Page 1 of His Captive Pet

Chapter One

Aubree Stevenson threw a twenty onto the front seat of the cab and hopped out. The stifling smell of diesel and garbage only fueled her irritated mood as she headed to the front door of The Breakroom.The small dive bar nestled between several closed retail shops would go undetected by a passerby, but she was no passerby. She’d lived down the street for the past four years, and she needed a drink. A stiff drink.

Work had been horrible, not unlike most days. Being a veterinarian used to bring her a sense of fulfillment and joy, but after leaving her suburban practice to work at the shelters in the city, she’d found neither. Most of her days were spent dishing out medications to animals that had been abandoned and left for dead. She would never understand how anyone could simply drop off their pet on a street corner and drive away. Samuel, her miniature pit bull, would never have to worry about being abandoned.

“Hey, Aubree!” a familiar voice called to her as she pushed her way through the crowded lounge. She threw a weak smile at the hostess and found an empty stool at the bar.

“Your usual Diet Coke with a lime?” Greg shot her a friendly smile. A dirty dishrag hung over his shoulder, only partially hiding the large hickey on his neck. She forgave him the crude marking; he was only twenty-two after all.

“Yeah, but put some rum in there, too.” She pulled her purse from her shoulder and propped it on the bar. After digging out her phone, she began scrolling through missed messages and emails.

“Long day?” Condensation from the glass dripped onto the napkin beneath it.

“Yeah, too long.” She sighed and downed her drink.

He watched with amusement when she handed him the empty glass, signaling for another. “Must have been rough.”

He went about refilling her glass. It wasn’t often she added anything other than a lime to her Coke, but it had been a particularly bad day. She didn’t come to The Breakroom for the liquor or the friendly atmosphere—although the bar had both in plenty supply. She patronized the dive because it was a block from her townhouse, and her house was empty—save for Samuel. Some nights she didn’t want empty. She wanted to be lost in a crowd.

Greg slid the second drink in front of her and headed down the bar. He knew her enough to know she didn’t want company. At least not his. She’d turned down nearly every man in the bar at least once. They weren’t what she wanted, and she was tired of dating less than what she wanted. She needed someone strong, someone with a tough skin who could handle her. As much as Greg fit the physical profile—tall, well-built, and drop-jaw handsome—he was too nice. Too willing to concede.

“Well, hello.” A forced deep voice interrupted her moment of tranquility. She moved her eyes, glancing next to her to find an overly dressed man facing her. He wedged himself between her and the peaceful beer guzzler beside her. “I see you’re just about finished, can I buy the next round?”

“Will you buy it and leave, or do I have to endure the stench of your cologne while you prattle on beside me for the next ten minutes?” She swiveled on her stool to face him. Having nearly finished her second drink, and not being one to drink much at all, the rum had begun to take its effect. The room spun just enough to make her grab the bar as she stared down the intruder.

His eyes widened at her words. He almost looked wounded. “I was just offering to buy you a drink,” he muttered, starting to move away from her.

She knew she should feel bad. He had only offered to buy a drink, and although his cologne had made her head spin more than the rum, he hadn’t been offensive. But she’d taken care of too many wounded animals today to give a damn.

Greg showed up a moment later with a third drink, and she downed it as fast as the first. “Wow. Must have been a real shitty day.” He grinned and produced another. “Slow down, Aubree. You have all night, sweetie.” Greg gave her a wink and headed back down the bar to help out with a large crowd of college kids who had suddenly overtaken the bar. “Blake’s not gonna want to scrape you off the floor.”

Blake. Now there was a man she could sink her teeth into. He owned the bar with Greg, but didn’t work the floor as often. She’d gotten to know him well enough over the past months to know he wasn’t a pushover. His entire persona screamed strength and control. But being the coward she was, she never suggested or hoped for more than the friendly conversations.

What if he wasn’t the type she craved? What if she would have to walk away from him, too? It was too risky. She enjoyed being able to chat with him when he peeked out from his back office. She couldn’t lose that.

“Hey, you’re out late.” Blake picked up a glass and started to wipe it down from behind the bar. She hadn’t been paying attention; when did he get there? Usually, a little shiver told her he’d come out of his office. Like her body had some sort of Blake alarm, but she hadn’t felt it this time. Probably the alcohol. It started to dull her senses.

She pushed her empty glass toward him and asked for another.

“Just Coke?” he asked with a raised eyebrow.

“Rum.” She motioned for the bottle Greg had put down near him.

“Work?” he asked, but the hesitancy in his tone suggested he knew otherwise. She’d had bad days at work before, and she didn’t top the day off with a drink. Drowning her sorrows wasn’t her way.

“His parole hearing was today.” She took a long gulp of her drink, enjoying the bite of the rum. “Denied,” she announced when he continued to stare at her.

The few people with whom she had shared the news of her father’s latest parole attempt had looked at with her pity. A pat on the back and a well-intentionedSorry you have to go through thisspeech. Blake kept his dark eyes focused on her, but she didn’t feel small or weak beneath his attention.

“It’s a good thing.” She took another sip. “The girl’s parents appeared at the hearing. I think they always will. I mean, I would if I was them.” She signaled for another drink.

It hadn’t been enough for her father to drink himself into a bottle nightly, or her mother to live in constant fear of him and his moods. He had needed to top off the years of battery, the years of belittling, the years of threatening by driving them both head-on into another car. Killing her mother and the teenager driving to her after-school, part-time job.

He could rot as far as Aubree was concerned. So, all the pity glances, all the pats on the back weren’t for her, because his parole being denied was a victory. She wasn’t drowning out the pain; she was celebrating.

Blake made another drink for her then leaned against the bar.

“At some point, he’s going to be released.” Blake’s matter-of-fact tone grated against her. Of course he would; even if he sat through his entire sentence he’d be out in another twenty years. Two lives apparently only cost him twenty-five years off of his. And eventually he’d probably be granted parole. Good behavior and overcrowding would see to that.

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