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Spinning on my heel, I swallowed tightly and retraced my steps. No way in hell was I going to stroll around the garden chocked full of people who knew me. Darting a wild glance around the living room, I was just about to put the tray on the coffee table and run when a young man—carrying an empty platter—hurried into the room.
“Here,” I said, extending the tray of scallops. “I’ll refill yours and meet you outside.”
“Thanks,” he murmured before hurrying away.
Determined not to let the bossy bastard derail my plans, I strode into the kitchen and slid the empty platter on the counter. Then I darted across the room and through the door leading to the garage. As the knob snicked behind me, I sprinted to my silver Mercedes-Benz and climbed in behind the wheel. My purse, with several thousand in cashier’s checks, was still on the passenger’s seat. It was enough to tide me over until I got settled. The rest of my money—from the distribution of my trust fund when I turned twenty-five—was safely sitting in the secret account I’d opened three weeks ago. I’d stayed up until two a.m., packing my suitcases before clandestinely loading them into my car. Though confident my luggage was safely stowed in the trunk, I flipped the latch below the armrest and hopped out of the car…just to be sure. Relieved to find all four bags exactly where I’d left them, I closed the lid and quickly climbed back inside the vehicle. Sucking in a deep breath, I started the engine, then pressed the garage door opener.
While the wide door slowly lifted, my heart drummed against my ribs. And as sunlight spilled into the darkened garage, it took all the willpower I possessed not to push the accelerator to the floor and peel out of there in a cloud of smoke and squealing tires.
ChapterOne
Grant
Wednesday, July 12
“What the fuck is this son of a bitch made of…cement?” I grumbled as I eased the heavy St. Andrew’s cross off my back, and propped it against the frame of the wooden porch.
Tugging the rag from my back pocket, I wiped the sweat from my face. It was hotter than a cast-iron skillet in hell, and twice as muggy, but that was normal for Texas in July.
Even though I was sweating my balls off, I didn’t mind hauling the remaining dungeon equipment from the abandoned BDSM club in Denton to Club Genesis in Dallas. I’d happily volunteered when Dalton Barnes—the new club manager of Genesis—asked for help. Not only was the man fair, honest, and an exemplary Dominant, he’d grown to be a trusted friend in a short amount of time.
Eyeing the heavy cross, I shook my head. “Since you’re not gonna load yourself in the back of my truck…come on, you heavy bastard.”
As I reached for the glossy wooden beast, my cell phone rang. Abandoning my task, I dragged the device from my jeans and checked the caller ID.
“Hey, Dalton.”
“Hey, Grant.”
“What’s up?”
“Just wanted to let you know there’s a hell of a storm heading your way. Keep an eye on it and take cover if needed.”
“Thanks, man. I appreciate the heads up,” I replied, biting back a chuckle.
It wasn’t his fault, but Dalton knew nothing about pop-up summer storms in Texas. He and his fiancé/slave Blair had moved from Chicago a few months ago to manage Club Genesis for the new owner, Mika LaBrache. The couple was looking forward to a winter without blinding blizzards and lake effect snows.
“I’ll be fine,” I assured as fat drops of rain began falling from the sky. “Heat storms are a normal part of summer around here.”
“This isn’t a normal storm, man,” he continued as the wind suddenly kicked up and the temperature instantly dropped.
Like a kick to the balls, fear slammed through me. Spinning on the heel of my boot, I glanced over my shoulder. A dark, ominous, mile-wide cyclone swirled across the open fields, spewing dust, tractors, cattle, and other debris from its core as it headed straight toward me.
“It’s a tor—”
“Tornado!” I yelled. “And the motherfucker is heading this way.”
When Dalton didn’t say a word, I yanked the phone from my ear and checked the signal.
“No bars, fuck!” I barked.
As the beastly roar of the twister grew louder, I turned to take cover in the storage room—a repurposed meat locker—deep inside the club. But before I could lift my boot off the ground, a car horn sliced through the thundering howl of the tornado. Jerking my head toward the sound, I watched a black Audi A5 Sportback speed into the parking lot, and skid to a stop.
Behind the wheel, a woman—whose eyes were wide—darted her panicked glance between me and the encroaching swirl of death.
“Come on. Come on,” I yelled, waving my hand for her to join me.
Instead of doing as I’d directed, she leaned over the passenger’s seat.
