Not that he didn’t think about it. Way more often than he should.

That night, exactly between his thirteenth and fourteenth birthdays, was best forgotten—though his goddamn psyche didn’t always pay attention to what was best. So much had changed in that hour when he’d snuck out of the house to go visit Uncle Wyatt. He had come home with a different view of the world. Very different. Well, at least of what it was possible to do with a woman. At that time, half his world view was obsessed with that anyway.

Shame bombed him. He’d gone through the twelve years since that summer with a bullet in his psychological chamber aimed at Wyatt—and maybe at Josie too—as he not-so-subtly blamed them for the scene he’d secretly witnessed in the barn that night. Though Josie hadn’t been totally naked yet, he’d known she soon would be. He’d also known that the uncle he’d worshipped his whole life, who’d inspired his dream of going Special Ops one day, had returned from Afghanistan a changed man in many ways—but most disturbingly in this way. The conflict was grueling to resolve, especially as Garrett’s own alternative tastes began to creep in on him.

Quickly, he’d learned “those tendencies” weren’t talked about in a place like Adel, Iowa. Hell, they weren’t talked about anywhere. Even Zeke hadn’t said a word to him until Sage was gone and they’d had a two-week dry spell for missions, turning Garrett into a wall-climbing nuisance of unspent energy. Z finally came clean about himself, becoming Garrett’s tour guide down the dark halls of Club Subjugate. In one night, the guy opened Garrett up to a world more surreal than fucking Oz. Surreal…and amazing. And justifying. And, in so many inexplicable ways, fulfilling.

Because of Zeke, it was suddenly all okay—at least when he practiced the dynamic. When it came time for Garrett to demand the safe word and wield the flogger, it had been a different story. His instinct had roared yes, but his mind, still reeling with everything Sage, had revolted with guilt, confusion, and castigation. The only solution had been to drink himself into a stupor. Z had never judged his decision, the same way Garrett never held Z’s choices against him. He’d left Subjugate, putting that shit behind him for good. Been there, tried that. The Dominant itch was scratched for good.

Or so he’d thought.

His face was stamped on the idiot coin for good now, wasn’t it?

“Fuck.”

No. You’re not an idiot. You’re a moron. You had the woman of your soul on a golden platter, but you picked today to revisit this shit? She wanted you inside her. She spoke words you’d been dreaming of for a goddamn year. Instead, you forced her down. Spanked her. Not just on her glorious ass, either. You smacked her on the most sensitive part of her body. You made her cry, and not in the oh-my-girlie-stars-that-was-amazing kind of way.

And just thinking about it again gave him an erection that put the flagpole across the courtyard to shame.

“I can’t think straight,” he said past clenched teeth.

“No shit,” Zeke replied. “You wanna talk?”

“No.” He pivoted around. “No, goddamnit, I don’t want to talk. I just need to get out of here. Now.”

“You got it.” The guy shoved away from the pillar that his shoulders rivaled for stone-hard texture. “Let me go grab the keys to the jeep.”

“Rayna will stay with her, right? I don’t want her to be alone, but—” I need to bug out of here. Before this perverted monkey on my back eats me alive.

“Of course she will, Hawk,” his friend assured. “I’ll check on them both, and then we’ll bug.”

* * *

An hour later, the aplomb in Zeke’s bold features gave way to amazement. Not that Garrett could see all of his friend’s face, since the interior of the Half-Moon bar was engulfed in perpetual twilight and they’d just walked in from a bright summer morning.

But sometimes the tilt of a guy’s head said it all. That and one line laced in incredulity.

“What the fuck?”

Garrett said nothing as he turned to follow the hostess who’d come to greet them—a tiny woman with straight black bangs, a practiced smile, and fake tits. She led them to one of many sumptuous sitting areas lining the room and then motioned for them to sit in big leather chairs. One wall was consumed by an expensive-looking portrait of an exotic naked beauty holding decorated fans over her body in all the right places. A backlit bar gleamed in the corner, and the air smelled like eucalyptus and mango. Aside from the artwork and the hostess with the mostest popping open a couple of beers for them, the place could’ve been a classy lounge back home.

“Good afternoon. My name is Gia.” The woman’s English was a soft combination of proper British and come-fuck-me seduction.

“Hi there, Gia.” Zeke smiled with what wasn’t his complete panty-melting smirk—yet. “I’ll take a beer.”

“Ditto,” Garrett added.

“Can I get you boys…anything else? Are these acceptable accommodations, or would you like something more…relaxing?”

“This is fine,” Garrett insisted. “Thank you.”

A small pressure on his thigh drew his gaze lower. He watched her red-polished fingernail trail an inch closer toward his cock, nearing its one-hour mark of flagpole status thanks to Sage’s first kiss. “You’re a beautiful man.” She licked her bottom lip. “You’re certain there’s nothing else I can…blow your way for comfort?”

Garrett caught her wrist as she touched his fly. “Thank you, but no.”

The woman pulled her hand back with demure grace. “Let me know if you have a change of heart, soldier.” She sashayed away, leaving Garrett to await the inevitable snort from Z.

Half a second later, the guy delivered on the expectation. “Okay, asshat, I’m officially out of rounds to fire at your gray matter. I learned how to add up people before I could add two and two, but right now I’m tossing in the towel on making sense of you.”

“Never recalled asking for it.” He chugged half the beer while staring at his boot, crossed against his opposite knee. He hoped Z would leave it at that. No such luck.

“All right. You indulge me for a second, because I need to get this shit straight. The woman who’s been fueling your wet dreams for the last year has now pulled the miracle move of the century and come back from the dead. You were finally alone with her, the perfect chance to get some true-to-life action for those sorry nuts of yours, yet you’re here, getting your shitface on with a bastard like me?”

His friend’s words did nothing for the muckball in his gut. Like I don’t know all that already? Like I don’t know what a feast Freud would have with my psyche right now? They’re called demons, my friend, and I need to purge them…

Outwardly, he scowled at his beer label. “It’s complicated.”

“Shit howdy, Corncob Bob, ya think so?”

Garrett slammed his foot down. “Look, dickwad, this is partly your fault.”

Zeke’s posture shot straight up. “What the hell? My fault?”

“If you hadn’t dragged my ass to Subjugate that night and—”

Fuck. His mouth had sprinted ahead of his brain. He realized it the same second Zeke did. His friend’s eyebrows shot to his hairline.

“Okay.” Z drew each syllable out with knowing emphasis. “Now we’re getting somewhere. So this is about that Dominant streak you keep denying, huh?”

The stomach sludge roiled with new fury, forcing him to his feet. He grabbed his bottle as he went, hurling it into the trash behind the bar, filling the little room with the crash of shattering glass. “I don’t have a fucking ‘Dominant’ side.”

“Yeah,” Zeke muttered, “and I’m the Prince of Persia.”

Garrett thought of flipping him off, but the urge got back-burnered. He prayed like hell that the booze would help relax the neurons between his ears long enough to figure out this crap for good. Or maybe he needed to stop being so nice. Sit the demons down for a fight instead of a friendly chitchat. Guys like Zeke were comfortable with their demons. And guys like Zeke were also raised on Big Macs, Linkin Park, and fist fighting in the park.

He’d been raised on corn mazes, Kenny Chesney, and Sunday School.

Which meant he needed to dynamite this shit back to the darkness it came from—and no way in hell was Sage getting anywhere near the blast zone.

Jesus loves me…

One beer. Another.

Vodka straight up. Then another.

This I know…

Then, plunking down the Benjamin, ordered the waitress to leave the whole damn bottle.

Zeke’s questioning glare started wavering in his vision. He grinned back, welcoming the engulfing, numbing fog. Soon now. The demons would come…and they’d have their nice little chat…

But only one demon arrived.

And damn it if irony didn’t deserve a fist bump for the delivery.

The fantasy blazed to life in his head…

He moaned, letting it all the way in.

* * *