Disciplined by the Dom by Chloe Cox Page B

off of Jake. She was wrong.
    Catie froze right in the middle of the bar when she realized where she’d seen the thin-faced man in the dark grey suit before. It had been bugging her all night, ever since he’d come in and settled at a table in the other server’s section. Catie had counted herself supremely lucky that Danny was able to get her this gig covering shifts while he went on tour with a theater group—it meant cash to replenish her quickly dwindling savings, it meant she’d be able to actually pay Danny rent for the use of his couch, and it meant she might have more time to help her grandmother. And it meant she might be able to think about something other than Jacob Jayson for the night.
    ‘Might’ being the operative word.
    The bar was the hipster version of a rowdy kind of place—so, like, ironic rowdy—but it catered to people who could afford the bottle service, or were beautiful enough that it didn’t matter. Not necessarily her favorite sort of haunt, but hell, she could cocktail anywhere, and they were in need. She’d quickly been able to tell that the man in the dark grey suit wasn’t there socially. He was working, just as much as she was, and it showed on his face right up until the moment his clients—she assumed they were clients, or maybe potential clients—walked in. The clients looked like a scruffy band out of Brooklyn, on the cusp of hitting it big. Catie had figured the man in the suit was an agent or a manager, maybe in public relations. She’d seen it a million times before in L.A.
    And it had hit her: she’d actually seen the same guy in L.A. He must do pretty well for himself, agenting or managing or public relations-ing. She’d made a mental note to let the other waitress know, and then she’d gone about doing her job.
    Right up until she realized that wasn’t the only place she had seen him. She’d seen him at Volare, too. And she hadn’t seen him in a bar in Los Angeles. She’d seen him in Brazzer’s office.
    That was when the world stopped.
    A big guy with a neck beard jostled her and tried to apologize in an affected southern twang that he probably thought was flirtatious. Catie blushed, first because she’d been lost in a moment of terror, and then because the physical movement reminded her of the ben-wa balls she wore inside her. It was an immediate jolt, a sudden, sexual reminder of Jake—and of what had happened, and of how vulnerable she’d just become. Belatedly, it knocked some sense into her: she couldn’t very well figure this out standing stock still in the middle of the bar like she had a spotlight on her, just waiting for the man in the dark grey suit to get a good look at her.
    “Taking my smoke break!” she shouted at the bartender.
    “I thought you didn’t smoke?”
    But she was already through the swing doors that led to the back storerooms and the alley entrance.
    Shit . Shit, shit, shit.
    She had spent the past few days ever since she’d shown up, apparently unannounced, at Stephan’s House, convincing herself that she really could go through with her original plan. She could do it. She could write the story, she could make it truthful, she could save what was left of her family. She had dealt with her anxiety about being found out, about her eventual exposure, by being realistic. Not everything could possibly be as welcoming and nurturing and wonderful as it seemed at Volare, and she felt like she’d finally seen the darker side. First, Roman had brought her into his office to announce that he would be her mentor, but he’d only done that to foist her back on Jake as soon as possible. Which, at first, she hadn’t minded, but then she’d gone to Stephen’s House to get background for some catalog, as instructed, and Jake had been…
    He’d been different.
    Well, not entirely different. She’d been thinking about it all week, trying to figure it out. None of it made sense, was the problem.
    Nothing she’d been able to find about