Page 91 of Snow Bound

“What?”

“Never mind.” Grant held out a hand. “Give me your picks.”

“Grant,” Simon began placatingly.

“Save it. I know you have them.” He waggled his fingers. “Give.”

Resigned, Simon pulled a small pouch from his back pocket and slapped it into Grant’s hand. “Somebody calls the cops, I’m pretending I don’t know you.”

“Your support is noted.” Grant crouched to look at the lock. Complete garbage, he thought in disgust, and added Get Anna better locks to his mental to-do list, right after paddle Anna’s ass for leaving him and fuck Anna’s brains out.

He made quick work of the lock—and the equally useless deadbolt—and opened the door.

He knew as soon as he walked in that she wasn’t there. The apartment had that empty feeling homes got when no one was in residence for a while, the air stale and somehow too still, a thin layer of dust on all the surfaces. Still, he did a quick walk through of the small rooms, checked the refrigerator for fresh groceries.

Frustrated, he returned to the living room. “She’s not here.”

“No kidding.” Simon had settled himself into a leather recliner and was kicked back like he owned the place. Henry was busy sniffing the sofa. “What now, Romeo?”

“No hotels on her credit cards?”

Simon shook his head. “No ride shares or taxis, either.”

A ride share would require a credit card, but she could’ve paid for a taxi with cash, or gotten on a bus.

“What about her friend?” Simon asked. “The ball buster.”

“Lola. She might go there,” Grant allowed. “Can you dig up an address?”

Simon pulled out his phone. “With pleasure. Maybe we can wake her up out of a sound sleep.”

Grant found himself grinning. “You’re never going to get over that, are you?”

Simon shot him a fulminating look, then turned back to his phone. “Got it. She’s ten minutes away.”

“No I’m not,” someone said and Grant whirled to find a short, blonde, white woman standing in the open doorway. She tossed a purse the size of Rhode Island aside and slammed the door behind her. “I’m right here.”

Grant narrowed his eyes. She was petite and fine boned, with a tousled mane of platinum blonde hair that hit a few inches below her jaw, razor-sharp cheekbones, and eyes the color of good whiskey. She wore diamonds the size of cherry pits at her ears and a black overcoat with high heeled black boots that came to the knee.

Her lips, painted murder red, curled in a sneer.

“Grant Snow.”

It wasn’t a question, but he answered anyway. “Yes.”

“Good. I’d hate to give this to the wrong guy.” She strode forward, hitched up the coat with one hand, and swung her foot directly into his balls.

The air whooshed out of his lungs as pain exploded, and he barely felt himself hit the floor.

He lay there, unmoving, and Henry trotted over to lap sympathetically at his face. When that didn’t elicit the usual response, Henry sat and whined, slapping at his master with an oversized paw.

“Move, Henry,” he heard through the ringing in his ears, and Simon crouched next to him. The look of unbridled amusement on his friend’s face was salt in an open wound. “You gonna puke?”

It was a legitimate question. Grant took inventory—a cold sweat still sheened his skin and his balls ached like a bad tooth, but the nausea was fading. He shook his head, hoping it wasn’t a lie, and after some deep breathing, managed to get to his feet.

He ignored the throb in his groin and aimed a glare at Lola. “What the hell was that for?”

“Being a shitty Dom,” she shot back, then looked down at Henry, who’d wandered over to sniff her boots. “Does he bite?”

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