoyed the dynamic as a quiet, underlying thread in daily life. He didn’t need a slave, but he’d prefer more than bedroom kink.

  Guess Nadia had done him a favor, when it came down to it. Yeah, his heart had gotten scorched, but he’d recover. Eventually.

  Now, he should move his ass and find something to eat. The surgeon’s nurse had lectured him on the need for a balanced diet. Appetite or not, he didn’t want a delay in returning to work. Sitting around was boring as hell, and his house was empty and silent. Times like this were a wretched reminder that he had no family left in the world.

  Then again, he had great friends.

  In the kitchen, he opened the fridge and saw nearly empty shelves. Zuri and her Doms must have tossed the perishables. Good thing or he’d have been fleeing from green mold and toxic waste.

  He had nothing to eat. Rainie had wanted to send food with him, but he’d accepted enough generosity.

  As he started to close the door, he noticed a GET WELL card propped against the mustard. Funny place to leave a card.

  He opened the card and half-smiled at the scrawling sentiments covering the inside. “Welcome home, Holt!” “We miss you!” “Get well soon!” “The Shadowlands isn’t the same without you!” “Call if you need anything!” All from his friends—the Shadowlands Masters and their submissives, the Shadowkittens.

  The bottom of the card read: “Food is in the freezer. Eat!”

  What food? He opened the freezer door.

  Ziploc bags and plastic containers filled the small freezer section. He pulled one out. “Mexican casserole. Love you, Andrea.” Another. “Stuffed pork chops. Love you, Sally.” Every single one of the ‘kittens had left at least one dinner.

  Warmed by their kindness, he smiled. Nah, he didn’t need or want a new woman in his life. His friends had him covered.

  Chapter Two

  Sipping his beer slowly, Holt stretched his legs out and listened to the latest firehouse gossip. Not a bad way to spend a lazy, post-Thanksgiving Sunday after the NFL game.

  Sprawled in the other chairs, his three oversized firefighter friends made his backyard patio look even smaller than it actually was. Not that he was complaining. After years of apartments, he now had an actual backyard of his own—his half of the duplex’s yard.

  Warren, built like a linebacker and commonly
called Tank, gave Holt an assessing look. “You lost some weight, but you’re looking better. When are you coming back?”

  “Couple weeks. The doc wants me on light duty at first, though.”

  Liam, the station’s token Aussie, nicknamed Oz, made a disgusted sound. “Paperwork? You’ll go stark raving mad, mate.”

  “Yeah, I know. But it beats watching the grass grow.”

  As one, they turned and looked at the backyard.

  To the left, a four-foot brown picket fence separated his yard from the unfriendly redhead’s house. To the right, a shorter fence divided the two halves of the duplex’s backyard, probably to keep dogs out of Stella Avery’s half of the yard.

  He couldn’t blame her. Her side was a lush wonderland filled with exotic tropical flowers. Holt’s side had three camellia bushes against the back fence and grass that needed mowing.

  “At least grass is quiet. Beats the constant racket at your singles complex.” Clancy waved his hand in the air. “I like this area.”

  Just north of Tampa, the residential neighborhood of older one-story homes and duplexes was comfortably middle class. It was a hard-working, friendly mix of families with children, a few singles like Holt, and seniors.

  “I do, too,” Holt said, “especially since the apartment next to mine had a college girl who liked boy bands.”

  “Jesus, you got out just in time,” Tank said.

  Oz motioned to a corner of the patio. “You’ve got room there for a nice grill. Throw a few steaks on the barbie, and you’ll get company.” The Aussie was one pure carnivore. “That’ll keep the sound of grass growing drowned out.”

  “Good plan.” It was a good plan, actually. Might need a few more chairs, but yeah.

  Long and lanky, Clancy smoothed his thick ginger mustache and pointed at Holt’s untrimmed beard. “You plan to test the department regs on shaving?” Because of the need to have a seal on the respirator facemask, firefighters couldn’t have beards.

  “Nah. I’m just waiting for the cuts to heal.” Holt ran a finger over the slice on his jaw, then the gash on his chin. Razors and sutures—not a good combination. Even now that the stitches were out, the shaver drag on the wounds was painful. “I tell you, the next asshole I take on better use a pistol, not a knife.”

  Tank barked a laugh. “I’ll tell the Cap to mark that in your files.”

  “Got some scars to impress the girls with, though.” Clancy picked up the basketball lying beside his chair and twirled it on his finger.

  “Don’t think that’s working for me.” His ex had run, and his pretty neighbor sure hadn’t looked impressed. Ah, well. “Any interesting fires recently?”

  All three scowled.

  “What?” Holt asked.

  “Someone’s setting fires at the middle school down the street.” Oz motioned to Clancy for the ball. “Started with dumpster fires. Last week, he lit up an equipment shed.”

  “Amateur efforts so far.” Tank finished off his beer. “With the school staff keeping an eye out, maybe we can nip this in the bud.”

  “Hope so. Next time might be serious.” Clancy tossed the basketball to Oz.

  A chill ran up Holt’s spine. The car crash that killed his father had turned into a fiery blaze, and a little girl had died. Two decades later, he still had nightmares. Screaming. Fire and children—no. Just no. “Did the arsonist use an accelerant?”

  “Good old gasoline.” Oz dribbled the ball a few times before setting it aside. “You gotta love firebugs who stick to the classics.”

  “Sure, you do.” If he found some bastard lighting fires near a school, he’d be tempted to administer a classic beating.

  Tank glanced to the west where the sun was setting over the palms. “Guess it’s time to be moving.”

  “Yeah. Georgina ordered me to get my ass home in time for supper.” Clancy grinned. “Although she phrased it more politely.”

  “You’re lucky you married a sweet Southern girl instead of one of our say-it-like-it-is Aussie women.” Oz rose to his feet.

  As Holt walked his buddies out, he spotted Oz’s Harley. It now sported a fine-looking, custom paint job of a red background with black streaks. However, harassing fellow firefighters was a mandatory pastime. “Who rode in on that ladybug on wheels?”

  “Get stuffed, mate.” Oz grinned. “At least mine doesn’t give people nightmares.”

  “Nah. My pretty queen wouldn’t give anyone nightmares.” Holt smiled at his own bike, also painted in dark red and black. It sure didn’t resemble a ladybug—the gas tank displayed the terrifying queen from the movie Alien. “I’m considering painting teeth on the front fender.”

  Clancy barked a laugh. “Some snowbird from the Midwest will see you in the rearview mirror and end up in the ditch.”

  “And that’d mean a call-out for us. Never mind.” Holt sighed. “I miss riding.” In spite of afternoon downpours and the fucking bugs, Florida was almost as fine a place to ride as California. Up Highway 98 to Crystal River? The smell and feel of ocean air couldn’t be beat. And he liked country rides at night like when visiting the Shadowlands BDSM club on the weekends.

  Unfortunately, the surgeon had made his bike off limits for another week.

  “You’ll survive,” Tank noted heartlessly…because he drove a pickup.

  With a sympathetic grin, Oz started his bike, and the distinctive low rumble of a Harley filled the air. Waggling his eyebrows at Holt, he revved it up loudly.

  Asshole, Holt mouthed. His fingers curled with the need to take his own bike out.

  Grinning, Oz peeled out, followed by the other two firefighters’ vehicles.

  Before Holt could move, a car pulled into his driveway.

  Jesus, did I put the welcome mat out or something?

  The car door opened, and Max Drago stepped out. He was one of Uzuri’s Doms—and another member of the Shadowlands. After Holt’s knifing, his fellow Shadowlands Masters had kept as close an eye on him as had his fire crew. Maybe closer.

  Lifting a hand, Holt walked down to greet the cop.

  * * * * *

  A couple minutes ago, the sudden roar of a motorcycle had yanked Josie right out of the writing zone. In her office—a bedroom that faced the street—she’d looked up from her story to see bunch of big, over-muscled brutes in her neighbor’s driveway.

  As one drove his motorcycle away, he slowed to wave at someone.

  Josie leaned forward and saw Carson standing in the front yard, watching the biker and his friends. She hurried to the front door and leaned out. “Carson, come here.”

  Expression sulky, he returned to the house.

  She closed the door. “Didn’t I ask you to stay away from that man?”

  “Geez, Mom. What’s the deal? He’s not some effing—”

  “Carson,” she warned.

  With a sullen look, he stomped inside and to his room. The door slammed.

  Oh…damn. Returning to her office, she couldn’t even remember what she’d been writing, because the full weight of mommy-guilt had landed on her shoulders. How could she explain to Carson why she didn’t want him over there? Especially since she tried to teach him not to judge someone on appearance. I’m sorry, honey, but I don’t like the way Holt looks…even though he’s sexy enough to make a nun drool. But you have to stay away.

  Oh, that reasoning would go over well.

  What kind of a name was Holt, anyway?

  There must be some way to keep Carson away from the man and his friends. Bikers and leather jackets and Harleys. Talk about irresistible appeal. If Carson started going over there, he’d soon be involved with drugs and fighting and women.

  She blew her long bangs out of her eyes. Josie, you’re over-reacting.

  She was. But still… Carson was her baby. A fatherless boy might want a man in his life but a biker was not a good choice. Somehow, she needed to shield Carson from such a bad influence.

  Shaking her head, she sat down at the desk. Back to work. She needed to ans
wer her reader emails and finish writing the latest scene.

  She pulled up an email. The girl loved the series. Couldn’t wait for the next book. And added a final paragraph: “I think Laurent and Tigre should fall in love. Pleeeze?” Josie huffed a laugh. Young girls were so cute.

  However, they lacked insight because what would really happen would go like this: Tigre would get all kissy with Laurent. Then the rich baron’s daughter would latch onto him, and he’d drop Laurent like a dead mouse.

  Or after luring Laurent into falling for him, he’d notice the overly endowed tavern girl, and Laurent would trip over the two rolling around in the stable. Since Laurent was a fire-starter, she’d set the hay on fire, Josie would be out a hero, and her teenaged fans would have fits.

  No. Romance. Her answering email started with “I’m sorry, but…”

  With the reader emails answered, Josie dove back into her world of young heroes and fantastic powers. This was her joy—touching others through the stories she shared, connecting with them in this amazing way. The only thing that came close was listening to the stories other people told, sharing and lightening their pain.

  An hour passed quietly, and a glance at the clock showed it was time for her to eat something. A long night of bartending required adequate fuel, although Sunday night after Thanksgiving should be quiet.

  Someday, maybe her writing would bring in enough money to live on, and she could quit the bartending job. With each new book she put out, she earned more, but wasn’t it funny how the bills rose at the same time and sucked away every drop of spare money? Carson kept growing, needing new shoes, new jeans, new everything, and he ate like a sumo wrestler.

  Speaking of eating…

  In the living room, bag of chips half gone, her boy was watching TV. Shaggy hair, big brown eyes, growing so fast. Such a precious gift.

  He was watching an old Star Trek episode, and wasn’t that awesome? Maybe his generation would take humans to the stars. “You know, I always wanted to be Deanna Troi.” Was that because she got to have a superpower—was an empath?