room.
“I didn’t…”
“Just shut up. If you mess up this deal for us…”
Damián felt himself doing a slow burn. What the hell gave the jerk the right to talk to her that way? And why didn’t she tell him to fuck himself up the ass? Hell, Damián had needed no encouragement to stare at her. She was freakin’ perfection. But she’d kept her eyes down the entire time he’d ogled her, until right at the end anyway.
Stay out of it, man. You can’t get into trouble again.
Damián went out to the patio and found their server schmoozing with some exec from a modeling agency. They’d approached Damián to model for them, too, but he wasn’t interested. All the other restaurant staff were looking for a way out of poverty. He was just happy to have a steady job with predictable hours—and to be out of juvie.
He glanced out at the ocean and breathed in the salty air. The cool evening breeze felt good against his skin. He’d been cooped up in juvie so long, he’d thought his soul had rotted. Now he spent his days cooped up in the restaurant. He was long overdue for a drive up the coast. Laguna Beach always settled him when he got restless.
After getting the server back inside, Damián followed. The dark wood paneling closed in around him again in an instant. While the white tablecloths, fresh flowers, and glowing hurricane-lamps on each of the tables and booths helped to lighten the room some, he couldn’t figure out why someone would choose to dine inside on such a beautiful Southern California evening. He’d be out on the patio waiting for the sun to set—if he could afford to eat in a place like this.
Damián picked up the dish bin and glanced at the Barbie doll. A tear ran down her jaw as she fiddled with her fork. His gut churned as he turned toward the kitchen. That man had made her cry. His sister Rosa had been verbally humiliated that way by her now ex-husband. Then the man had become violent.
Rosa had come close to being put in her grave before Damián had forced her to move into his apartment. When Julio had come after her, Damián had punched his teeth out—and earned himself two years in juvie for his effort. But he’d do it again. No woman should ever be disrespected like that.
“Keep a low profile and mind your own business, if you know what’s good for you.” The words of his social worker focused his mind where it belonged. He walked into the kitchen and loaded the dirty dishes into the racks. He sure as hell wasn’t going to interfere for a total stranger. Even if her shithead date deserved to be pummeled for his remarks, he knew the man’s money would get Damián’s ass locked up so fast, his head would spin. At nineteen, the key would be conveniently thrown down a sewer hole this time.
No way could he afford to get fired, either. He still hadn’t made rent money for next month. So, he’d just avoid the jerk-off and his perfect-but-miserable date. He hoped she’d wise up soon and dump him before it was too late. But that wasn’t his concern. Just bus the tables.
Rich people sure were fucked up. Damián had grown up in a tiny ranch-style tenant house with too many mouths to feed and too little money. Growing up, he’d thought being rich would solve all their problems. From what he could tell, though, money just brought on a whole new set of them.
He looked at the clock. Three more hours before he got off work. He decided he needed to ride his Harley up the coast. The beach at Laguna called to him. Away from everyone. Just him. The ocean. And his cave.
* * *
Savannah Gentry tried to swallow past the lump closing up her throat. Despite nearly a year of Master’s pimping out her body to his high-class business clients, she’d tried to learn to dissociate from scenes with clients as fully as she’d been able to do when only having to anticipate her Master’s behavior. But there were too many clients to learn to predict them.
For the majority of her cognizant life, He had owned and controlled her—mind, body, and spirit. As far as she could recall—and large blocks of her life already had been blocked out of her memory—the rape and abuse began soon after her mother left. She was eight. She’d prayed every