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  For My Mom even though she will never ever read this.

  I love how much you support me even after you bragged to the entire neighbourhood long before you actually read what I write and then you were mortified.

  Oh, Mom.

  I did ask you if you knew what I wrote.

  You're the best.

  And now you know what I write.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Epilogue

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Author's Note

  Also from Jenna

  Bio

  The Naughty Pile

  Author's Note

  Kate’s story has some dark moments. I fought her past hard because I worried about it being cliché, about the triggers it would cause and how I would tackle it. Try as I might, I was unable to change her past because it’s what made Kate Kate. So please be advised that Kate’s past and childhood is littered with land mines involving neglect, drug and alcohol abuse and rape.

  Doyle and Kate also play on the naughty side where it's all safe, sane and consensual.

  Chapter 1

  He really did need to find a pretty girl to beat on.

  Doyle hadn’t planned on coming to the club. Sheer boredom and his own company had sent him out.

  Ten months surrounded by people and the last thing he wanted to do was be with more people. Then again, it wasn’t like he had put himself into solitary confinement in his condo either. Ten months of groupies and fans and tweets of “OMG Doyle Kole just blew up my panties” had gotten to him. Ten months of keeping in check because social media bursts of “OMFG Doyle Kole is an asshole who just beat me up” wouldn’t be wise. Ten months of vanilla fucking. Ten months of Jace-fucking-Jennings and his permanent case of asshole-itis. Jesus, but he hated Jace. Just thinking of the lead singer of Cyanide made Doyle want to kill someone. Finding a willing sub was a lot safer. Because no one would tweet that he had beaten them black and blue here. There were rules.

  Edge was busy. Thursdays usually were. Nice to know some things were the same even though he didn’t recognize some of the faces. Not all of the lights had been switched to black lights because one needed to see who one was whipping, but they did run around the railing surrounding the play zone so as subs walked by, whatever had been written on their skin became visible. Edge always made him think of the coliseums gladiators had fought in. In the center of the ring was the play area containing evil toys and devious pieces of furniture to torture willing subs. The second level, where Doyle and others were sitting, surrounded the pit where the aforementioned subs received aftercare or anyone could visit or negotiate a scene on the the couches. A few feet above them, circling the upper floor was the hands-free zone where the bar was, because once you had alcohol in you, you weren’t allowed to play but you could watch. Like the emperors of old. He half-expected to see someone give a thumbs up or thumbs down at what they watched.

  White wristbands of those who were available glowed under the black lights. Brilliant idea. The club looked like there were pale purple fireflies flitting about everywhere because Thursday nights were for those like him. Single, unattached and on the prowl to beat on someone. Or be beaten.

  His gaze landed on a couple. Well, the sub, really. She was something to see as she lay on one of the low, sturdy coffee tables. With her feet braced on the table, a spreader bar was clamped to her ankles and her wrists tied to the metal legs.

  Her dom was between her spread legs, his concentration on her complete as he covered her bare skin with artwork that glowed beneath the black lights. Buried in her pussy was a handheld light that made the artwork glow while also tinting the fluids that trickled from her to the table.

  Doyle wandered over and sat on the couch next to them, looking at the intricate swirls and images on her legs. Diabolical nipple clamps held her quivering breasts prisoner. Two thin bars that stretched from breast to breast pinched her nipples to sexy dark pink. A blindfold covered her eyes while her hands were tied down above her head. A round ball kept her mouth open and her cries muffled. She writhed every time Jensen Evers drew one of the pens over her skin. Doyle had been handed a pen that would light up under the dim purple lights.

  Evers’ attention was firmly on his canvas as he decorated the swollen flesh of the sub’s bare pussy. The girl writhed and Doyle leaned forward to hold her hips still.

  “Thanks.” Evers didn’t even look up as the girl’s muscles tightened, spasmed and the scent of her orgasm filled the air. He dabbed at her cunt with a towel before continuing his work. The man was as diabolical as his nipple bars. “You’re in my light, asshole.”

  Doyle leaned back, admiring the torture. After a few minutes, he reached over to remove the ball gag. Sometimes Jensen forgot his canvas was real and God knows how long she’d been lying there. “Gently, girl.”

  “Thank you Sir,” she whispered.

  He called over a waitress and asked for a glass of water, and settled back to admire the naked girl. This wasn’t Jensen’s usual girl. “No Daisy?”

  “No.”

  The short answer dragged his attention to his friend. Shit. “You two done?”

  The marker halted and Jensen looked up, before returning his attention to his canvas. Doyle took that as a yes. When the waitress arrived, Doyle let the sub have a few sips of water. He should find someone for himself. That had been the point of coming to the club after all. “Remember to feed your pretty pet.” Uncoiling from the couch, Doyle went looking for his own plaything. He had ten months of pent-up energy to exhaust.

  He knew just where to start.

  ****

  With her arms folded on the railing, Kate rested her cheek on her stacked hands, watching the glowing scenes before her. Some gave her the heebie-jeebies, but some made her heart beat a little faster while a breathless sort of anticipation moved through her. She wanted.

  No, she thought, as a dom stood not two feet from her with his attention on his sub, she yearned. A yearning that reminded her of being a kid and being constantly disappointed. She’d think that by now she’d stop wishing and dreaming. Wanting. Always wanting.

  Sometimes it was the pain, watching it being shared and transformed into something breathtaking. Sometimes it was simply seeing a sub on her knees beside her dom. Sometimes it was the mind-fuck. Always wanting.

  The kink. The sex. The connection. God, the connection. She yearned for that the most. Sometimes she felt transparent, even here, like no one saw her. Just a ghost drifting through her life. Twenty-four and all used up. A husk, a shell. Alone, alone, alone.

  Time to go.

  Before she had a complete emotional breakdown in the club.

  She went to ease her leg out from the railing she was perched on, twisting to untangle herself from her spot. A hand gripped the railing beside her, a forearm barring her escape. She stared at the demon inked in the webbing between thumb and forefinger, a black ring wrapped around the thumb, filling the space between the lower knuckles.

  A knee pressed against her back, nudging her until she was back in her original position and the pressure of a thigh pinned her to the railing. She rolled one of the knots of leather on her bracelet, worrying it out of habit.

  A larger, stronger hand covered hers, stopping the fidgeting. Still, she flicked her nail against a thin strand, plucking it like it was a guitar string. A thumb flattened over hers, halting even that. The
railing dug into her breasts, the eerie purplish glow surrounding her. She took a shaky breath and shut her eyes.

  With every exhale, she felt it all sliding away. All the insecurities, that ache in her chest. They eased away into the shadows, biding their time until she was vulnerable again.

  Fingers fisted in her hair and tilted her head back so she had to look up and up and up. Dark eyes stared down at her and he gave a sharp tug on her hair, the back of her head resting against the dark, chunky belt buckle. Fingers tapped on her left wrist and she felt a blush heat her cheeks as he flipped the glowing white side around until it was black. All she felt was yes and please and Sir.

  Always.

  Wanting.

  Kate blinked and let the fantasy turn to dust before she focused on the tattoo on his hand. She wasn’t feeling strong enough for this. For him. She ducked under his arm and was stopped by his hand on her neck. Don’t, she silently pleaded. Don’t touch when it means nothing.

  Instead she said the only thing that would bring this to a halt. “Red,” she said to her shoulder and she stepped away.

  “This world isn’t for you, Kate.”

  She shut her eyes as the words stabbed deep into a heart that had taken a lifetime of blows. “Tell me then, what world is?” She latched onto her bracelet as she made her way to the locker room. The pain in her chest. It was as if he had carved into it, slashing through all her wants and dreams. She sat on the bench and stared at the small locker her purse was in. Leaning forward, she clasped her hands behind her head and stared at her feet. She thought she had more time.

  Doyle Kole didn’t usually come into the club the day he came home from one of Cyanide’s tours, so she had felt safe. No, not safe. She couldn’t remember the last time she had felt that, but at least… “I can’t keep doing this,” she whispered, her eyes closed as she fought down every damn tear. She would not cry. Bend don’t break. Bend don’t break. Because if she broke, Kate feared she’d never get up again.

  With a tired sigh she felt all the way to her decrepit soul, Kate pushed herself up to turn the combination until the lock clicked open. She dropped the lock into her purse and walked out. Time to go home.

  ****

  Fuck. Doyle thumped his fist against the railing. He braced his hands on the metal and tapped the toe of his boot into the floor. “Fuck.” Lifting his head, he caught a glimpse of her as she disappeared up the stairs. She was too fucking fragile for this. Too shattered. Too…Kate.

  “Fuck.” He pushed off and made his way through the club. He took the stairs two at a time and started to follow her. He stopped and turned into the bar instead. Chasing her seemed like a bad idea. He’d see her tomorrow night anyway. Kate with her sad eyes, her needy eyes, her sad heart and her needy heart.

  “Whiskey,” he said. When he had his glass, he found a quiet table and stared at the drink. One of his greatest fears was that one day he’d buckle and drink. “Fuck,” he muttered as he slumped in the chair and wondered exactly when his night had gone to shit.

  “That’s twice you’ve sent the girl running from my club, Kole.”

  “Actually, it’s the third time.” The first time had been a year ago, when to his shock he had spotted Kate. He hadn’t said a word to her. Her eyes had gone wide and she had fled as he had tried to process that Kate was in Edge. Kate. The second time, just before he had gone on tour, had been a lot like tonight. He had felt a lot like he did now.

  Oz Peters sat down without an invite and draped an arm over the back of his chair as he caught the eye of a waitress. He held up one finger and faced Doyle. “She’s a wounded one, your girl.”

  Doyle grunted. “You have no idea.” Fucking Jace-fucking-Jennings. He shut his eyes. “She’s not my girl.”

  “Abuse?”

  Doyle clasped his hands on his head, unwilling to go into Kate’s history with Oz. Apparently his silence was answer enough, though the man had no idea. None.

  “It took her about four months to agree to a scene. It’s not something I wish to see again.”

  Doyle’s eyes opened. Oz leaned forward, grabbed his untouched whiskey and downed it. Shit. “What happened?”

  “You ever watch ice crack? Hear it pop apart?” Oz stared into the glass, contemplating the ice. “And yet she keeps coming back. Resilient little thing.”

  Doyle nodded. That she was.

  “You’re the one who makes her run. Want to tell me why that is?”

  Jace-fucking-Jennings. He looked away. “No.”

  Oz set the glass down. “The rules here are pretty simple, Doyle. Do no harm. Everything’s consensual and don’t fuck with me. Don’t fuck with me. Thanks for the drink.”

  Doyle sighed and swore again. “God damn it.” He dragged his hands down his face and uncoiled from his chair. Instead of going hunting for a sub to break a ten month fast with, he left. He’d already caused one girl to safe word out, no need to make it two.

  Kate Jace Jennings.

  Damn, he really missed alcohol.

  ****

  Kate - 2002

  “This place is a dump,” a man said, the trailer door squeaking open. The floor vibrated beneath a heavy foot that thumped down, as if he was testing it to not fall apart. “Jesus, she lived like this?”

  “Who is really surprised?” a second man asked, his voice saying that they weren’t really surprised.

  “But still…fuck. Stinks like death in here.” Something was kicked. “Dude, no one’s here. You heard the cop. She’s dead. Whatever is going on, it ain’t her.”

  The floor vibrated as someone walked through the trailer. A cupboard door opened and shut, then the fridge.

  “Jace, dude, there’s nothing here. Can we go now? Pretty sure you can get hepatitis just breathing in here.”

  The door made another shrieking noise as it opened and more than one person thumped down the plywood stairs. There was a curse and the sound of wood breaking followed by laughter.

  Mouth and nose tucked into the bend of her elbow to muffle breathing sounds, Kate stayed in her hiding place. Fast—so fast—her heart was pounding that she was surprised no one heard it vibrating against the floor. She wasn’t going to move until silence followed after the sound of a car leaving.

  When it had pulled up, Kate had immediately panicked and hid. It was instinct. The floor groaned in complaint as a foot stepped over the stained and splitting linoleum that stretched throughout the trailer. Her breath caught because she thought they had all left. One remained.

  Pressing her face into her arm, she tried to ignore the familiar darkness wrapped around her, the moldy smell of the space. She stared at the seam of the wood that hid her from the world. It wasn’t the best hiding place because if she was caught here, then there was nowhere to go.

  For years she had hid here. The first time had been because Mom had shoved her in here to hide her when she had brought some guy home. Kate had been too small to understand but from this cabinet under the bench she slept on; she had heard all kinds of things, from sex, to someone smacking Mom around, to people drinking, to drugs being used and sold. Even when the cops had come to take Mom away, Kate had hidden here. She slept here now, afraid that someone would come into the trailer at night to steal something.

  At her feet she had a shrinking pile of food, hoarded from those who came hunting for valuables. As if they had valuables.

  She didn’t want to be found.

  Kate was so tired of being lost.

  There was a thump above her as he sat on the bench. “Jesus, Beli,” he muttered. Even she could hear the shock in his voice, as if he was stunned anyone would live like this. He didn’t know. No one knew.

  Rubbing her fingers over her wrist, Kate played with the dirty frayed ribbon wrapped around it, as his foot scuffed on the floor. Should she tell him she was here? Wasn’t that the point? As soon as she heard the name Jace, she knew who was here. Mom talked about him all the time. Usually when she was drunk or high or both. About when she had been young
and beautiful. Before Kate. Back when everyone had loved Belinda. But Kate had come along and ruined everything.

  I’m here, I’m here, I’m here!

  As much as she wanted to shout the words, she kept them to herself as she listened to him slide his foot back and forth inches from her nose. She worried one of the ribbon knots back and forth.

  He pounded the table hard enough to make Kate jump before he stood. His heavy steps seemed to match the beats of her heart. The door groaned in complaint as it was opened. He was leaving.

  She had done nothing.

  Holding her breath, Kate pushed on the door and slid out of the hiding place. She wanted to see him. This magical being Mom had talked about when she was lost in memories of when her life had been better.

  Before Kate.

  Kneeling on the bench he had been sitting on, she edged the faded curtain aside. There were photos of him with Mom. They were also kept in her hiding place because they were of Mom smiling. Kate didn’t remember ever seeing her smile. Then again she didn’t remember smiling herself. Not a lot of smiles could be found in this trailer that smelled of death.

  He walked by the window, his head lowered so she didn’t get to see his face. She knew what it looked like though. Mom called him beautiful and sexy. Kate didn’t know about sexy, but he was beautiful. Like an angel with his brown hair, though it was a lot shorter now than it had been before Kate. He also had pretty green eyes.

  According to Mom, he had the sexiest singing voice that made girls of all ages drop their panties.

  She didn’t know about that but once she heard him on the radio and she had cried, because he made her wish her life was different: that she didn’t live in a crappy trailer, that Mom wasn’t a strung-out addict who hated her daughter, and that everything was going to be okay.

  Unfortunately she did live in a crappy trailer and Mom had been a strung-out addict who hated Kate and nothing was ever going to be okay.

  Kate rubbed her finger on the dingy glass as she watched him walk to a shiny car where the other guys waited for him. I’m here, I’m here, I’m here.

  But just like Mom, he didn’t look back.