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You will never know how many times you’ve saved me.
There were a few things I knew about who I was and two words that described me: order and excellence. It was not vanity that led me to confess this but fear. For as long as I’d been in charge of my own life, those two things have kept me motivated, kept me breathing.
I could blame the way I was on the way I had been received into the world. I wasn’t born in a hospital. No, my mother assured me I was born in the crosshairs of gunfire—in “a spray of bullets.” She would remind me every year we didn’t celebrate my birthday. And every day of my life, she encouraged me to believe I would go out the way I came in.
For some reason, I had always believed her.
She was my mother after all. I lived in a constant state of fear the first ten years of my life. Every gunshot I heard I assumed was a warning specifically for me that my time was coming. The fear consumed me, was ingrained in me, and made my already desperate situation a hell that I had to dwell in until my escape.
As soon as the realization hit me that I didn’t have to become a product of my mother’s greasy fucking environment, I turned the tables on my pre-destined fate she cursed me with.
That’s when I discovered order, cause, and effect. You see, I watched them. I’m good at that. I observed and interpreted. I’d always prided myself on knowing the good from the bad, and how to read people.
I’d been wrong only once, and I intended on keeping it that way. I had a past that kept me in shackles until I freed myself with excellence. It was my camouflage, my way of escape.
I became bulletproof.
Those eyes…those fucking dark eyes were the reason for my trip, but if it didn’t pan out this time and I didn’t get his attention, I was giving up.
Look at you, Taylor Ellison, obsessing over a man.
And I should have been ashamed. I’d done everything in my power to get his attention without being too obvious. When my friend Violet had introduced me to The Rabbit Hole—a sex club just outside of Savannah—I’d been excited about the prospect of having my own Rhys, my own version of her beloved husband. He was a strong Dom with a good heart that treated her well. I didn’t want to have exactly what she had. But I did want something of my own.
I’d been working my ass off for so long that I’d almost lost sight of having a life completely. I needed more than an impressive bank account and a set of fast cars. Though I’d reached my goal, I knew I needed something more to be satisfied. Months of worthless visits to The Rabbit Hole had turned my excitement into dread. I had frequented it in hopes of finding a man to suit my sexual taste. Nothing too crazy, but just to be sated would be enough for now. I’d fucked a few too many that led to dead ends.
I’d all but given up, until I saw him.
He was there each time I went, often alone at a table, sipping his drink, sometimes with friends. I’d seen him come and go, but he had never taken on a member of the club. While there, he’d never visited the private rooms. The first time we made eye contact, I saw the recognition in his. There was a spark, an amount of heat. Something was there.
Maybe I was obsessing out of boredom. I closed my eyes tight in frustration as I sat in my car facing the double doors of the club.
This was it. If it didn’t happen tonight, I might have to find a date the old fashioned way.
But that was part of the problem. I didn’t date. I wasn’t good at the getting to know you aspect of the evening. I liked the fucking portion and had always preferred to get to that. I very much had the dating mentality of a twenty-one-year-old man—casual sex and nothing serious, no attachments, that sort of thing. I wasn’t against those in love and actually saw myself going down that road a time or two. I’d been hurt by a man I had affection for, and I was sure I would eventually try that again with the right person. But now, I was just restless. I needed a partner who understood my needs, my body. I’d been settling for far too long.
In my most figure revealing dress, I walked into The Hole and was greeted by Tara, a nice enough bartender who had often tried to strike up a conversation with me. It was obvious she swung both ways, which was fine, but
not for me. I had serious issues when it came to women. I couldn’t stand ninety-nine percent of them. I guess you could say I was a tad bit of a misogynist. I preferred, and had always preferred, the company of men, whether as friends or fuck buddies.
It had a lot to do with my mentality. I didn’t find the conversations interesting, or the unnecessary drama appealing. I didn’t talk about feelings, or revel in a good pair of shoes. I’d tried—really, I had—but women weren’t especially receptive to my brand of honesty. The kind that wasn’t sugarcoated and saved time.
The only woman I had let even remotely close to knowing me, aside from Violet, was my work partner, Nina. She was the exact type of woman I most loathed when I met her: pretentious, all about appearance and image, and had an unnatural fascination with shoes. I never saw us becoming close, but ever since all that went down in her personal life, and because she had been so genuinely good to me, I had let her in a little. She had changed so drastically in the two years I’d known her.
Sitting at the bar now with a crisp chardonnay, I couldn’t help but be happy for her, if not a little envious. In the last few months, my friend Nina had come through a personal hell that would break most women. She had finally found her peace and was now benefiting from the release of her struggle. While she was off on what could only be described as a new beginning, I was pining for a man I hadn’t uttered a single word to.
He’s not here, Taylor.
He’d always taken the table in the corner behind the frosted glass. The first time I’d seen him, I’d rapidly drank him in. He was tall, that much I knew from his stature in the oversized seating of the club. His inky hair was slightly long and styled back to cradle his ridiculously beautiful face. He had naturally dark skin. I guessed him to be of Hispanic descent. His attire was impeccable and mainly consisted of double-breasted suits. His pleasure at the club seemed to be to sit back and observe. I liked that. It was a habit I had formed myself.
I pushed out a disappointed breath as I sipped my wine. It was time to let Mr. Mysterious go. The last time I’d seen him, we’d locked eyes for several minutes, neither of us turning away until he was approached by a beautiful brunette that left his table shortly after she had stopped. I refused to believe he was gay. I couldn’t see it, couldn’t fathom it. Not this man.
This is boredom. Go home and watch a CSI marathon.
As soon as I’d convinced myself to leave, he appeared at a barstool next to me, and I smirked into my wine as he spoke.
“I think it’s time we introduce ourselves.”
“Taylor,” I offered as I turned in my seat to drink him in. He was close—so fucking close—and the feel of his eyes as they met mine made all my nerve endings light on fire. I sucked in a quick breath as he pushed the loose hair away from his face. He looked all business aside from his contradictory hair. It was short enough to tame, but its unruly presence seemed to be a big fuck you to the conservativeness of his dress.
