Wicked Need (The Wicked Horse Series Book 3)(9)

“So he essentially told you to leave your own home without having a valid copy of a document giving him the power to do so, probably only on the word of Kevin Vaughn telling him one had been signed?”

“Pretty much,” Cat admits.

“Yeah, that doesn’t f*cking work for me,” I mutter as I grab the will off the counter and fold it back up. Handing it to her, I say, “Listen… you really need to hire an attorney. That’s the best thing you can do at this point.”

Cat shakes her head, grim resignation evident. “I can’t do that, Rand. I just don’t have the money it would take. Maybe if I could get a job, I could save up or something.”

Well, f*ck. She’s between a rock and a hard place.

Ordinarily, I’d see the damsel in distress, particularly one as lovely and alluring as Cat, and I’d step in to save the day. Jake teases me mercilessly because I have this inherent need to nurture, care for, and develop others. Not sure where that comes from, but it’s something I can take to the excess sometimes.

I should offer to loan Cat the money to hire an attorney, or maybe take it upon myself to do that. But I don’t make those offers because, frankly, I don’t think Cat would accept. She seems to have the art of “stubborn pride” down to a science if the fight over her sleeping on the couch is any indication.

Besides, there is something I could do that’s more behind the scenes.

“You should feel free to go hang back at my apartment, or whatever,” I say as I lean my elbow on the counter. “I’ve got about another hour here and then I’m heading over to The Silo. If you don’t have any objections, I’m going to talk to Bridger about this and get his take on it.”

“Why Bridger?” she asks, her head tilted curiously to the side.

“Because he’s one of the smartest dudes I know. Plus, he’s well connected. He’ll probably know something about this attorney who forced you out of the house. If not, maybe Woolf will. Do you mind if I tell them about this?”

She doesn’t hesitate as she sticks the document back in her purse. “No, not at all.”

“Okay, good then,” I say with a smile, reaching out and touching my hand to her shoulder, where I give a reassuring squeeze. “We’ll get it figured out.”

As I start to pull my hand away, I’m stopped by hers coming up to latch onto my wrist. Her grasp is delicate, barely touching me, but it holds such power. Cat steps into me, her soft brown eyes shining with gratitude. She goes to her tiptoes, which isn’t much more of a stretch given the sky-high heels she’s wearing, and leans into me. Placing her lips against my cheek, she kisses me just barely and pulls away. “Thank you, Rand. For everything.”

Christ, she smells good. And that body is just inches from mine.

She releases her hold, and my hand falls away from her shoulder. I want to grab her back to me and… what?

Hug her? Fuck her? Tell her it will all be okay?

Tell her to suck my dick?

Please Cat, suck my dick?

Instead, I turn away from her and walk behind the counter. “I probably won’t be home until really late tonight, so I guess I’ll see you then.”

“Okay,” she says with a smile and starts to turn away.

“Unless you’re coming to The Silo tonight?” I throw out, hoping my voice doesn’t sound anything more than casual.

She gives a small shake of her head. “I don’t think so.”

The weight of crushing disappointment hits me again. While I’ve firmly made up my mind I am not touching Cat while she’s at my apartment because I’ve invited her there out of friendship, I’d reasoned in my mind that she was still fair game at The Silo. I mean, if you walk in those doors, it means you want to f*ck. No-strings-attached sex to be precise.

Right?

So, if Catherine Lyons were to walk into that door tonight, technically she would be fair game.

I think.

But that apparently isn’t happening.





Chapter 4


Cat



I can’t believe I’m here.

I promised myself I wasn’t coming back. Not after Rand found me sleeping in my car in the parking lot last night.

Not ever again.

Yet here I am, nervously smoothing down a simple black, form-fitting strapless dress as I stand outside the entrance door to The Silo.

One of the most truthful things I’ve ever admitted to myself is that my feelings for The Silo are complicated. It’s a place I’ve loved and hated at different times.

It’s made me feel beautiful and ugly.

Needed and abhorred.

Powerful and weak.

The times I’ve felt good walking out those doors were fleeting, the buzz and adrenaline of great sex already a cold, distant memory. The lingering happiness that filled me from being desired and needed by others soon fizzling into nothingness.

But those times I’ve felt bad walking out… those stuck with me a lot longer. Usually through a scalding hot shower to wash away the sweat of others, while I sat on the tiled floor and chanted over and over again that this was what I needed to do to survive.

Oddly enough, The Silo helped me survive the sick perversion Samuel was intent on forcing me to endure. It was the lesser of two evils, and so I made sure I put on quite the show whenever my husband brought me here so he could watch me get f*cked and debased because that made him happy. He watched with clouded eyes from his wheelchair, his mouth twisted into a feral grin, and I made sure he believed I loved every bit of it, because it was one of the few ways I could assert my independence from him. It was also how I could hurt him, if even only a tiny bit, because he’d much rather believe I hated it.