Sitting with her back to the bar, Esme shifted on her stool and tugged on the back of her skirt. To find it, she dug deep into the boxes in the garage, left untouched since moving. She’d bought it for a hoedown back in college though she wasn’t exactly sure what possessed her to keep it and haul it cross-country. Now, despite the skirt fitting a lot snugger than it had when she was twenty, she was glad she did.

She didn’t have a vest like Finn suggested but found a cute pink and white gingham shirt in the back of her closet. Left unbuttoned with the tails knotted beneath her breasts, it exposed an eye-catching amount of her curves and white belly. The latter made her a little self-conscious; her stomach was flat but not even close to concave, and she lacked the sculpting many of the other women had. But as she thought back to last night, and the way Finn had dragged his lips and tongue in a path from her throat, through the valley between her breasts, down past her navel and all the way to her spread thighs, he hadn’t minded her softness in the least.

Other than her skirt and skimpy top, she wore nothing else, as instructed, except pink ribbons at the end of her twin braids, and on her feet, four-inch T-strap pumps. Her shoes didn’t go with the outfit, but they were a pale pink, almost nude, and didn’t stick out all that much. Besides, she didn’t own western boots. Regardless of the missing elements of her costume, she thought her sexy look would please Finn, and if nothing else, was a vast improvement over the business suit fiasco.

Esme swiveled on her bar stool until she had a clear shot of the doors. When she’d arrived, the parking garage and rear lot were overflowing, and she expected the bar to be standing room only. She’d been right, but almost everyone was on the dance floor.

Her eyes kept darting from the crowd to the doors as she divided her time watching for Finn and trying to get a glimpse of the band who was playing a set of Evanescence covers and doing it very well, the lead singer’s voice indistinguishable from the real thing. One of her favorite bands, she’d listened to their version of My Immortal at least a thousand times since Andrew’s death. It seemed to sum up her struggle with memories that wouldn’t fade, and wounds that wouldn’t heal, as if the songwriter had peered into her broken heart and lifted her thoughts from her brain.

It should have made her cry every time but she couldn’t, not until Finn.

Turning on her stool, she blocked out the memories. They had no place here tonight, intruding on her new beginning.

He was all she’d been able to think of since they’d parted this morning. Something had dawned on her as she sat on her patio, looking over the valley, rewinding the night before in her head. She’d slept in Finn’s bed, while snuggled up to his side, her cheek pillowed on his chest, his arm around her, for a continuous six-hour stretch, which never happened. She dreamed, but for the first time in a long while, they weren’t filled with horror and gore, or characters from TV with bizarre demands, or rotund disgusting kings from centuries past forcing her to do lewd, disgusting acts. She shuddered as she always did when Henry’s greasy image popped into her head. To get him out of there, she shook it, hard.

“So, what’s your story?”

Esme whipped around. Mistress Latrice with her red braided quirt sat on the stool next to her, watching with interest.

“My story?”

“You arrive with Ryan Paxton, a good Dom, handsome, hot, masculine—if you go for that kind, and I know you do, which is my loss—but you don’t play. I didn’t think much of it at first. You were new, taking it all in, but weeks passed, and that’s all you ever did. Then, like that,” she snapped her fingers, “he’s gone. I take a shot, along with half the other tops in the place. We’re taking bets to see what you’re into—men, women, both. I got nowhere, fast, so I knew you didn’t swing my way. But weeks passed, and you didn’t swing at all, only watched.” She clapped her hands together making Esme jump. “Then, out of the blue, you’re hitting on every Dom in the place. They say no, after being turned down flat. Damn fools.”

The Domme reached out and caught her chin, her touch soft but unyielding, a lot like Master Finn’s, except she scared the holy crap out of her.

“Had you asked me, Red, I wouldn’t have let pride stand between me and a taste of you.” She smiled, desire flashing in her sultry brown eyes along with a dark, merciless promise, rather like the short whip coiled at her waist. Esme shivered in response.

Mistress Latrice noticed, let out a little chuckle, and released her, but not before she trailed her long red nails lightly down her chin. “If you change your mind after Master K is through with you, come find me.” She tapped her crimson-tipped fingers against her lips while she considered her thoughtfully. “That’s another piece of this puzzle that doesn’t fit. Keiran plays, but not with the same submissive, and never three times in a week. He’s never here enough for that, until you came along. So, I ask again, what’s your story?”

“I don’t have a story,” she replied, lowering her eyes to avoid the intensity of the pint-sized Domme’s penetrating gaze. If she were into women, Esme wouldn’t have been able to resist her draw, or the power of her dominance, and would have folded for her as quickly as she had Finn. “I’m just trying to figure out where I belong, Mistress.”

“You like cock?”

Her mouth fell open, Latrice was as blunt as she was intimidating. “Yes, ma’am,” she stammered.

“There sure is plenty of that around here,” she muttered as her gaze swept the room. “Women, who like women, not so much. I need to speak to Eric about fixing that oversight before I end up a voyeur like you, Red.” Her eyes cut back to her and dipped down her front. “You look dressed for roleplaying tonight. The hayloft?”

“Yes, Mistress, as soon as Master Finn arrives.” She had to shout to be heard over the music and roar of the crowd as the band began their next song.

“Who?” she leaned in to ask.

“I mean, Keiran. I thought his name was Finn at first. It got stuck in my head. Then his friend called him that—” When the Domme frowned at her, she realized she was babbling. “I’m, uh, meeting Master Keiran this evening.”

“You could do a lot worse. Though I don’t know him well, he’s got a fine reputation, both here and on the streets.”

“The streets?”

“And on the six o’clock news,” she added without answering her question. “Doesn’t help with anonymity at the club with cameras following members, especially owners, around. Though we have enough celebs we should be used to it.”

“Wait. He’s got paparazzi following him? Like a movie star?”

She laughed, the sound lovely and soft, making the Mistress seem much less scary—except for the damn quirt.

“He’d look good on the big screen, but no, I’m talking real news crews, little missy. If we had movie stars here, the paparazzi would be camping out at our doors. We’ve got a few soap stars and B-listers, but mostly athletes, producers, and behind the scenes low profile types. Master Eric is careful about that. I doubt he’s happy your man is in the headlines, but as the head of the fastest growing PI agency in town it’s to be expected, I guess.” She eyed her a moment. “Don’t you watch the news or read the Times?”

Esme shook her head, a knot of dread tightening in her belly.

Please, don’t let it be true. Just when she’d decided to give it a go again.

“He and his team, which make up about half the club’s Masters, took down Martin Lopez, one of the leaders of Hermanos de Venganza. They call themselves a drug cartel.” She snorted derisively. “But they’re just another thug gang running drugs, guns, and hos through the streets of LA. His arrest is a big deal—huge, really—especially since they’re rumored to have loose ties to the Mexican Mafia.”

“But… I thought he did security systems or were bodyguards to the stars.”

“Yeah, that’s some of it, and security is in the Rossi title, but they hire law enforcement and ex-military. Why would that be, do you think? I heard back in Texas, where it all started, they ran black ops missions off the books for the government, and they took down a major drug family operating in south Texas. You must have heard about that unless you’ve been living under a rock for the past five years.”

“Excuse me,” she whispered, feeling sick.

“You’ve gone pale,” the Mistress said, standing closer when she did. She grabbed hold of Esme’s arm when she swayed on her feet. “Sit down,” she ordered, sounding every bit a Domme now. “I can’t catch you if you go down.”

She wasn’t exaggerating. Esme would likely crush the petite Mistress if she fainted on her.

Taking a gulp of air, she shook her head. “I’m fine, ma’am, really,” she said while tugging on her arm. “I remembered something urgent I must do. It’s a work thing and can’t wait.”

“If Master Keiran is expecting you, you’d better stay.”

She ignored the Domme’s warning and twisted free. “I’ll call him, but I really have to go.” This last part she said while bolting for the door. There was no other word for the way she charged into the crowd, bumping into people who frowned at her with irritation, and without excusing herself, rushed for the exit.

Esme had lied to the Mistress. She wouldn’t call, she couldn’t.

First, she didn’t have his number. Second, she was afraid to.

Finn would be furious that she stood him up, but that wasn’t it. He’d demand answers. And now that she knew he was a private detective, which explained a lot, combined with his dominant personality, he’d push until he got them.

She’d have to explain about Andrew, something she didn’t do. Not in therapy, or even with Pax.

The awful night had been sequestered to a part of her brain she didn’t access any more.

An unhealthy coping skill, according to her shrink back home, but it’s how she had survived the trauma. She also steered clear of law enforcement, especially detectives because they reminded her too much of her husband. With the same personality and inquisitive nature, these hero-types had the same stubborn determination to be on the right side of justice and stuck their necks out repeatedly to see it served. No wonder she responded to Finn as she did.

Detective Andrew Burton was a good man with a protective streak a mile long, a dedicated officer, and a decorated hero—posthumously awarded after being brutally shot. She thought he was one of a kind until she met Finn—former special forces, a crime-fighting local hero, and also one of the good guys—who’d been cut from the same mold.

Why couldn’t he be a dull accountant, or a math teacher? Hell, she’d be happy if he drove a beer truck. Then he wouldn’t be exposed to the underbelly of society, putting his life at risk every day. Dealing with criminals who’d shoot him as soon as look at him if it meant saving their asses. Or, strung out drug addicts who thought nothing of putting a bullet in his jugular if it meant they could get another fix.

A detective, even a private one, meant Finn took risks. And for damn sure, if he was in the news for taking out a drug boss, his PI job involved a lot more than celebrity security or following cheating spouses, and taking pictures, so they could make them bleed money in divorce court. That she could deal with. Instead, he put his life on the line going after the worst of the worst. Crime bosses or gang leaders, in her mind there really wasn’t much difference, both sought retribution when crossed.

Hermanos de Venganza, Latrice had called them. Brothers of Vengeance.

Not really seeing where she was going, other than the doors and getting out, she moved faster and bumped into a waitress with a full tray of glasses. Knocked off balance, the girl tried righting the tray, but one tipped over the edge. Esme reached out to catch it, but her hands were shaking so badly, and her reflexes sluggish with panic, she missed, watching helplessly as one, then another bounced, fortunately in one piece, off the carpeted section of the floor.

“I’m so sorry, I wasn’t watching.”

“No harm done. This happens, especially with bodies packed in like sardines on nights like tonight.”

The band started playing again, and a deafening cheer went up from the crowd.

“Oh, this is my favorite song. Don’t you love them?”

Esme turned as the familiar lyrics to “Bring Me Back to Life” filled the large room. Through a break in the mass of people pressing close to the stage, she saw the lead singer’s long, wavy black hair and a gauze tank dress.

“Is that…?”

“Yes, can you believe how lucky we are to have them here—live?”

Wake me up inside….

Her gut clenched, she knew the words to the song by heart.

Finn had done that to her, woken her up, but what was to keep her from dying again when he took a bullet in his throat, put there when the Brotherhood determined on settling the score.

A horrible vision suddenly blocked out everything around her.

The deafening crack of a gun firing, the soft thud as lead ripped through flesh, the man next to her crying out in pain. She reached for him, desperate to staunch the blood gushing in rhythm with his heartbeat from the mortal wound, her lifesaving attempts futile.

In her distraught mind, blue eyes turned to green and blond hair became dark with auburn streaks. Broken sobs racked her chest as she pleaded with him not to leave her. But her appeal went unanswered as the man she loved, this time a charismatic, larger than life Irish charmer, slipped through her fingers just… like… Andrew.

She whirled and ran for the doors as the chorus soared—bring me to life. With a strangled sob, she stumbled through them, an anguished cry of, “Not again. I can’t,” bursting from her lips.

The receptionist, not bitchy Amelia, but someone new, shot her a concerned look, as did the security guard.

“Do you need help?” he asked her.

“No.” Quickly, she rushed for the exit. “I just… I’m late.”

“Wait. I can’t let you leave this way,” the man said as he rounded the counter.

But she didn’t wait, she couldn’t. Without slowing, she pushed through the solid wooden doors and hurried out into the late afternoon sunshine. She didn’t look back when the guard demanded for her to stop, or a few seconds later when a woman called her name. Ignoring them was rude, but what did it matter when she wouldn’t see them again. She didn’t plan to come back—ever.

She was done with the club, with Finn, and the whole idea of another relationship. Limiting her world to the office and her apartment had been working just fine until Pax dragged her to Decadence.

So what if she lived a dull, isolated existence? It was safer and far less painful.

All she needed for companionship was Phin.

Her steps faltered as the name echoed in her head and thoughts of Finn sent a pang shooting straight to her heart. She’d have to nix the shortened version of his name. Even Phineas was out. Kitty would have to do, from now on.

As she hurried down the street, with dusk falling over the city, she heard a familiar male voice shout her name. But she pushed herself harder, not stopping even for Master Eric.

As he jogged down the steps from the owner’s apartments, Keiran combed his fingers through his damp hair. Though late already, he’d taken the time to shower and change. He wouldn’t subject Esme to the smell of his sweat or the taste of salt on his skin. And he’d never touch her with blood on his hands, literally.

The psycho stalker had resurfaced about a week ago, but his attempts to get their client’s attention had become desperate. He’d grown bolder and more whacked than before. Today, he’d broken into her home and tripped the silent alarms they’d installed. Before the LAPD could blink, his men were on the scene which turned into something out of a weird suspense thriller. The stalker had stripped naked and crawled into her bed rubbing her expensive linens all over his body and jacking off on her pillow.

To make matters worse, she’d been home.

Lying in her tanning bed with the fan on, she hadn’t heard him break in, but when she’d walked into her bedroom and found him, her screams had freaked him out. He’d taken his knife—they still weren’t sure what he’d planned to do with that while naked in her bed—and lunged for her. They struggled and both ended up bleeding. Nothing life-threatening; her cuts were superficial, but the 110-pound woman had done serious damage with her acrylic nails, and since he’d had to pull her off him, it was enough for him to need disinfecting in the shower.

LA had plenty of whack jobs, which was good for business, but damn…

Now, he had to switch gears and settle himself, so he could handle Esme with the care she needed tonight.

Entering the lounge from the administration hallway, he stopped and stared at the mob scene in front of him.

“What the fuck?”

He scanned the room for Esme but didn’t see her anywhere. On a regular night, her bright red-gold curls would be hard to miss, but the frenzied crowd on the dance floor looked like a fucking mosh-pit, and the overflow into the bar area looked anxious to join in.

He frowned but seeing at least six DM’s on duty, all of them Rossi men, he figured they could handle whatever this was, and made his way to the bar.

Samson walked up just as he did.

“Whiskey, straight. It’s been a helluva day.”

“It’s not gonna get better any time soon, my friend,” the big burly bartender informed him.

“What now? This scene is unusual, but it’s under control. Is there trouble in the dungeon?” He threw back the shot slid in front of him then stated emphatically, “If Dupree’s short of monitors, he’ll have to find someone else. I have plans.”

“Not anymore.” This came from Latrice, who hadn’t been sitting there when he arrived, he was positive. “She ran out of here about fifteen minutes ago like the devil was after her.”

“Who?”

“Esme.”

He eyed her red leather corset and skirt, the quirt she always carried tapping against the side of her spike-heeled thigh-hi boot. The Domme was likable, did her share of volunteer work at the club, but often found herself in the middle of controversy, like a drama magnet. “What did you do, Latrice?”

“Me?” she exclaimed, taking instant offense. “I’m no poacher. She said she was yours, the next minute she freaked. Seems high strung, and a bit unstable, either that or in need of firm discipline. I’m willing to take her when you’re done with her.”

“Did you tell her that?”

“Of course.” She raised her hands, palms out when he growled. “What? I didn’t know you’d claimed her as yours. I didn’t see a collar.”

That was something he’d have to remedy once he got a handle on his submissive and curb her tendency to freak out and run scared. “What else did she say to you?” he snapped.

“Nothing, we talked about the membership and current events.”

“What current events?”

“Well, lately, that’s been you, Martin Lopez, and Rossi.”

“Why would that upset her?”

“I don’t know, but it did. She turned as white as a ghost, said she’d forgotten something, and the next second was gone.”

A ghost. That had to be it. Something Latrice said must have triggered something, and he was certain it had to do with her dead husband.

“Fuck,” he stated emphatically. He could fight a man, and help her deal with demons from her past, but how did he defeat a ghost?

“I’m worried about her, Master Keiran.” This came from Val who stood beside Eric, both having arrived unnoticed during his discussion with Latrice. “I can’t be sure, but this seems like more than unresolved grief. It sounds more like triggered memories, perhaps flashbacks, like a victim of PTSD.”

“You see her on Thursday?”

“Yes, but I’d planned to talk to her as a friend, away from Decadence, and offer her referrals. I can’t ethically treat her since we’re moving in the same social circles now.”

He looked up at Eric. “I need to talk to her.”

“If she’s been through a trauma, perhaps you should find out what you’re up against, first.”

“I agree there’s something deeper at play here. I’m going to dig and find out exactly what happened in Baltimore, I’ll call Jonas in, if necessary. Once I find out, I’m going to her, and we’ll deal with it.”

“Be careful,” Val warned, her hand squeezing his forearm to relay the seriousness of what this was. “She’s fragile. If you push too hard, she could break.”

“Maybe I was wrong to give her that ultimatum,” Eric stated, while rubbing his face, clearly agitated by his role in the situation. “I just thought—”

His wife calmly placed her hand on his chest and leaned into him. “You saw a submissive in trouble and wanted to help. There isn’t anything wrong with that, Master. We all could tell something wasn’t quite right. You cared enough to do something about it.”

Covering her hand with his, he nodded but didn’t look convinced. “If we could reach Ryan Paxton, he’d have answers.”

“I’ve got a friend in the Bureau,” Samson offered. He’d been leaning on the bar listening, but now he stood and pulled out his phone. “If he’s undercover, it might take a few days, but he’ll eventually check in.”

“I can’t wait a few days,” Keiran growled. Determined to resolve whatever this was with Esme ASAP, he turned to leave. The press of bodies hampered his exit. “What the hell is this? A concert?”

“Yes,” Sam, Eric, and Val all said at once.

“Fucking hell,” he growled, which instantly cleared a path through the group of giddy fan girls in front of him.

He was still within earshot when Val commented, “He fell for her fast.”

“Baby, you know as well as I do, here at Decadence, things tend to happen that way.”