Page 59 of Savage Game
After calling his trusted corporate lawyer and arranging a meeting with—according to Rick Garrick—the best divorce lawyer in Missouri, Byron set out to find his submissive. Checking his watch, he went to the indoor gym, expecting her to be doing her exercises. It turned out he didn’t need to wait to reach the gym. By the time he entered the hallway, the thumping of fists, grunts, and pounding of feet reached his ears.
When he entered the open door to the exercise room, Byron halted and admired the sight.
Gone was the scared little mouse, and in its place was a little firecracker punching her fists and feet into a pounding bag like it had personally insulted her. Perfectly balanced on the ball of her left foot she rotated from her hip and slammed her right foot in the bag. If it would have been a person, the kick would have landed on the knee and without a doubt crippled them.
Good. A downed man can’t hurt her.
Charlotte was glorious like this and completely focused, which explained her startled reaction, when she turned for her water. Byron reached the bottle first, bent at the waist, and handed the water and a towel to her.
“Thank you.” She accepted the offerings with a gracious smile, took a large swig of the water, and draped the towel over her shoulders. “Did you need something, Sir?”
Byron stroked a lock of sweat-streaked hair from her face. “Come here.” He took her hand and escorted her to the bank press. After sitting down on the bench, he pulled her on his lap.
“I’m filthy,” she protested weakly but didn’t struggle against his hold.
“Nonsense, there’s nothing wrong with a little workout sweat,” he stated and pressed his nose in her hair. “I came to tell you about my call with Rick Garrick, my lawyer.”
He relayed the gist of his call with Rick and informed Charlotte about the meeting with the divorce lawyer.
Charlotte sighed. “Thank you. I know I was reluctant to let you arrange this lawyer business, but I was way out of my depth.” In a seemingly unconscious manner, she ran the tip of her nose over his neck and halted at the hollow below his throat. “So, now we wait.”
“Yes.” He swallowed.
Charlotte tipped her head back. “What’s the matter?”
Byron swallowed. “I—I want to tell you all about what happened to my family.”
She stilled. “Okay.”
Byron sighed and he thought back to the morning that changed his life irrevocably.
“Damn it, boy. You’re late.” His father’s black eyebrows slashed in a displeased V.
“I know, sir. I’m sorry.” Byron squinted against the low sun. The reflection from the iced-over world intensified his hangover.
Thomas Nolan, the stern father, hardworking handyman, and volunteer firefighter placed his hand on Byron’s shoulder. “I get it, son. I understand you wanted to celebrate with your team, but you know Garrett…” His father’s voice trailed off.
Yes, Byron knew his brother and how badly he handled deviations from the routine.
But damn it, we won the State championship and having to go on a trip with my family sucks.
He followed his father to the car and smothered a sigh. Last night, he had been looking forward to some fun times with Angel, but his on-again off-again girlfriend hadn’t even come to the game to cheer him on. And didn’t that just suck as much as having to wake up early after a night of partying and drinking?
“Come on, boy,” his father urged him, “we might get stuck in a traffic jam, and there’s a flight to catch. Your mother and brother are waiting in the car.”
Hoisting his sports bag higher on his shoulder, Byron bristled at the “boy”. He hadn’t yet celebrated his nineteenth birthday but already stood at six feet, five inches. Ripped with muscles from training and religiously working out, he considered himself a man.
After stuffing his bag in the cramped luggage area—mostly suitcases with stuff for his mother and Garrett—he plonked down on the backseat behind his mother and wished her and Garrett good morning. It earned him no reaction whatsoever from his brother and only a stiff word of welcome from the front seat.
“Ready?” his father asked no one in particular as he slid behind the wheel.
Byron closed his eyes and leaned his head against the cold side window. Next to him, Garrett was rocking in his seat and reciting the periodic table at the top of his lungs. Aside from his troubles adapting to his environment, Garrett didn’t hear very well, and compensated by speaking loudly, the volume carrying in the confinement of the car.
His voice pierced through Byron’s mind and intensified his pounding headache. He was in for a hellish drive to the airport. At least at this time in the morning, the traffic would be light.
Something slapped him against his forehead hard enough to sting. The back of Garrett’s hand connected again with Byron’s face.
I’m so tired of this shit.
