Taming Blaze Read online

  Over meant over with my father. Literally, if you weren’t careful. “Can you tell me why I have to go away, at least?”

  He exhaled deeply. “I didn’t want to bring up painful memories.”

  My heart skipped a beat. I sat down on the bed, hands between my legs. I was almost afraid to ask. “You already did, on the phone. You opened that door.” I heard my voice falter.

  “It’s about your mother’s killer.”

  I inhaled sharply. My mother. He had already said it on the phone, but my heart still raced, having him bring it up here again. "What exactly is going on?"

  "The man who killed her -"

  "The one you said was dead," I interrupted, not caring whether he found it rude. “He’s not dead, then, is he?”

  My father shook his head. "No."

  "Did you know he was alive, all this time?" My voice sounded like it was coming from someplace else, somewhere outside of myself, this high-pitched, whiny voice that didn't sound like me. It didn’t sound like I was in control. "You said he was dead. You lied to me."

  "I told you that to protect you."

  "Protect me?" I couldn't seem to control the volume of my voice. I stood, wobbling, my thoughts racing so fast I couldn't make any sense of them. "Protect me from what? Protect me from the life you forced me into when I was a kid? Protect me from my mom being murdered? Tell me." I was screaming, filled with rage. "Tell me! What exactly have you protected me from?"

  "You have no idea, Dani," he said. "You think you've been exposed to something, that the things you know are something? You've been exposed to nothing. You don't know what I know, what you could have seen."

  "My mother's death- that was nothing, then?"

  He shook his head, regret written all over his face, at least I thought it was regret. I never knew with my father. He was an emotional chameleon, changing at whim, and I could never be sure what was genuine. Or if anything was ever genuine. "You know that's not what I'm saying. Your mother's death was a tragedy. But her murderer was gone, and there was nothing you could do about it. You didn't need to worry about him coming after you. That's what I was protecting you from."

  "So my mother's murderer has been running around for years wanting to kill me too, and you let me think I was perfectly safe? That's your idea of protection?"

  "You've been protected the entire time. You've been safe."

  "But suddenly I'm not."

  "No. You're not."

  "But you're not going to tell me why I'm not safe."

  "No. I'm not."

  "Why should I go to some safe house?"

  "There’s no should. You will. This is the only time we'll have this conversation."

  "Is that a threat?" I was pushing it, and I knew it. I was testing him. I watched the vein on his neck throb, the one that provided me with a barometer of how angry he was when I was a kid, how close he was to exploding. I watched him, wondering if he would explode now. He rarely did, but when he did it was nuclear.

  When I was fourteen, my mother was murdered. I ran around after that, completely out of control, and my father was angry all the time. I didn’t know if he was angry at himself, at me, or at the world. But one day, I was sitting on my bed missing my mother, and I had an epiphany, as much as fourteen year old kids can have epiphanies. I’d always thought of my father as dangerous, but never to me. Toward other people, sure. But not to me, his daughter. But there was something about him after her murder, something dark- and I thought he might actually kill me. That was why I begged to go off to boarding school.

  “It's not a threat," he said. "It's a statement. We will not have this conversation again. Pack your bags. You'll leave tomorrow."

  After he left, I sat on my bed, feeling depleted. Part of me wanted to fight this, to get my shit, jump in the car, and drive away. I could start a new life somewhere under a new name. I would live in Thailand; serve cocktails on the beach; live cheaply. I could be someone else, anyone else, someone who was not my father's daughter. Another part of me was just resigned to it all, the same way I'd always been resigned to the fact that my father would control my whole life, no matter where he was. Everything he’d given me came at a price, and that was the cost. It was my deal with the devil.

  I knew I didn't have the strength to fight him. I would shut my mouth; go to the safe house; read some novels; and sit on my ass until he did whatever he was going to do. I wouldn't ask too many questions, and I would live. My instinct for self-preservation would win out in the end. It inevitably did. That was the most important lesson I'd learned in life.

  Always save yourself.

  I steeled myself as I waited outside the heavy wooden door to my father's office. Bikers stood at the entrance to the house, lingering, joking around, playing grab ass with each other like a bunch of high school football players. Morons. These guys didn’t look familiar, a different club than he’d used when I was growing up. But they were all the same. My father, always in bed with bikers. Like father, like daughter, I thought.

  Heat rose to my cheeks at the thought of what had happened with Blaze, his hands on my body, mouth on my lips, on my breasts. The image of him looking down at me, urging me to open my eyes and look at him while he came flashed through my head. I immediately felt arousal, like a reflex, in the pit of my stomach and radiating through my hips.

  Stop, I thought. He's gone, and it was nothing. It was a one night stand with someone you don't even know. Get him out of your head. It didn't mean anything.

  I looked up at Martin, one of my father’s bodyguards, standing with his back against the door. Unwavering, expressionless Martin. He was like a guard at the Tower of London or something. I wondered if he ever laughed.

  "Do you ever smile, Martin?"

  "Ma'am?" he asked, looking down at me.

  "I mean, does my father pay you specifically not to smile?"

  "I don't know what you mean, ma'am." The door opened, and Martin took my elbow, guiding me inside. "Ma'am." No change in expression. The door shut behind him, and I stood there, gathering all the strength I had left for one final protest. I didn’t expect it to matter, but it felt stupid to simply acquiesce without letting my father know I was still pissed off about this whole thing.

  "Daddy, I told you I'm not going anywhere. I'm not a fucking prisoner -"

  My father cut me off. "Dani," he said. "This is the gentleman who will be accompanying you to the safe house."

  I spun around to see an older biker with leathery skin and a face like a horse, standing at my father's desk. This was the guy I was going with? No fucking way. Behind him, there was movement, and the other guy stood.

  "Dani," he said. I would have recognized the voice anywhere.

  I stared at him, suddenly mute, my heart threatening to leap out of my throat. It was him. Blaze. He was wearing his jeans and leather cut, looking at me like he had at the hotel. It was like I'd never left him. I felt the same heat in my body, the same desire to fling myself at him, to let him rip off my clothes. It was like every cell in my body was screaming for him to throw me over his shoulder and carry me out of here. I swallowed, my mouth suddenly dry like the Sahara. Blaze was involved with my father.

  No, no, no. It's not possible.

  It felt like some kind of betrayal, but I didn’t know Blaze, so it couldn't be considered a betrayal, not really. There was no betraying someone you didn't know, someone who didn't know you.

  My father spoke. "I apologize for my daughter's rudeness. As I said, she's not entirely happy with this arrangement."

  The older biker nodded. “Understood. Blaze will provide protection, keep you at the safe house until everything’s clear.”

  "Dani," Blaze said.

  Dani, Dani.

  I heard him saying my name, his mouth close to my ear, still felt him inside me.

  Look at me, Dani.

  I opened my mouth to speak, to say anything, but I felt paralyzed. Say something. You look like an idiot, standing here saying nothing.