Shane (Damage Control #4) Read online

  Home.

  Cassie.

  Not the prison. I’m safe. It’s safe.

  I bend over, struggling to catch my breath, and something falls from my hand. A crumpled little box.

  She retrieves it, frowns. Opens it. Inside is a wad of something. “Cinnamon gum?” she asks, and I groan.

  What the fuck’s happening?

  She lets it drop, comes to me. Hesitates, then puts a hand on my arm. “Shall we go home?”

  “Yeah,” I breathe. “Home.”

  ***

  I’m dripping dirty water all over her car seat as she drives us away. She has the heater on full blast, but it’s not helping with the goddamn shivers.

  Ghostly images still flash before my eyes. Faces. Filthy hands. Raspy voices. Pain echoes in my bones, in my joints.

  I’m fucked up.

  Reaching down, I dig my fingers into the sides of the seat. This is real. The car, the engine vibrating through metal and plastic, the slightly musty smell of the mats. The streets rolling by, the flashing lights of other cars, the hum of a song from the speakers.

  The girl driving, casting sidelong glances at me from pretty blue eyes.

  “Cass,” I say and my voice creaks like a broken board.

  She’s really here right?

  “Hey.” Her voice is warm and soft, filling up the cracks in me. “Welcome back.”

  I try to swallow. My throat is too dry for that. “I thought I called Seth.”

  “But called me instead. And I’m glad.”

  Me too, I think. Easier to find my way back with her. Maybe. “Thanks for coming.”

  “I’ll always come for you.” Solemn. Like a promise. “Bad flashback, huh?”

  I nod.

  “What triggered it? Do you remember?”

  I shake my head, unsure. “The superintended said… He said I pushed someone, dropped a bag. Someone complained.”

  “That was the trigger?”

  “How the fuck would I know?” I wince. She flinches. “Dammit, Cass. Sorry.”

  Fuck, I need my pad and pencils. Need to draw, take the images out of my head. My fingers twitch on my legs, curling in.

  “It’s okay. Sorry for being pushy.”

  “You’re not.” It’s the truth. I don’t feel trapped. For the first time ever, I think I could talk about this. “What did I do this time? Did I hurt anyone? Did I hurt you?”

  “Like I told them, you wouldn’t. I know that.”

  But she doesn’t, not really. “Cass… What did I do?”

  She hesitates, and I brace for the worst. Did I roll on the ground? Did I scream? Did I beg and cry and fight invisible hands?

  “Not much.” She glances at me again, pain in her gaze. “When I arrived, you were just standing there, whispering something over and over again. Then one of the guys grabbed your arm, and you started fighting him. Pushed him off.”

  Son of a bitch. It’s not enough that I’m a screw-up, it had to be in front of her and everyone at work. So fucking humiliating.

  “You didn’t hurt him,” she goes on. “Didn’t hurt anybody.”

  It doesn’t matter. This is it. I’m losing my mind. I growl deep in my throat. “I’m not fit to be around people.”

  “Don’t say that. Something happened. Something set you off. We need to find out what it was. So you can avoid it next time.”

  “You don’t get it.” I don’t look at her, stare outside instead as I drag the words out. Time to face reality. “I’m probably out of job.”

  If Peter was thinking of firing me after the complaint, I can’t imagine what would keep him from doing so now that I had a fucking flashback on the site and fought off one of the guys. Cassie says I didn’t harm him, but what does it mean?

  Could the guy report me for assault?

  Shit.

  She says nothing. What’s there to say? She parks down the street, past my building, turns the engine off.

  That’s my cue to get out, go upstairs to my apartment, and change my sodden clothes.

  “Am I going crazy?” I ask instead, hating how terrified I am of that. How I need reassurance that I’m not heading for a place where the nightmare is my reality. Where I can’t be rescued from, where pain and fear is the norm.

  “No, you’re not,” she says firmly, and I look right into her eyes. Clear and determined. “But you need to talk to a therapist.”

  I jerk back. “No fucking way.”

  “Shane.” She leans toward me, and her mouth trembles. “Listen to me. It’s like this: you slipped. You’re down. Getting up on your own is hard. You need help.”

  “No.” I fumble with my gloves, trying to pull them on. “Can’t. Not another therapist. Hell no. I can’t—”

  “Okay.” She puts a hand on my arm, stilling me. “I understand. No therapist. Just me.”

  I take a long breath, let it out. “Okay.” I take another. “Wanna come up?”

  She smiles, a quick and uncertain thing, and it breaks me even more that it’s not her real, bright smile.

  “I’m hurting you,” I whisper. That’s my greatest fear—up there with the fear of going crazy.

  “Love,” she says, “is like that.”

  She turns around and opens her door, climbs out of the car before her words make any sense. I sit there, frozen, something sweet spilling in my chest, running through my jumbled thoughts like a trail of honey.

  What did she mean? Did she mean anything at all?

  Forcing myself to move, I open my door, climb out into the cold evening. The wind cuts like a blade. “Cass.”

  She comes around the car, takes my hand and tugs me toward the building. The wind whistles, and her words tumble round and round inside my head.

  Love.

  Love.

  “I hope you have clothes for tomorrow,” she says the moment we enter the building and take the elevator that has been miraculously, finally fixed. “For the wedding. I should have reminded you earlier. Guys rarely think of such things.”

  Caught in the process of trying to insert my key into the lock with clumsy, frozen fingers, I turn to look at her.

  “After all this… this mess,” my voice catches, “you still want to go with me? Why?”

  “Of course I do.” Her real smile makes an appearance, so bright it warms me up. “But you never mentioned it, so I thought maybe you changed your mind.”

  I stare at her. How can she be insecure when it comes to me? Jesus. Never considered that. And she hasn’t answered the why.

  I unlock the door and step aside to let her enter first. She snags my arm in passing, pulls me inside with her.

  Dammit, now I’m smiling, too. How is she doing this? The door clicks shut behind us, and she drags me to the bedroom.

  “Undress,” she says, shrugging off her coat and tossing it on the sole chair of my room, then turning the heater on high. “I’ll find you dry clothes.”

  I lift a brow at that, but hell, why not? I start unzipping my heavy-duty jacket with its reflective bands and reinforced elbows as she starts rummaging in my small closet. Distracted by the way her skirt hugs her round ass and her black over-the-knee knitted stockings showing off her long legs, wondering what color her panties are and if they’re lace or not, I don’t immediately hear her question.

  “Why the matchbox and…?”

  I blink, lift my head.

  Then the words drop like pennies.

  “Why the matchbox and the cinnamon gum inside?” She pulls out a T-shirt, frowns at it. “I mean, I don’t believe you told your co-workers about the thing with the smell, so I guess it’s coincidence. A hell of a coincidence, though…”

  She’s still talking, but I can only hear the blood rushing in my ears, and my only thought is—Holy shit, that was real?

  Chapter Twelve

  Cassie

  He produces a soft groan, and I turn around, a T-shirt and soft drawstring pants clutched in my hands. “What is it?”

  He’s staring down at his
hands, his face white, and I have an oh-crap moment, thinking I’ve somehow pushed him into another flashback.

  But then he tucks his hair behind his ear and clenches his jaw. “A coincidence.”

  “What?”

  He waves a hand in the air. “Has to be a coincidence. The box. The gum.” He resumes undressing—or at least trying to pull down the zipper of his heavy jacket, with little success. His hands are shaking. “Only you know about the triggers. Not even Seth—” He stops, shakes his head as if fighting off an irritating insect. “Not even Seth knows those things. Only you.”

  Aww God. I shouldn’t feel so pleased—his half-brother is worried about him and wants to help and doesn’t even know what makes Shane tick—but there you go.

  He entrusted me with this information. I never realized how hard it must have been for him, poking his wounds so deeply for the first time because I asked him. Believing me when I said that I, of all people, could help him.

  He finally manages to pull down the zipper and shrugs off the heavy jacket. In a trance, I walk up to him, put the clean dry clothes on the bed and take the jacket. It weighs about a ton, and I almost drop it.

  “I’ll hang it in the bathroom to dry,” I say and take those few moments to pull myself together.

  I’m touched. More than I ever thought possible. Touched and humbled and proud of him. I was so scared when I connected the call and heard him ask for help. When I arrived and found him surrounded by his co-workers, looking so lost and terrified and exhausted. This has to be wearing him down.

  I will help him. No margin of error here. Not just because of Angel, or because I don’t want to feel the same crushing pain twice.

  No, it’s because I can’t lose Shane. His small, secret smile, the warmth in his eyes, the bright spirit behind the darkness, his fight and his courage.

  God, I really meant it. I love him, and I can hardly bear it, that bittersweet sting, when I remember he doesn’t feel that way.

  I drape the dripping jacket over the shower curtain, rub my chilled hands over my face. Got to keep my cool. Don’t let him burrow too deep under my skin, into my heart.

  But how do I stop it? How do you switch off emotions once there’re there?

  Crap. Maybe I need a distraction.

  When I return to his bedroom, I find one waiting for me: he’s taking off his T-shirt, and like every single time, my mouth waters at the sight of his muscular, inked torso.

  Holy crap, this boy. Perhaps I should move and help him undress. But I’m caught, rooted to the spot as he slowly tugs the white fabric over his head then lets it drop and shakes out his long hair.

  Whoa.

  My fantasies can never do him justice. He’s just so beautifully sculpted, like a fantastic statue of a man, all solid planes and shallow hollows, his washboard stomach a work of art.

  The body of a man who’s been training for a long time, honing his muscles into lethal weapons to use if needed.

  I wonder how much use it is against memory, then lose my thread of thought again when he reaches down for the zipper of his jeans. His gaze flicks up, catches mine, and grows darker.

  “Let me help,” I whisper, my voice a little squeaky, and I’m not even sure what sort of help I mean right now—with the flashbacks, with his clothes, or with his dick.

  He leans back, propping his hands on the mattress, and his cock is clearly outlined inside his jeans. Hard. Thick. Big.

  A flush is climbing up my neck. I kneel on the rug to unlace his boots, doing my best not to look up, because I’ll rip off his pants and climb him like a tree.

  He’s just had a bad flashback. Don’t be stupid, Cass.

  But he’s hard.

  So what? Focus on helping. Let him take the initiative. He’s like a minefield, a sexy, pretty minefield, and although he’s told me the triggers he could think of, that doesn’t mean we’ve covered everything.

  I tug off his boots and socks, drop them to the floor. Placing my hands on his denim-clad knees, I start to rise.

  “Cass.” Just that, just my name on his lips, in that raspy-sexy voice, and I gulp. If it was up to me, I’d be riding him already, scratching my nails down that perfect chest, down those lickable abs, watching his beautiful face twist in need and pleasure, his big cock filling me like nobody else ever did.

  Holy shit, my nipples are hard and achy, my breasts heavy, and my pussy is clenching on nothing. Need him.

  This is crazy. I’ve never wanted anyone like this, like I’m about to come just from looking at him and remembering the feel of his cock under my hand and in my mouth. His taste, bitter-salty, his smell, musky and deep, the sounds he made…

  God, Cass, stop.

  He’s observing me, his eyes hooded, and damn, I wish I could read his mind. Wish I could tell if he wants me right now, if he’s ready, or if it’s too soon.

  “I, um.” I clear my throat and finally manage to get up. I gesture at his jeans. “Need help with these, too?”

  He shifts on the bed, and my gaze is helplessly drawn to the outline of his hard-on. Crap, it looks even bigger now. “I got it.”

  And now I’m watching as he unbuttons and unzips his jeans and pushes them down.

  Freeing his cock.

  Because he’s going commando.

  Oh. My. God. “Warn a girl, will you?” I manage, my pulse tripping.

  He pushes his jeans all the way off, then glances up at me, and I can’t decide if the look in his dark eyes is wicked or simply aroused.

  But oh boy, is it hot.

  “I thought,” he starts, then reaches down and grabs his dick, and I’m sure I’m panting now, tongue lolling and all, “that it’s time for some more sex therapy.”

  “Sex therapy.” I can’t look away from his big hand on his big cock. He’s not stroking himself, just gripping his dick. A pearly drop beads on the flushed head. “I thought you’d want to talk about—”

  “No. Not now.” He sits up. “I want you. I know I’m a mess, and I scare you on a regular basis.” He scowls. “But I’m not gonna break. I want you on my cock, your tits in my face. I want to come deep inside you.”

  Oh shit. My core clenches so hard I moan. “But the triggers—”

  “Don’t pull on my hair. Don’t try to push me onto my back. I’ll need…” He releases his dick, looks around. “Something to ground me.”

  Something to hurt himself with.

  This isn’t good. We should talk first, find anchors for him, anchors that don’t leave him bloody.

  Look at me hesitating to have sex with the most handsome guy in the world. Who am I and what have I done with Cassie?

  It’s because I care for him, I realize. I don’t want him hurt in any way.

  Again the memory of him at the construction site fills my mind—pale, disoriented, soaking wet, caught in a tragic dream.

  But he wants this. He wants me, and he needs to feel strong again, in control. He needs pleasure.

  “Take this.” I pull off my rubber band and grab his hand. It has some trouble fitting over his much larger hand, but it finally snaps into place.

  He gives it a dubious look. “What for?”

  “Snap it.” I demonstrate. “When you feel you’re getting lost inside your mind.”

  He’s still unconvinced. “It won’t be enough, Cass.”

  My heart hurts. “And this.” I reach behind my neck, unclasp my pendant and lift it in front of me. He says nothing, letting me clasp it around his neck. The pale agate star-shaped stone rests in the hollow of his collarbone. “Hold on to it if you need to. Its edges are sharp, but not enough to cut you.”

  He squints down at it. “Is that what you do?” He looks up, right into my eyes. “When you get lost inside your head?”

  “Yeah.” I have to clear my voice. My eyes burn, and I force myself to not think about Angel and about those dark times. “Yeah, that’s what I do.”

  He nods, grips the pendant, tests its edges, his expression pensive, those long lashes a
lmost resting on his broad cheekbones. I want to hug him, console him, give him courage—kiss him, pull him into me, feel him come inside me.

  Talk about feeling torn.

  But then he solves the issue when he pulls me onto his lap. He has me straddle him and runs his hands up my thighs, under my skirt. I’m wearing thigh-high black stockings, woolen and thick, and his warm, callused palms on my bare skin feel awesome—scratching just a little, enough to light up my nerve endings.

  “Shane—”

  He captures my mouth with his in a searing kiss, while his hands dive under my panties and find my seam, parting me, stroking me. His hard-on is pressed between us, hot and thick. It’s so sexy I can’t stand it.

  He fingerfucks me, building up the fire inside me, and I moan in his mouth. He breaks the kiss, reaches for the bedside table.

  “Condom,” he whispers.

  “Shane, wait, I—”

  He stops. His fingers still, his hand inside the drawer freezes. “You don’t want it?”

  “Seriously? Can’t you tell?” I snicker a little, because hey, he has his fingers inside my pussy and I’m wet and moaning and kissing him, but… “I want you so much I think I’ll die if you don’t pull on that condom and get inside of me this very minute.”

  His eyes light up. “Good. I need this, Cass.” He swallows hard. “I need you.”

  It’s so damn powerful. This is his way of reminding me that, despite his past and the scars he’s still carrying, the wounds that still haunt him, he’s a person, a man with needs and desires, and that he’s not shattered. He’s not giving up.

  “Then do me.” I try to regain control of the situation. Of myself. I run a hand over my breasts, feeling my nipples tighten. “Take me, Shane.”

  Even if it’s just this. Just sex, something that has no real meaning to me. No real value. The men I’ve been with are a blur, memories I erase the moment they are made.

  But this…this is different. I feel it in my bones, and I’m afraid.

  He grins as he pulls a condom foil from the drawer and rips it open with his teeth, while his fingers inside me slide in and out, in and out until I’m clinging to his shoulders, clawing at his golden skin, desperate to come.

  His cheekbones are flushed, his beautiful mouth open just a breath.