Page 8

8

JAMIE

A t two in the afternoon, I drag myself out of bed and head to the training center. Three other rowers meet me at the pool. The guys are loud and rowdy. A late night, a hangover, and the Jude anniversary slow me down, but muscle memory kicks in once I get moving.

Growing up, the water was always the best place for me. When you’re in the Irish Sea—or even seaside as a lifeguard—you have to be vigilant. It was then that I was most free of my guilt. The times I had to focus attention elsewhere were the only thing that kept me from beating my head against the wall in my teens when my anger unhinged me.

Later, I learned to harness and channel my rage into violence, and things improved. It’s ironic that, as I became more of a menace, I must’ve seemed calmer to the outside world.

Ten laps in, I begin to dominate and win our races. The others are just as strong and fit, but I’m more efficient. My experience fighting currents was a training like no other. Nature never wears out. I learned to make the most of every stroke and how to recover quickly during moments of rest. In a rip current, there’s no place for doubt. Pain and fatigue are things to be managed. So you can keep fucking going.

A good metaphor for a troubled life.

I find my rhythm and swim so long I’m the last one in the pool. Counting strokes drops me into a meditative zone where I’m dissociated from the burn in my muscles or lungs.

When someone calls my name and draws me out, I wonder again if what I feel in the water is anything like what submissives feel when they reach subspace. From things some have explained about it, I think it might be.

After a shower, we emerge from the center as a group. There’s talk of going for food and one of the guys’ girlfriends is bringing a friend.

I’m always in the mood for company, if only to help drown out dangerous thoughts, but there’s a text from War. He has to go to Boston for work and plans to stop in a dungeon on the way back. I’m tempted to go along. Wild sex is another great way to distract myself, and I was already celibate yesterday in observance of Jude’s loss.

Before I can reply, someone steps into my personal space. A cloying perfume overwhelms my senses, and I look up. Clare Duffy’s standing a few inches away.

“Ride with me to Bruno’s, Jamie. I’ve got a proposition for you.”

Oh, hell. Clare’s the friend. Hard pass.

One of my teammates gives me a wave as he and his girlfriend head toward the parking lot, probably thinking he’s done a good deed by leaving me with the clever girl whose family has Irish roots. It’s a shame I’m not attracted to Clare because she’s after me like a queen bee looking to colonize her hive.

My tone is less than pleased when I respond. “What are you doing here, Clare?”

Her thin brows rise over green eyes that are set a fraction too far forward. She studies me in cool assessment with her bug eyes. “My friend and I were working on club business, and she mentioned dinner with her boyfriend and some of his teammates. Is my being here a problem?”

The challenge in her voice is a mistake. Not that she had a chance of getting anywhere with me anyway. Razor sharp banter is fun during a poker game, but it doesn’t get my dick hard.

“The Briar Club business you were working on, was that to do with incoming members?”

I’ve been wondering what Ash meant when she said a girl with a crush on me declared herself as Cranberry Sauce’s enemy.

There’s the tiniest hesitation before Clare speaks. “No.” She’s lying. “Event planning,” she adds firmly.

“Hmm. The girl you had helping out at the game last night, she’s a potential member, right? How long until she’s fully in?”

Clare’s expression hardens. “Induction into the club is very limited. Only five percent of applicants make it through both rounds of screening.”

“But she’s got you as an advisor, right?” I cock my head, appraising her. “I bet the ones you choose make it through.”

She stares in the direction the others have gone. “So, about dinner… I’m hungry and you must’ve worked up an appetite. Let’s head to my car.”

“I drove here.”

Her eyes widen. “I thought you didn’t drive?”

“Little known fact,” I say with a shrug. “So, about Sawyer. You’re not dropping your support for her, are you?”

Clare’s expression shutters. “As I said, I’m hungry. I hope you’ll be at the tavern. There’s something I want to discuss.” With that she stalks away.

If petty jealousy wasn’t what drove Clare to drop Sawyer, Clare probably would’ve pointed out some of her shortcomings to me just now. From the look on her face at my bringing Cranberry Sauce up, Clare cut ties with Sawyer on impulse for the exact reason Sawyer suspects.

Normally, I’ve got no interest in this kind of petty shite. But there are reasons I might decide to take an interest. Because she —Cranberry Sauce—interests me.

I get in the truck and let out a slow breath.

C Sauce is a poor prospect for me if my cousin plans to strike up a close friendship with her. The rough way I’d like to use her means things could get messy. And I don’t have time to deal with complicated situations.

Plus, there are plenty of other attractive women on campus. And in the Boston dungeon.

Right, stay focused. No messing about with Sawyer.

That settled, I bail on dinner with the team and pick up food on the way home for War and me. We’ll eat and then head to the sex club.