Ten seconds later, I’m outside, gasping for breath, jogging away from the building. It takes me only five minutes to get home, and I don’t breathe easier until I’m inside my apartment, door locked to the world.
I glance around at my haven. My world. The only place I can be me without anyone judging me. My heart is pounding as I soak in my space. I created this. It’s mine. Everything in here was chosen carefully and purposefully. I need to get a grip. Davis doesn’t own me. I can’t let him control me. He may have held power over me once seven years ago, but he can’t any longer, not if I don’t let him.
I need to think. Pull myself together. Regroup. Remind myself I’m safe and my secrets are, too. As I drop down onto my sofa and set my head in my hands, I groan. Why did I ever let myself get involved with Hudson? Now he’s going to arrive at the club and worry about me. He’ll call me. My phone is behind the front desk.
Shit.
Will he come here? Probably.
I can’t see him tonight. I’m not sure what I’m going to tell him, but I can’t face him until I can get a grip on the fact that my past just showed up to mock me and bite me in the ass.
I flop back on the sofa and stare at the ceiling. It’s like fate is making fun of me and she thought it would be hilarious to put Davis Marcum in my path clear across the country from where I left him. Of all the bad luck.
It took me years to find myself after I left North Carolina, to stop looking over my shoulder and relax enough to build a new life. I thought I was finally free from my past. I’ve let my guard down. I’ve let a man into my life.
What a fool I am. I’ll never be free from my past. It will haunt me until I die.
Chapter 10
Master Hudson
Cindy isn’t at the front desk when I arrive. Leah is. She smiles at me. “Hey.”
“Where’s Cindy?”
Now she frowns. “Julius said she went home sick.” She bends down and lifts Cindy’s bag from the floor. “She didn’t even take her bag with her. She must have felt pretty awful to leave so abruptly.”
I reach for it, unease creeping up my spine.
“Her phone is in there even. It buzzed a few times,” Leah says. “You want to take it to her?”
“Yes. Thank you. I’ll go there now.” I turn around and head back out the door, jogging toward my car. Sick? I suppose it’s possible. I mean, people get sick. But who leaves their phone and belongings behind just because they aren’t feeling well?
I feel panicky about the thought of her walking home from the club without a phone, possibly vomiting or something.
I pull up to her apartment building a few minutes later, glad that I’m confident which apartment is hers. When I enter, I scan the names on the call pad and find hers quickly. Kertis. 4B. I don’t bother calling. I head for the elevator with impatience.
When I reach her door, I’m seriously concerned. I knock. There is no answer. I knock again. Nothing. “Cindy?” Still nothing.
I knock louder. Harder. “Cindy? Let me in. I’m worried about you.”
Finally, I hear her voice. Weak. Not like her at all. “I’m sick, Hudson. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
Not a fucking chance in hell. “Cindy, open the door.”
“I don’t want to get you sick. Please, I feel awful. Just let me call you tomorrow.”
“How are you going to do that? I’m holding your bag with your phone in it.” She at least has to open the door to take her bag from me. Not that I would let her shut me out. I don’t care if she’s so sick that she spends the entire night vomiting and I have to hold her hair. We’re in a relationship. She’s important to me. I won’t be leaving here.
“Bring it back tomorrow then. Please, Hudson.” There is a strange tone to her voice. Desperation. I start to think she’s not sick at all.
“Cindy, I’m not leaving. If you don’t open this door, I’m going to start annoying the neighbors with my demands.”
There is hesitation. “Fine. Jesus. Give me five minutes.”
What the fuck? Why does she need five minutes? I remember her telling me her OCD doesn’t extend to her apartment and I picture her running around cleaning it now. But why is she home at all? If she’s not sick, why did she leave Surrender?
Something chased her out of the club. Something that spooked her enough to cause her to leave her belongings behind.
I wait patiently, not saying another word, hoping none of her neighbors open their doors to stare at me in the hallway.
Finally, after what seems like far longer than five minutes, she opens the door a few inches. “Hey.” She has a hand on her belly. “Can I just have my bag? I swear I’ll call you tomorrow.”
I set my hand on the door and shove it open. “No, you may not just have your bag, Cindy.” I step inside, forcing her to back up, letting the door close behind me. My gaze is on her, scanning up and down her body. She’s pale. That’s for sure. Maybe she is sick. But why the charade?
I remind myself that plenty of people don’t like others to see them vomit. She’s just OCD enough to be one of those people. I glance around her apartment. Nothing is out of place. She is as tidy in her apartment as she is in everything else.
It’s a very small unit. Living room and kitchen area are all one space. There are two doors on the opposite side of the living room from the kitchenette, and I assume they are a bathroom and a bedroom.
I drop her bag on the floor and reach out to stroke her cheek. She’s not hot to the touch. She’s flushed, but if she were about to throw up, her cheeks would be red. “Don’t shut me out. I’m not some random guy. I’m your boyfriend.”
She flinches. “Maybe we took things too fast. I really just want to be alone right now.”
“Well, I’m not buying it. Something happened.” I narrow my gaze. “Are you really sick? You look more like you saw a ghost.”
She groans. “Please, Hudson. Let it go. Give me some space. I need to think.”
I shake my head. “You need to talk.”
She rolls her eyes, which does not turn me on this time. It’s petulant. “You’re so stubborn.”
“I’m a Dom. I’m your Dom. And as my submissive, I insist you tell me what the fuck is going on.”
She crosses her arms, defiant. Shoulders going back. She even taps a foot. “Well, you’re going to be seriously disappointed.”
I wander farther into her space, looking for clues like a detective, though I can’t for the life of me figure out how I might find any clue in her apartment. Her kitchen is pristine. Not a dish or even a fork in the sink. I open the dishwasher and find every single fork and knife and plate strategically place, probably in a manner she has determined is most efficient. Not OCD at home my ass.
“Hudson, please. I’m begging you.”
“Turns out I like begging, so go ahead.”
I amble around her living room next. There is not a speck of dust on any surface. Either she has a cleaning staff that came an hour ago, or, more likely, she maintains the space herself.
I head for the two doors. “I’m giving myself a tour. You can just stand there and watch.”