Chapter 4

Icy. First one cheek, then the other, then it trails a wet line to my forehead. The contrast between the searing burn behind my eyes and the coolness on my face is refreshing.

"Poor baby," a breathy voice says.

I beg my eyes to open, if for no reason than to put a face to the speaker. It's a struggle, like they've been super-glued shut.

"That will be all. Thank you, Marissa. He'll be fine."

A voice I do recognize. It takes a moment to place it, then comes crashing down with force — Holden.

"But Sir," she says, a lilting protest.

"Enough!" he practically shouts. I jerk back into the couch. "Thank you," he adds for niceties.

I imagine him waving his hand to dismiss her.

Don't stop. Before I can vocalize my thought, the crisp coolness of the cloth leaves, and my headache returns tenfold. "Ugh," I groan, somehow managing to open my eyes and push myself up. Pain spreads like a web of cracking glass filling my brain. I sit back and press my temples. "Where am I?" I ask. "And what are you doing here?"

Holden's bleary image comes into focus. He's seated in an armchair across from me, dressed in a light grey suit, which I'm sure was tailored to fit him. His hair is perfect, and his shoes are so shiny I can practically see my pathetic reflection. A newspaper's gripped in his hands and he peers over the top. "Good morning will suffice."

I groan, "Good morning," and shift in my chair. "Where the fuck am I?"

He tsks at my language. I shrug and rub my tired eyes.

"This would be my apartment."

His apartment? "What am I doing here?"

Holden folds the newspaper and sets it on the couch. "You tell me."

"If I knew I wouldn't ask."

"Valid." He grins, and leans back, crossing his legs to reveal plaid socks that match his shirt. I roll my eyes.

"I'm not entirely sure," he continues. "Jean Paul found you face down on the sidewalk."

"Jean Paul?"

"The butler."

"Of course. Your butler."

"He's more than a butler, really," Holden says, waving a hand. "J.P.'s a rather important friend."

"Who found me face-planted in the concrete?"

"Yes," he says. "You had my card in one hand, a red velvet box in the other, and were mumbling incoherent babble about someone named Genevieve." He pulls the left side of his jacket open, reaching in to retrieve Gen's ring.

I can't help the groan that escapes. "Keep it."

"Nonsense," Holden replies. "I'm sure it's worth some money."

"Maybe so," I mutter, "but I don't want it."

He shrugs and places it back inside his jacket. "As you wish. I'll hold it until a cooler head prevails." He rises to his feet. I tilt my head to look at him, and even that hurts. "You should eat something," he says and my stomach flips.

He waves and a beautiful redhead walks toward me, dressed in a light peach lacy number that has my temperature, among other things, rising.

"Help Finn with breakfast," he tells her like she's some nanny and I'm the kid.

I've never met a nanny that looks like that. "I have pride," I say, raising my hand when the girl tries to hold me up.

"Correction. You had it." Holden nods to the door, and the girl leaves me to dish up my own food. "When I think of a proud man, the image of a plastered lush kissing cement is the last thing that comes to mind." He takes a long sip of whatever's in his mug and sets it down.

"It was only one night," I say. "One mistake."

He raises his brow. "Eat," he says, sweeping his hand to a counter behind.

The granite slab is hidden under the food. There are bagels, donuts, croissants, muffins, every type of pig and eggs, you name it. My stomach churns at the sight. I give a curt nod in the direction of the food. "We feeding a small village?"

Holden stands, adjusting his coat and walks to the table. He fills two mugs with coffee and sets one before me. "I suppose, one may compare the staff to a small village."

I pick up the coffee, letting the smell test my stomach before I take a sip. "Staff?" I ask.

"They eat after we do. When they're finished, whatever remains will be taken to a homeless shelter."

I swig a mouthful. The warmth feels nice, but nausea threatens to consume. "I'm never drinking that much again."

"Yes," Holden says, pulling my eyes from the drink. "Rest assured, I will not allow you to make the same mistake twice."

"Allow me?" I take a sip of the coffee and put my cup down. After Gen, I'm done with letting people think they can control me. "It's been a hell of a night and I'm still not sure what you think this—" I point between the two of us. "Relationship is. I'm not into dominant and submissive games, and as I've mentioned, I'm not gay, so if you were—"

His laugh cuts me off. It sounds almost foreign, the way it travels from his core and out. "I am not gay, Finn."

"What's your deal?"

He rakes a hand through his perfectly coiffed hair, disheveling the entire thing. Gen would have lost her mind if I messed up my hair like that. I get a strong feeling from Holden Drake that he takes shit from no one. "My deal, Finn, is relatively simple and I'll be more than happy to share it with you." His eyes shoot to me and I squirm under his analytical gaze. "But," he continues. "Not like that. If you're going to skip eating, at least have the decency to shower. You smell like a brewery."

I open my mouth to argue but it snaps shut on its own. It's true. I do. "Where's the shower?"

Holden points to his left. "Down this hall, fourth door on the right is the guest restroom. I instructed Marissa to start the shower and pick out some clean clothes for you. There are extra toothbrushes and razors in the second drawer. Please make use of them. I can't have you frightening the club's patrons."

"The Cheaters Club?"

"That's the one." He grins and taps the newspaper like he's trying to think of what to say next. It doesn't take long before his attention is back on me. "There are no second chances to make a first impression, Finn. People judge me by the company I keep. Which at present is you."

I stand, taking a moment to find my balance before heading to the table for a plain bagel. I take a bite, then shake it in his direction. Through my mouthful I manage to ask, "Your club have a dress code?"

He smiles. "The dress code will be the least of your problems."