Enduring (Family Justice Book 8) Page 30

  She nodded. “Owner—not member. Excellent distinction.”

  “The answer is simple yet not. First, excess of anything is a danger. In the long run, I prefer moderation. Julian, unfortunately, has never understood the concept. He played hard, and things got real. Now, he’s empty. Oh, sure. He has all the sex he wants, but it’s just sex. There’s zero emotion involved.”

  “Oh.”

  “Second, I’m human. Being around that lifestyle is incredibly tempting, but I know my limits and choose to remain on the outside. It’s hard to explain because clearly my desires are very much in keeping with the whole thing.”

  He caressed her arm and kissed her forehead. “Until you play with emotion and do those things with someone you love, it’s not healthy. For me. Does that answer your question?”

  It did. And it didn’t. She understood why he wasn’t more involved where the club was concerned, but what he’d just admitted about his desires didn’t solve her quandary. The notion gnawing in her gut that Roman had needs she couldn’t answer made her edgy and tense.

  “Let me ask you a question,” he quietly murmured.

  She nodded for him to continue.

  “You like the challenge of being restrained. Dominated. Was this something you knew or suspected before I came along and took your virginity?”

  Wow, oh wow. He went straight to it, didn’t he?

  “I didn’t have preconceived ideas. Staying ahead of the next crisis was my whole life. And I didn’t know when we got together what that would mean. All I did know was how it felt when you took control. The first time you tied me up? I knew then.”

  He nodded. “I can’t pretend that I don’t get off on dominating you. But Carina, that power without love isn’t what I’m about. Do you understand?”

  She cuddled against him and sighed heavily. “Yes, thank you. We are on the same page, Roman—even if it seems like I’m uncertain.”

  A finger under her chin lifted Kelly’s face until she was staring into eyes brimming with tenderness and passion. “You asked me to trust you. Take all the time you need, baby girl. When you are ready to talk, I’m ready to listen.”

  Meghan flipped through the selfies and snapped pics from the ladies’ final costume fitting. Seeing the bold getup made her unsure. What if Alex didn’t like it?

  Oh, she knew he’d like the cheeky rhumba-style bottoms, sexy fishnets, and outrageous hooker heels. Same for the risqué corset and stage makeup. But there was a very real possibility that her beast would not react favorably to her strutting her goodies on stage—even if it was for a closed and very private after party.

  Oh, shit. Her heart was pounding. Biting her lip, she scrolled through the front and back view pictures one more time. Stephanie warned all of them that the men might not find their burlesque throw down amusing. Was she right?

  She heard Alex’s approaching footsteps and quickly put her phone down.

  His voice rang out with command. “Wife,” he drawled. “Front and center, Mrs. Marquez.”

  Fixing a smile on her face, she stood when he crowded into her tiny home office—but he wasn’t fooled.

  He did a quick double take and then snickered while shaking his head. When he crossed his arms and looked her up and down, she nearly swooned. Nobody did alpha beast like her husband.

  “Okay, woman. What? Am I going to be furious or just mad?”

  “No way you got that with one look,” she griped. She pulled on a lock of her hair and twisted it nervously around her fingers.

  “Meghan?”

  She threw herself on him, and luckily, he caught her. “You’re gonna be mad,” she whined.

  “What did you do?”

  “Um, I didn’t ask. For permission.”

  He backed up a step, slapped a hand rather dramatically over his heart, and barked, “Holy fuck! Permission? Did that word actually leave your mouth?”

  His act was so funny she couldn’t help her amused snicker. Concepts like permission and the old-fashioned expectation that his wife obey were things she constantly pushed back against. To both of their amusement.

  “Stop it.” She laughed. “I’m being serious.”

  “Serious?” he asked. “Hmm. Okay. So how mad am I going to be? Is this a quick trip over my knee or a real punishment?”

  The word punishment made her lady parts get all warm and tingly. Was it messed up that Alex’s punishments were sexy and hot as fuck? Or that she craved his complete control?

  With a half shrug, she said, “It may depend on how much you’ve had to drink.”

  His right brow raised a fraction. “Am I drinking Glenfiddich or …”

  Some things she just couldn’t let go, and this was one. “Glenfiddich is for pussies. Stop making me say it. Toughen up, bucko. I’m talking the real deal. There’s a reason sin is the ending sound of Jameson.”

  “And if I’m sober as a judge?”

  Oh lordy—that was what she was afraid of. With a sultry pout, she pushed him away. “If that’s the case, I’ll just ask that you remember I’m the mother of your children and to go easy on me.”

  He grinned and needled her. So typical.

  “Will there be a disciplinary ass fucking in this scenario?”

  She gaped at him and dropped like a rock onto her desk chair.

  He blinked. Twice. “Baby, I was kidding.”

  Right then, she questioned every raunchy bump, grind, and lewd maneuver of the dance routine. Maybe shaking her voluptuous assets in his face wasn’t such a smart move.

  Changing the subject seemed like her safest bet. It was too damn late to alter the act, and at least, she wouldn’t be strutting her stuff alone. This bit of Justice debauchery was a group endeavor. If it ended with a crew of grumbling alphas, they’d just have to suck it up and deal.

  “There’s a lot riding on this shindig. Did you know Delilah is doing her Bendover podcast from the Double M? She’s got a sound booth set up to do interviews.”

  “Delilah Stanwyck?” He chuckled. “She used to be on the radio when we were in high school. Her smoky voice and suggestive patter gave many a horny teenage boy a raging stiffy.”

  She scowled. “Her podcast is hugely popular. Please behave, Alex. And Parker. Make him behave too.”

  “Why does everyone assume I can control that king-size fuckwad? Swear to god,” he snarled. “Sullivan and his choirboy shit has gotten old. Anything we ever did that was over the line was one hundred percent his fault.”

  Blaming Parker was Alex’s new go-to. It was an amusing tactic. And the way Angie told it, Parker had a similar habit of dumping on Alex as a way to justify some very questionable prior behavior and just about anything and everything in the present tense.

  He was doing that thing where his brows bumped together and his eyes squinted slightly. His head tilted. He moved closer. Her office was so small and cluttered that with two steps, he left her no room at all.

  Meghan felt the possession in his touch when he stroked her shoulder before curling his big, sturdy fingers around the back of her neck. She reached up and clutched his arm.

  “I’ll mind my manners. Promise. This is your day, baby. I’m only along to support my wife. Whatever you need, I’m your man. Okay?”

  She wanted to cry. He was so damn wonderful.

  His large hands took her face and held it gently. A familiar shiver of total awareness raced through her.

  “Why are you so nervous?”

  Putting her hands on his waist, she grabbed his shirt. A worried groan rattled in her chest, and she closed her eyes to help stay in control.

  Yes, she was concerned that he wouldn’t be pleased by a bit of harmless fun, but her nervous level came from a surprising deluge of self-doubt over her role as the wife of Alexander Cristián Joaquin Valleja-Marquez.

  There were whispers—she heard them. Snarky meanness. How she was far too big for her britches with her massive bank account and fancy life.

  When Alex, who was blissfully unaware of
his place amongst the Southwest’s hottest, richest, and most eligible husband-slash-sugar daddy prospects, married an outsider—from Boston, of all Yankee places—Meghan became a target for contempt.

  After the family center opened, she was horrified to discover—via social media where people lived to be assholes—that she wasn’t universally loved. Not everyone was on board with her vision for the Double M. And not because it was a shitty idea.

  Nope, apparently all it took these days to be the focus of attack was to breathe. There was always someone, someplace who would be a dick and sometimes the haters grew unruly.

  The variety show was another public opportunity to take a swipe at her and through her, Alex.

  “I don’t want to disappoint you.”

  His hands released her face. “What?” he said with a start. “Disappoint me? Meghan, what’s going on?”

  Should she tell him? Was this the best time—the day of the show?

  “Remember that stupid local reporter who tried to start shit with Angie?”

  “The one with the gotcha angle?”

  She nodded jerkily.

  “I thought Soph and my mom shut her down. With an able assist from Duke. Tossed them out of the Villa on the morning of the wedding. Do you mean that cunt?”

  Alex did not throw the C word around without ample cause. His disdain for the tacky journalist wasn’t a surprise, but her status in the C category was.

  “Yes, well, she reached out to arrange an interview.”

  He growled, and she froze. “You declined, I hope.”

  “Of course,” she answered with a shrug. “But refusing a sit-down isn’t going to keep her from writing an article on the Double M.”

  His lips claimed hers. It was a familiar move on her husband’s part to interject a slight pause while he considered her reveal.

  “I don’t know what she’s up to, but Meghan, and I don’t give a fuck what anybody thinks.” His gritty scoff was full of derision. “Not giving a fuck is the unofficial Justice motto. We deliberately dropped this testosterone kingdom of fuckery where we did to make it easier to shut out the rest of the goddamn world. Some small town reporter bitch with an ax to grind doesn’t scare me.”

  Exactly what she expected him to say. Alex wasn’t easily moved—especially not by bullshit.

  “I know, but I can’t help wonder why. Why is she so fixated on us? It bothers me, and with everything else going on, I don’t know,” she murmured. “Something’s not right.”

  “Something not being right seems to be a theme lately.”

  And that right there was part of the problem. They couldn’t point to any one thing and say, there it was. This was what was wrong. One minute, it was this, and the next minute, that. She was skin-prickling aware of the next-level security bubble surrounding her—especially when she left the safety of the Villa property. In no sane person’s mind was any of this normal.

  “Stay close, please.”

  He understood what she was asking. “You’re my priority. Always.”

  Finn paced back and forth along the second story balcony at Remy’s Villa apartment. She refused to let him in and banished him to wait outside. For no reason other than he was bored, he considered the building that housed the old Justice business center—a place taken over by the women because, why not?

  There were three apartments on the second floor—all vacant except for Remy’s. A one-time hub of activity, once the agency moved further from the Villa and family quarters, the building was dead space.

  At the end of the balcony, he leaned on the railing and took in the extraordinary scenery. He wondered why Remy chose the middle apartment—the one without a view.

  He swung around when a sound alerted him to his lady’s presence. When she shut her apartment door and turned to him, he all but crapped his pants.

  Remington Bisset never ever, ever showed her legs. Ever. The only reason he’d seen her bare legs was because they shared a bed, and it wasn’t like she could sleep in jeans and a T-shirt. He knew the reason for her reluctance and said nothing. So when she nervously ran a hand down her side, he wasn’t sure what to do.

  Or say.

  She was wearing a skirt. Something long and flowy with a casual Western flair. Instead of her usual shit-kicking boots, she sported a pair of strappy sandals. A beautiful Concho belt made of turquoise and silver that he suspected wasn’t cheap sat low on her hips.

  The body-hugging sleeveless top that clung to her stupendous boobs was also dressed up with a turquoise necklace. The southwestern colors and her shiny black hair stopped him in his tracks.

  She was fucking gorgeous.

  “Say something,” she griped.

  Her skittish tension melted his heart. She was worried about dressing like a real live human female.

  The temptation to ask for a model strut was hard to tamp down, but he did because there was no need to freak her out more.

  Striding toward her, he stuck out his hand. She appeared startled and took it by reflex.

  “Hi,” he drawled. “I’m Finn.”

  She looked at him like he was crazy. He peered over her shoulder.

  “I was just waiting for my girlfriend. I wonder where she is.”

  Luckily, she chuckle-snorted and dug her elbow into his side. “Fuck off, Beantown.”

  He took both of her hands and held them wide while checking her out one more time.

  “You look fucking awesome, babe.” He took a breath and leered at her as suggestively as he knew how. “And to be clear, I will fucking kill anyone who looks at you sideways.”

  “My hero.” She sniggered.

  He sobered and looked her in the eye. “Count on it.”

  Taking her hand, he fed it through the crook of his arm and pressed her fingers against him. “I might have to kick Leonard DiCaprio’s ass.”

  He started walking, but sensed her hesitation.

  “Whatever did Leo do to you?” she asked with a quizzical frown.

  “Let me just say this,” he proudly declared as they descended the stairs and headed for his truck. “With you at my side, I claim king of the world status. Period.”

  He saw her satisfied smirk when she settled on the passenger seat, but then her mood quickly took a U-turn.

  “I can do this myself, you know,” she objected with a surly bite when he insisted on buckling her in.

  “Yes, but when I do it, you know I’m serious about watching out for you.”

  Once they got under way, they talked about the weather. It was hot.

  She asked about the after party at Pete’s. He told her Barry was in charge.

  He commented about the expensive silver belt. She explained it was a gift from her cowboy-loving father.

  The drive was comfortable in an awkward way. She wasn’t fighting their relationship status any longer, which was a huge relief. But she continued to struggle with where the next step would lead.

  Once he’d talked to his father and had a much clearer understanding of Remy’s inner dialogue, he decided to gently push. Not a lot—but just enough. Enough to keep them moving forward.

  “Have you given any more thought to performing? Solo?”

  From the corner of his eye, he saw her smooth a shaky hand on the skirt covering her legs. He wanted to salute her bravery for taking what he knew was a gigantic step—going out in public without her suit of armor.

  “Um, well, yeah but not solo. I, uh, said I’d do something with one of Ingrid’s students. The fiddle player. He’s amazing.”

  Feeling buoyed by her about-face, he launched into a raft of awful jokes punctuated with some bar stories. She always laughed at his take on the shit that went down at Pete’s.

  “Domineau is bringing the jaw drops tonight,” she quietly informed him. “And I’m not referring to the after party.”

  “Oh? Do tell.”

  She shrugged, giggled, coughed, and shifted in her seat. “She’s doing a skit.”

  “Say what now? A skit? As
in Monty Python?”

  “More like Saturday Night Live in a mash-up with the old Gong Show.”

  Hmph. That certainly did not sound like the Domineau Rivera he knew and was scared shitless of.

  The employee parking area at the Double M was already filling up when they arrived. Before long, the food court would be filled with people enjoying a potluck dinner. Ria and Betty Boop’s church ladies had a well-oiled system for group feeds. He was a little jealous of their take-charge ways.

  He caught sight of Calder running between buildings and thought he saw Roman too. At least, he thought it was Bishop. Kind of hard to tell when his body was partially obscured by a helium balloon bouquet.

  They separated at the entrance to the multi-purpose building. After a far too short kiss, she dashed off to help Ingrid while he went in search of his sister.

  Finn crossed his fingers and did a bit of Saint begging for a stress-free event.

  Lacey settled on a little stool in front of the stage and waited for the announcer to introduce the next act.

  So far, everything was going off without a hitch. The local high school marching band started the evening with a rousing rendition of “America the Beautiful” that got the two hundred-plus audience on their feet.

  She was still laughing at Heather and Brody’s neighbor—the dentist, Mark Stewart. He and his daughter, Amy—friend of Bella, Matty, and Molly—had performed a spectacularly clumsy juggling act that reduced the audience to gales of laughter.

  Two locals who auditioned for America’s Got Talent gave fantastic standing ovation performances. One played an honest-to-heaven harp and the other wowed the crowd with “Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes” from the musical Rent.

  Next up were her little chickadees. Ingrid caught her eye from the wings of the stage. The vivacious baby booming redhead had an infectious energy that showed in everything she did. Including this show. Wearing a headpiece and carrying an iPad, their show director kept everything moving.

  She gestured to Lacey. It was time. The stage lights lowered, and the clever, moveable screens that served as a curtain traveled across the stage—pushed by black-clothed stage hands.