Caged

  bathroom. Staring at herself in the mirror, she gave herself the mother of all silent pep talks.

  This too shall pass.

  You can’t miss what you never really had.

  Don’t let a broken heart break your spirit.

  Just keep swimming.

  When all else fails, make a list.

  The first thing on that list would be to find a new gym.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  FOCUSING on Fee’s birthday party for Katie Saturday night provided Molly with a much-needed distraction. She’d hauled booze, set up seating areas, spooned out dip and hummus, loaded platters of crackers and chips.

  So when Katie started micromanaging the placement of the bowls of gourmet olives, Fee banished Katie to her bedroom and put Molly on babysitting duty, warning her to get ready.

  “Get ready” was girl code for—you deal with the crazy bitch when she starts strutting around in just her hot rollers.

  It sucked to be the modest one in a sea of nymphs.

  Sure, in the dojo locker room Molly could strip down to her bra and panties. But strolling around buck-assed naked in front of her friends? No way. Not even if she had a killer birthday suit like the birthday girl did.

  Rather than sit on the counter in the bathroom, Molly parked herself in the bedroom, barring the door, keeping Katie in, rather than keeping others out.

  “Hey, jailer,” Katie yelled from the bathroom. “Take a look at the outfits on the bed.”

  Molly wandered to the alcove housing the four-poster, lake-sized bed. Swaths of sheer, shimmery blue fabric were artfully draped across the metal rods above the mattress, creating a canopy. Her gaze caught on leopard-print fur-lined handcuffs—a pair dangled from each side of the headboard.

  An image popped into her head of being locked in cuffs as a man teased her with yards of silk.

  Not a man. Deacon.

  Dammit. Stop thinking about him. It’s over.

  She focused on the clothing displayed on the pristine white comforter, as if arranged by a boutique salesperson.

  The first outfit was a pale pink baby-doll dress—holy crap was it short, even with the puffy rolled layers of chiffon at the hemline. The neckline had been trimmed in white marabou. The silver stilettos on the floor were also festooned with pink fluff.

  It screamed . . . retro. If anyone could pull off the sixties sex-kitten vibe, Katie could.

  Outfit number two paired skinny jeans—Gucci, of course—with a shirt that started out a brilliant blue across the shoulders. The colors gradually lightened to a pale blue that reminded Molly of Deacon’s eyes. The fringe mimicked the ombré look of the fabric—but in reverse. The boots Katie had picked were killer: black leather with a cuff that covered the knee and the needle-sharp heels were at least four inches.

  It screamed hot and sexy. No one wore a pair of fifteen-hundred-dollar jeans better than Katie.

  The last outfit had a tiny red leather skirt, a sleeveless white V-neck silk shirt, and a sequined bolero jacket in tones of red, cream, and black. The black ankle-strap heels completed the ensemble.

  Katie poked her head out. “So? What do you think?”

  “Does the little red number come with a cape and a bull?”

  She grinned. “It might attract a certain bull rider I’ve invited.”

  “Won’t Ivan get jealous?”

  “I’m counting on it. But tell me what you think of the others.”

  “I like the fluffy pink baby doll.”

  “But?” Katie prompted.

  What Molly knew about fashion was cribbed from two sources: Fashion Police and InStyle magazine. So she hesitated to be truthful with Katie, who attended fashion week in New York. “Well . . .”

  “Spit it out.”

  “The shoes make the outfit boudoir wear. If you had white go-go boots, then it’d be perfect.”

  Katie squealed. “I have a pair of those! Can you grab them out of my shoe closet?”

  “Sure.” Katie had multiple closets in this mini-mansion. But the shoe closet was actually a small sitting room she’d remodeled for her vast footwear collection.

  Since it’d be easy to get distracted by the shoe mecca, Molly headed straight for the boot section of the closet and found the shiny white vinyl boots on the second shelf.

  Thankfully, Katie was dressed when Molly returned. Her long blond hair fell in perfect waves. She’d applied her makeup with a heavier hand—smoky cat eyes, frosted lips, blusher that accentuated her cheekbones.

  “You look stunning, birthday girl,” Molly told her.

  “Thank you. Now that I’m getting older, I’ll probably have to double up on my skin-care regimen.”

  “Older. Right. You’re what . . . twenty-four today?”

  “No, I’m a quarter of a century, baby.” Katie tugged Molly into the bathroom. “So tell me about the party setup. It’s killing me not to be in charge of it.”

  “You’ll live. Tell me who you invited.”

  Katie’s eyes met hers in the mirror. “I’ll tell you who I didn’t invite.”

  For the briefest moment Molly felt bad for Deacon because she knew what it was like to be excluded.

  “Ronin and Amery won’t show. Neither will Knox and Shiori. Beck will be here. Big Rig . . . he’s scared of me, I think. Maddox said he’d put in an appearance. So did Fisher.”

  “What about Blue?”

  Her pert nose wrinkled. “I didn’t invite him.”

  “Katie, he’s your boss.”

  “Which is exactly why I don’t need him judging me on my birthday!”

  “But he’s Fee’s brother.”

  “You think Fee wants Blue to see her getting wild? No. He’d sic Gil on her, to try to talk some sense into her, which is why Gil wasn’t invited either. Anyway, some of my friends from high school will be here, as will others I’ve met here and there. It oughta be an eclectic bunch.”

  Jaz strolled in and gawked at the luxury bathroom. “Wow. This is . . .”

  “Over the top, right? My dad had it redone last year for my birthday. I’m glad he let me talk to the interior designer, or else I’d be living in a pink palace with unicorns and butterflies adorning the walls. The man treats me like I’m seven.”

  “It’s beautiful. The design reminds me of bathrooms I’ve seen in W Hotels.”

  Katie’s mouth dropped open. “That’s exactly what I showed the designer! How do you know about that style?”

  “I’m in the hotel business, remember? We have to keep up with the competition. Anyway, quick question. Fee asked me where you want the gift table set up. I told her we didn’t need one, but she sent me in to double-check.”

  Katie raised one perfectly manicured eyebrow. “Why wouldn’t I need a gift table at my birthday party? Everyone knows a birthday party equals birthday presents.”

  Jaz blinked, as if Katie might be kidding.

  Molly saved her. “I know the perfect place to set up.” She smiled at Katie. “Stay here until we come and get you.”

  “Could you at least bring me a drink?”

  “No. You can chill until the party starts. Drinking alone on your birthday sucks,” Molly said.

  “I hear ya there, sista,” Jaz said and low-fived her.

  As Molly and Jaz headed to the kitchen, Jaz muttered, “I didn’t bring Katie a present.”

  “Oh.”

  “What’d you get her?”

  “A gift certificate for a massage.” Emmylou Simmons, a massage therapist and former friend of Amery and Chaz, still rented space in Amery’s building for her massage studio. But Emmylou didn’t spend much time there since she’d upped her rates and her regulars could no longer afford her. Molly considered that a dick move, but it was how the woman operated. Maybe it was a dick countermove, but since Emmylou had a serious crush on Katie, Molly knew she’d give her an extra-long massage. Emmylou touching what she couldn’t have . . . Yeah, a sweet bit of revenge for the shitty way Emmylou had treated Amery.

  “I
’m fucked; I didn’t bring a gift. I figured she’d celebrate like, oh, normal adults. Too much booze with her friends and a random hookup,” Jaz said.

  “Katie never does anything the way you expect her to,” Molly said as they entered the kitchen.

  “And that is one of the very best things about her,” Fee added, licking frosting off a cupcake. At Molly’s frown, she said, “What? I cannot drink on an empty stomach.”

  “Nice justification, Fee.”

  She grinned. “I rule at justification, Jaz-a-reno.”

  “Stop calling me that!”

  “Nicknames are part of the gig, hanging with us.”

  Jaz looked from Fee to Molly. “Bullshit. I’ve never heard you guys use nicknames with each other.”

  Fee burst out laughing. “Gotcha, DJ Jazzy-Jaz.”

  “Seriously gonna kick your ass one of these days, Curacao.”

  “Bring it.” Fee licked her thumb. “Or you could become my training partner. Then you could try to kick my ass every day while I prove the superiority of Brazilian jujitsu.”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Katie said, strolling into the kitchen. “Are you trying to poach Jaz from Black Arts for ABC?”

  “Hell no. You think I wanna tangle with Ronin Black?” Fee shuddered. “I was just making conversation.” Her eyes narrowed. “Which you should not be hearing, since you’re supposed to be in your bedroom.”

  “I’m done with that. It’s better for me to greet people at the door. That way I’ll be sure to talk to everyone.”

  “That’s actually a great idea,” Molly said.

  “Of course it is. That way I’ll get to pick a birthday fuck.”

  Fee and Molly exchanged a look . . . which, of course, Katie caught.

  “Stop judging me. Yes, Ivan will be here. But we’re not a couple. He knows it’s just sex, no strings with me.”

  “There’s no such thing,” Jaz said softly.

  “I agree,” Fee said.

  “You wanna make this the trifecta of Katie’s wrong?” Katie demanded of Molly.

  “Sorry, K. Sex always has strings, and there’s bound to be blowback—and no, I didn’t say blow job—when the free-for-all fucking ends.”

  “What about one-night stands?” Katie countered.

  Jaz shook her head. “Hooking up for one night only is a whole different animal.”

  “There can be guilt in one-nighters,” Fee said. “But there’s a boatload more guilt in a fuck-buddy relationship. Guilt from the person who wants it to be a real relationship. Guilt from the person who can’t give them what they want.”

  “Speaking from experience, Fee?” Katie asked.

  “I learned I’m better off getting myself off with a vibrator than with a guy.” When the pause lingered too long, she smirked at Katie. “So if you don’t score a birthday fuck tonight, my gift will come in very handy.”

  • • •

  TWO hours into the party, the booze was half gone and the house was packed.

  Since Molly had spent most of her time restocking food and drinks, she shouldn’t have noticed Deacon in the corner, watching her from the shadows. But she did.

  Just pretend you don’t see him.

  That was lame.

  Then storm up to him, slap him across the face, and walk off.

  That was mean.

  He deserves it.

  While she debated a course of action, Deacon acted.

  He stopped before her only when she held her hand up to keep him from coming closer. “You weren’t invited to this party.”

  “So? I knew you’d be here, so I crashed it.”

  “You always do what you want and damn the consequences?”

  “Only when the stakes are as high as they are with you.”

  Don’t fall for his lines.

  “We need to talk.”

  “No, we don’t. Go home, Deacon.” She turned and started to walk away.

  “Molly,” he said her name sharply.

  She hated that his tone immediately had her looking at him.

  Keep walking and don’t look back.

  “Don’t.”

  “Don’t what?”

  “Shut down.”

  “If anyone is shut down, Deacon, it’s you.” Against her better judgment, she retorted, “While I understand you have reasons for keeping secrets, I don’t have to like it, let alone accept that’s part of the deal with you.”

  “Don’t be like this.”

  “Be what? Rational? I don’t know why I ever thought this would . . .” Molly looked away. “Your past isn’t the biggest—or even the only—hurdle between us, Deacon. You know that. Now I know that. We shouldn’t have pretended otherwise.”

  “Molly. Babe. Look at me.”

  The instant their eyes met, she felt the pull between them. And he knew she still felt it.

  “One hour. Give me one hour to tell you everything. No bullshit. No holding back.”

  Don’t give in.

  “If you want to walk away after that, I won’t stop you.”

  She felt herself caving. If nothing else, this might give her closure. “All right. Tomorrow at eleven. At Snooze.”

  Deacon shook his head. “Not in public. And it has to be tonight.”

  “Where?”

  “At the dojo.”

  She needed to be in a place where she felt confident and in control. She shook her head. “At my office. I’ll meet you there in an hour.”

  Deacon watched her very carefully. “You’ll really be there?”

  “You worried I’ll stand you up like you did to me?” When he didn’t respond, she said, “I’m not a ‘paybacks are a bitch’ bitch. If you don’t know that about me, Deacon, maybe we should just forget this—”

  “No.” Then Deacon’s hands were gently framing her face. “I’m fucking this up. Story of my goddamn life. Just . . . please. Give me a chance.”

  The cool detachment she expected to see in his eyes wasn’t there. She could feel his arms shaking and he didn’t try to hide it.

  “I’ll be there.”