Full Circle Page 2

  Kyle had wanted answers and he'd sure as hell gotten them. He had no doubt as to what had gone on in that cellar for two years. And honest to God, regardless of the fact that he'd sworn to uphold the law, he hoped like hell Michael had killed the bastard so some fucked-up lawyer didn't have the chance to keep him out of prison.

  Opening his eyes, he stared down at the carpet. What the hell was happening to the world? To the human race? It no longer mattered how or why Michael had ended up the adopted son of a U.S. senator. What a damned ugly world they lived in. And if Kyle didn't harden himself to it again, if he didn't toughen up and grow a new hide, he could kiss his career in law enforcement goodbye forever. God, his soul was tired.

  Pushing away from the doorjamb, he went looking for his keys. He needed to get out, needed to get his mind on something else. Death . . . grief . . . it just kept mounting up, hollowing out chunk after chunk of his heart.

  He spotted his keys on the arm of the sofa and reached for them. He knew exactly where he was going. The amber link he'd held for three months had expired back in March, but that didn't mean there weren’t other options. Michael and his business partners had planned well. Kyle was in the mood for something rowdy and raunchy and he knew right where to find it.

  Climbing behind the wheel of his thirteen-year-old piece of shit car, he started up the engine and sat. In a matter of seconds, dots of perspiration beaded on his forehead and upper lip. What was wrong with the AC? He'd just given the thing a shot of Freon a couple of months ago. He'd suffocate if he had to drive all the way to RUSH with dry, baked air blowing out of the vents. So he lowered the windows all around to let an even hotter breeze drift in. Geez, if it was like this in May, what was Florida going to be like in the dead of summer?

  Backing out of the driveway, he tried not to think about Michael. Or Azram. Or Joey. He was so damned tired of punishing himself. He'd been doing it for seventeen long years. It didn't matter that he couldn't summon up a clear image of his kid brother's face anymore. Joey had pulled the trigger of a gun Kyle had stolen—a gun he hadn't hidden well enough from an overly curious boy. Would he ever be able to let go of that? How the hell had Michael moved on? How the hell did you learn to forgive yourself?

  It didn't take long to reach Treeline Drive, and he wasn't covered in sweat like he'd expected. Usually when he came to RUSH he parked in the garage at Checkpoint 1. Closest to the entertainment sector, it also provided easy access to Sportworld Gym. But today he felt like walking. He'd make his way down to Threshold as planned, but his view of the world was a little different now than it had been when he'd climbed out of bed this morning. He wanted to take his time and look again at the foothold Michael had carved out for himself here. So he pulled into the other garage—the one closest to the administrative building—and left all the windows open when he turned off the engine. No sense returning to a suffocating interior.

  Passing through the checkpoint, he stepped outside and paused for a minute. What was it about this place that calmed the mind and heightened the senses as soon as he left the checkpoint?

  Taking a few seconds to glance around, he noted the smell of moist earth and the heavy, sweet fragrance of gardenia. A thick jungle of plants and trees loomed on either side of the path. It surrounded him with quiet and left him with the impression of having left the fast lane to mingle with nature. A bird was perched on the stem of a giant heart-shaped leaf that reminded him of a similarly shaped houseplant in his foster mother's house. Hers however, was about a thousand times smaller. Water trickled over a well-designed rock fountain, adding to the sense of calm, causing him to focus on the steady, peaceful sound as he started walking again, immersing himself in the environment.

  He'd walked the grounds of RUSH before. More than once. The first time he'd done so when his application had been accepted. The second was after the surprise of learning Michael was one of its owners.

  It was during the last walk that he'd seen Michael for the second time. Kyle had been on the wide main path in front of the R-link complex when the sight of a man carrying a woman in his arms caught his attention. As the man drew closer, Kyle realized it was Michael. He'd been carrying his wife, those wisps of long blonde hair unmistakable. She'd been dressed in a skimpy leotard at the time, her feet bare, and her own arms twined around Michael's neck as though he was her only anchor in an unstable world.

  So many emotions had once again bombarded Kyle. He'd stood like a statue on the side of the path, watching, staring into Michael's crystal-blue eyes and taken aback by what he saw.

  Ownership. There had been no other word for it. Ownership like nothing Kyle had ever seen on a man's face. It had burned hard and deep in Michael's eyes, all but daring anyone to come within five feet of the woman he carried on the promise of bodily injury. He'd worn it like a solid, visible shield.

  And adoration. Christ, the adoration on his face when he'd tucked the little blonde in closer, squeezing his eyes shut in a moment of piercing emotion and not giving a shit who saw it.

  Every day men and women professed love for one another. But never had Kyle seen such a naked reality of it as he had that day on Michael's face. And along with all the other emotions Kyle felt, there had been an overwhelming stab of envy. Not for the guy's money. Kyle had a few million of his own tucked away. But to love like that . . . . To adore and be loved like that in return, as though finding that one person on earth whose soul complemented his own . . . .

  Thinking about that now, he scowled. He'd only been caught up in the moment, not thinking clearly. He didn't plan on loving anyone to that extent. Not ever. A woman like Rachel, the marrying kind, had motherhood written all over her. In fact, Michael was married to her now and had already gotten her pregnant—a set of circumstances Kyle didn't plan on subjecting himself to. He didn't ever want to love and lose another human being, especially another child.

  That was the day he'd decided to back off, at least temporarily. He wasn't sure he wanted to know this Michael Vassek. The possibility of getting sucked into that homey warmth was too likely and that wasn't where he wanted to go with this. He knew now where Michael was. He'd keep an eye on him. And if the time ever came that he wanted to, he knew where to find the sonofabitch.

  Unfortunately, fate didn't always like to play in a sunny ballpark. Humans might get a little too comfortable, a little too complacent, or just a little too happy. Couldn't have that, now. So, when Kyle had spotted Rachel Vassek's gorgeous hair, then recognized the calculated look in Douglas Lyric's eyes, the cop in him knew something was about to go down. He might have decided not to make contact yet, but he wasn't about to leave Michael's wife in that situation. Yeah, he was pissed off at the asshole. Angrier than hell at him. But when push came to shove, not only had the cop in him taken over, but so had the ties of loyalty from a childhood friendship that still ran deep.

  And now that he knew all the sorry shitty details, he couldn't help wanting a deeper look into the man Michael had become, despite the wife and baby on the way. Because Michael's climb from the gutter had been rough and unlikely. He'd been as deeply mired in the dregs of humanity as a man could get, yet he'd pulled himself out. So, with each step Kyle took through the jungle, with every fountain and lover's alcove he passed, a sense of hope burrowed in and took root. If Michael had been able to climb out, that just might mean there was a chance Kyle could climb out too.

  CHAPTER 2

  When trouble walked through the door at Threshold Tavern it was blonde, female, and looked about sixteen years old. Every male eye in the taproom looked in her direction, just as it had every other time the door opened. Only this time, the charge in the air kicked up about fifty volts and not one head turned away.

  It took Kyle all of two seconds to assess the situation, get over the shock of her youth, then scan the dimly lit tavern for potential backup. A single lone female had no business walking into a place like this unless she knew the score and had played the game. This one clearly hadn't.

 
; The tavern had its share of bouncers. Kyle spotted several wandering around and two were within easy range now. But the nature of the beast—a hunting zone for hungry dominant males on the prowl for thirsty, adventurous females—allowed for a lot of leniency here. The standard safe word throughout RUSH was Red, and every woman accepted for membership knew it. But this young girl—no way could he think of her as a woman—didn't look as though she had the first idea what to do with a safe word, in spite of the way she was dressed.

  Threshold was an environment where the darker side of sex had its place. It was a venue where courteous refinement and raunchy fucking met and struck a bargain. A place where the minimum of female encouragement—hell, just the presence of a woman—roused an entire arsenal of male cunning and manipulation these hunters had honed to perfection. They were expert at cajoling and snaring their prey into the most bizarre acts of consensual sex Kyle could ever have imagined.

  This particular package of trouble, young as she looked, had to be over eighteen or she wouldn't have made it past Security, never mind the application process. But she was small and slender, making her appear slight and young. She wore denim and black leather and the solid rise of her three-inch-heeled boots with their rows of silver chains contrasted with the lack of experience a man had to be blind not to see. She had a head full of botoxed blonde hair that fluffed out in a sexy mass down past her shoulders, and if he wasn't mistaken, a set of knockout tits were hiding beneath her lightweight jacket. Her pouty lips looked like they knew what to do and did it well, but those lips, and everything else, lost the contest when it came to a set of eyes that shouted UNTOUCHED louder than a fifteen-speaker sound system. And that minimum amount of encouragement? She was throwing it out in spades, only he was damned sure she didn't know it. All those black leather accessories and delicate little chains announced to every pair of male eyes fixed on her that she was looking for someone to lock a collar around that young neck, to let her service her man with those pouty lips, and to keep her on her knees with a short tight leash.

  The problem was, there were plenty of takers in Threshold. There always were. But today was Saturday and a whole club full of unattached dominant hunters started shifting in their seats, weighing up the competition, and preparing for the sport of the kill. And Little Miss Sunshine was too busy staring at a pair of nipple clamps pinching the tits of a big-breasted barmaid to realize the danger.

  Kyle, however, wasn't. He saw it all, including the moment she looked up, gazed around, and feminine instinct told her this wasn't Wednesday evening Bible study. It was open season at Threshold 24/7 and she was the current rabbit.

  Lips parting in quiet, panicky shock, her deer-in-the-headlights stare said it all. She was way out of her orbit.

  Fortunately for her, he was just a couple of feet away, so he had a head start on everyone else. He'd been hanging around all afternoon and was on his way out when she walked in. Therefore, a couple more steps took him directly into her personal space where he stopped.

  She froze up. It probably wasn't noticeable to the rest of the place since he was blocking her from view, but she stiffened like the scared little rabbit she was. So maybe she was learning a valuable lesson.

  "This isn't the kind of place where you belong," he told her, leaning down so she'd hear him over the music. His mouth brushed against her hair, probably scaring her even more, but there was nothing he could do about that. "I'm going to put my arm around you and get you out of here. Okay?"

  He pulled back and looked down at her. The question was whether or not she'd let him help. And that's where the backup came in. He stood in front of her, just as much a stranger as every other man here, taller than most, and with every bit as much testosterone. If she couldn't bring herself to trust him, he'd signal a bouncer for assistance.

  Pale eyes looked up at him, searching. He couldn't tell what color they were. Gray. Or maybe blue. Then the time for contemplating her options was finished. Some of those hunters were rising to their feet, pegging him as just one more in the line of competition.

  "Let's go," he said, sliding an arm around her shoulders and turning her smoothly back toward the doors. "Put your arm around my waist," he instructed. "Just pretend I'm the man you came looking for in here."

  He had to hand it to her. She did exactly as he said, even leaned her head against his chest. Then he understood why.

  "You're scaring me," she mumbled against his shirt.

  "Good."

  She grumbled something and lifted her head. But she didn't do anything stupid like pull away. Still, the security bracelet on her wrist would alert a small army of guards to come to her aid before the bouncers decided they had a situation. But that bracelet meant she was a guest, not a member.

  "Where's the guard who's supposed to be glued to your side?" he asked as they stepped outside.

  "I'm not a visitor."

  "You're a member?" He took a moment to mull over the fact that the owners of RUSH allowed virgins join a sex club. There was something really wrong with that.

  "I work here," she said. "Or rather, I will. On Monday. I begin my job on Monday."

  "Then why don't you have a microchip implant?"

  "I will have one. I'm getting it tomorrow."

  He frowned. "Didn't they tell you about Threshold at Orientation?"

  "A little. But I was . . . curious," she said and he thought she might have blushed before she turned her head away.

  "You were curious."

  "Yes."

  "So you walked into Threshold like it was some neighborhood community center? Dressed in leather and chains? Don't you have any sense of self-preservation?"

  She started to pull away and yes, her face was flushed. Was it anger or embarrassment?

  He tightened his hold. "Wait until we're outside the gate."

  It wasn't necessary to keep his arm around her now, but the longer she remained uncomfortable, the more lasting the impression. And the rigid way she held herself told him she was plenty uncomfortable. She no longer considered him an ally, had probably decided he was rude and unsympathetic. Tough. So long as she listened and obeyed.

  And she did. She carried herself like she was walking into a nasty ordeal instead of away from one, but her arm remained where it was, circling his waist.

  "Look," he told her, "I just want you to think about the sort of situation you walked into. I wasn't trying to be insulting."

  "I believe you," she said, surprising him. "This is a confusing culture."

  He scowled in response. There was nothing at all confusing about Threshold. And she must have understood the basics, otherwise why dress the part? Then he realized she spoke with the hint of an accent. It was foreign, but he couldn't place it.

  They walked a few more steps and she surprised him again by saying, "Sometimes I don't exercise the best judgment."

  He paused before answering but softened his tone when he said, "Yeah, well, you might want to reconsider your job prospects too. Applying for employment at a sex club wasn't using the best judgment either."

  She looked up. "That's not true. Applying for a job here was one of my better decisions lately."

  He almost stopped in his tracks. No amount of logic could justify that line of reasoning. He couldn't come up with a single explanation that would place an untouched girl inside a sex club and call it an exercise in good judgment.

  He took a long look at her and in the late afternoon light he saw a lot of things not readily noticeable under the mood lighting in the tavern.

  The girl had money. Loads of it by the look of her. He fingered her denim jacket and wondered if it was denim at all since it was soft as silk. Probably some designer label. The half dozen necklaces she wore might be sterling silver, but they could just as easily be white gold. The leather cuff on her wrist with its double row of tiny spikes was probably standard issue. The belt too. But her professionally tattered jeans weren't. Nor were the boots. She could have walked right out of a fashion magazine fo
r all that sense of style. So why the hell was this virginal little rich girl going to start working at RUSH on Monday?

  "You wanna run that by me again?" he asked, backtracking to her skewed logic.

  She was quiet for a few seconds and the small furrow in her brow gave the impression she didn't understand the question. Then she smiled. "I see. I suppose that could have sounded peculiar if taken out of context."

  "Yeah, it could. So what context were you talking about?"

  She didn't answer. They exited the outer gate of Threshold to the main path and he waited, but she said nothing.

  He guided her over to the side of the path, then released her and took a step back so she wouldn't feel threatened.

  "Um . . . thank you for your help," she said, still not answering his question, and sounding embarrassed again.

  It struck him that she was a bundle of contradictions. Her innocence couldn't be more obvious, yet here she stood dressed in leather and chains. She was naïve, maybe to the point of stupidity, but was wise enough, and honest enough, to admit she didn't always exercise good judgment. She was young. Very young. But she carried herself with enough poise to teach a class on it. And one minute she spoke like a frigging English major, while the next she sounded uncertain, like the teenager she probably was. And what about the money? Designer clothes didn't come off the racks at a discount store. And she was definitely dressed in quality. Yet here she was, getting ready to start working at a sex club in a couple of days. Doing what?

  "You're welcome," he answered. "How old are you?"

  She looked at him as though not sure she should tell him. "Why do you want to know my age?"

  "Let's just say it's my turn to be curious."

  He studied her as she considered her answer. Anyone else would have stared him down and told him her age was none of his business. Either that, or he would have been firmly reminded that it was impolite to ask a woman how old she was.

  "I'm almost twenty."

  Hell, she was a teenager. "How close to twenty is almost?"