Beneath the Scars (Masters of the Shadowlands #13)(43)
“You’re not ready to go that far yet, pet. We’re going to keep things simple on Saturday.” His firm statement swept her objections away.
She was committed to a scene with him. As anticipation roared through her, her heart set up a hard, fast thumping like every bottle in the whisky bar was falling off the shelves. Thud-thud-thud-thud.
Chapter Eight
On Saturday night, near midnight, Holt crossed the Shadowlands toward the bar and damn, he was looking forward to seeing Josie. It’d been far too long.
On Wednesday and Thursday, he’d returned to work at the hospital, which had been a relief. He’d missed the bustle and camaraderie of the pediatric ICU unit. Unfortunately, working again had kicked his ass, and he hadn’t made it into the Shadowlands last night.
Tonight, he’d planned to arrive early and treat himself to watching Josie at work. Raoul had screwed up that plan. Having volunteered to teach sailing to some of Marcus’s high-risk boys, the Dom asked for help. Holt enjoyed working with the kids and loved to sail. The damn cruise had gone longer than anticipated or he’d have been in a fuck-of-a-lot earlier.
As he headed for the bar and Josie, he had to shake his head at the scenery. Z had chosen a Cops and Robbers theme for tonight, and yellow-and-black crime scene tape now marked off the scene areas.
The costumes were a bit confusing. Either side of the power exchange could be a good or bad guy. “Cops” could be any form of law enforcement. “Robbers” were anyone who veered toward the wrong side of the law.
Holt had already planned out the scene for tonight. Depending on the negotiation he and Josie would conduct, he’d incorporate a bit of tonight’s theme. Josie might enjoy—
“Good evening, Holt.” Olivia wore a sleeveless, blue latex “uniform” top with a silver badge. Shiny black boots covered her black leggings to above her knees. A black duty belt held a long baton on one side and a golf-ball-sized gold bag on the other. A conical custodian helmet with a London Metropolitan Police badge covered her spiked hair.
“Mistress Olivia, you look sexy as hell,” Holt said, surprising a smile out of her.
“Thank you, love.” She gave him a slow perusal. “You’re finally looking back to normal. All trimmed up and everything.”
“The long hair got annoying.” He ran his hand over his bare jaw. “But the shave is due to firefighting regulations. I gotta say, after a month of being bearded, I feel naked without it.” At least the wounds on his face were closed up enough he could wield a razor around them.
Would Josie be bothered at the sight? The scars were still fucking red and visible.
An outraged shout drew his attention to the center of the room. An agile submissive in skimpy shorts and a ragged top dodged around chairs waving a gold bag and laughing maniacally. A Dom in a sheriff’s khaki shirt and badge pursued. Catching her, he took her to the floor—carefully—and applied handcuffs. Her struggles earned her a noisy slap to the back of one thigh.
“Police brutality! Someone call the papers. Police brutality. I’ll sue!” A second later, the sheriff shoved a ball gag in her mouth, and then all that escaped was “Mmmph, mmmph, mmmph!”
The observers roared with laughter.
When the sheriff picked up the bag of gold and attached it to his belt, Holt noticed other gold bags. “What’s with the pouches?”
“Z filled a table in the munchie corner with extra props, including these coin bags.” When Olivia shook the gold pouch, it clinked. “He handed me one and ordered me to wear it.”
“You specifically?”
She snorted. “He thinks I intimidate the submissives. That they don’t know how to catch my attention. The man’s barmy.”
“Sorry, sweetie. The shrink is right.” Holt studied her. Olivia wasn’t fashion plate beautiful, yet was too striking to be merely pretty. With a well-padded, sturdy body, short spiked hair, diamond stud in one ear, and an assessing look in her brown eyes, she was a total submissive magnet. And yet… “To a timid subbie, you look as attainable as Mount Everest.”
“I never noticed.”
“Because you simply pick who you want out of the masses.” Holt smiled. “The way Z set this up, the ones you’ve overlooked get a chance to catch your attention.”
“He’s quite the sneaky bastard, isn’t he? Fine. I’ll wander about and see if someone bites.”
As she sauntered away, Holt spotted a tiny Hispanic submissive wearing a ripped-off prison-stripe T-shirt that exposed her belly. Long dark hair, huge brown eyes. Quite pretty. When Olivia walked the other way, she wilted as if the sun had set on her hopes.
Too cute. Holt caught her eye and nodded encouragingly toward the Mistress, mouthing, go for it.
The submissive hauled in a visible breath, tensed, and dashed after Olivia. She grabbed the golden pouch, yanked, and lifting it over her head, ran away.
“Bloody hell!” Olivia gave chase.
As the submissive’s terrified giggles trailed behind her, Holt grinned and murmured, “Good luck, little one.” He continued across the room.
Yes, Josie was there behind the bar. Through the crowd, he caught a tiny glimpse of her…and heard his name called again. Dammit.
“Holt, good to see you.” In a torn T-shirt, ripped jeans, and full sleeves of gang-related temporary tats, Vance Buchanan was sitting on a couch, feet up on an ottoman. “I heard you’ve returned to your hospital job.”