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Assholes. They took everything passionate within her and forced her to believe she was frigid. Instead, she was a f**king dormant volcano ready to explode, all hot, creamy lava and lusty noises. The way she bit her lip hard to control her cries and tightened her muscles told him enough. She’d give him everything she got and more if she let herself go.
A smile tugged at his lips at the memory of her inner battle. He loved how she challenged him on every level and made him work for it. Sawyer had learned early that many of the aspects of BDSM called to him, and he’d dived into the experience once he had enough money to indulge his eclectic tastes. With his midthirties approaching, he now admitted he liked aspects of the push-pull of dom/sub, but it wasn’t a lifestyle he wanted to commit to. His normal play in private and some exclusive clubs tamed the beast for a while, but work began to feed his insatiable appetite in a more soothing manner. So far, women had been a tempo-rary enjoyment.
Until Julietta came on the scene.
He liked control. Needed it at all times in order to ne-gotiate his life now. But for just a moment, he almost lost it, unbuckled his pants, and slid into her wet heat without a thought. And that, as he learned, was dangerous. How many years had it taken him to finally curb the violence and anger? The frustration of being dependent on people whose only goal was to let him down? only two people in his world ever gave him a glimpse of something more.
Jerry White.
And Mama Conte.
The familiar twinge in his gut drove him to his feet and toward the back of his office. Toward the hidden door behind the mass of bookcases where a slice of peace and sanity were close enough to yank him from the abyss.
Fuck, he hated such weakness.
Sawyer stepped into the room. He took in the surround-ings made for physical torture—soundproof so no grunts of pain were ever heard. The mats were thick beneath his feet, and the various instruments were there for one single purpose.
Sweat.
He toed off his shoes, stripped off his clothes, and changed into a pair of shorts and a T-shirt. He tied his hair back with a rubber band, shoved his feet into the sneakers, and donned the gloves. He started with the bag first, warm-ing up with some jabs and letting his brain empty out into his body, ready to ease out the poison.
one. Two. Three.
The memory flickered.
“You’re a f**king pu**y, you know that.” It was Christmas Eve, but there was no tree, no lights, and no warmth in the hellhole. His foster father drank from a rapidly declining bottle of Clan MacGregor and the smell drifted sickly sweet and sharp to his nostrils, making him gag. He kept quiet, knowing the trick of the game was to say as little as possible.
He was chained to a chair in the dirty kitchen. The cheap yellow linoleum held an array of scratches and stains. He let his mind go and focused on the tiny circle by the broken chair leg. Round and round his gaze followed the pattern and his mind began to drift. The other kids were asleep in the basement. He’d locked the door behind him so Asshole couldn’t get in, knowing the holidays were one of his favorite times to play. It was easier to piss him off and get him to go after him than sacrificing the rest of the crew for a group party.
Unfortunately, it worked better than he planned.
Sawyer tamped down the trickle of panic. His feet were still free, and the more Scotch that disappeared, the worse Asshole’s reflexes. No problem.
The burning sting of the cigarette pressed into his fore-arm made him jerk, but he kept his gaze down, on the circle, round and round.
The laugh was pure mean. “You like to play the hero, don’t you, boy? Always thought you were better than us. Time to teach you some life lessons and take you down a peg.”
He ignored the taunts. The first punch cracked him hard and he knew it would be a long night. . . .
Sawyer moved, ducked an imaginary opponent, and slammed his fists over and over into the bag. Lightning swift, he fought the memories gouged in his head until the sweat poured off his skin and a sliver of light shone from the grunge of his past.
oh, Asshole had made him pay that Christmas eve.
The broken rib was taped up later, and the burns left scars he didn’t give a crap about. What he gained that night was more important.
Hope.
He was growing bigger and more dangerous. of course, if he didn’t take it, the younger ones suffered, and he’d rather have physical bruises than an ache in his gut that’d eat him alive. No, it was easier to take the punches, but time was running out. He’d be free in nine months, five days, and four hours. eighteen years old meant freedom. escape.
Maybe he’d be able to go to social services then about the others. Maybe . . .
The raw fury choked him, so he punched harder, kicked higher, and fell to the brutality of the streets, where winning was so much more than a competition: It was a matter of survival. So stupid to think he’d be able to outrun his past.
The last shred of innocence ripped from his soul when the knowledge he’d failed almost killed him. Almost. Instead, he accepted that he’d killed his foster brother Danny out of his own greedy need to escape. Forced the acceptance into the dark closet and locked the door. Then decided to live.
“Sawyer?”
He spun around and crouched, still only half in the present. Breathing hard, he recognized Wolfe standing by the doorway. The kid was rarely surprised by anything, but it seemed discovering Sawyer knocking the shit out of the bag in his private chamber threw him off. Sawyer straightened and walked to the bar. “How’d you get in here?”
The kid thrust out his chin. “Door wasn’t completely closed. Found a weird notch in the bookcase, so I checked it out. I wasn’t spying.”
“I know.” He guzzled a half bottle of cold water, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “This is private space—no one else knows about it.”
A strange expression crossed the kid’s face. Hurt?
“Like I give a crap. I won’t gossip at the next tea party. Just wanted to tell you I’m heading over to La Dolce Famiglia for a few hours before dinner.” He turned halfway. “What is this anyway? your secret Batcave?”
Sawyer swallowed a laugh and grabbed a towel. “Kind of. you work out?”
Wolfe studied the walls of free weights, punching bags, and bars around the room. A bad-ass sound system was wired to an array of hard metal that Sawyer loved. A flash lit those blue eyes, almost like longing. “Nah, not into it.”
Sawyer wiped off his forehead and studied the boy.
