Riot (Bad Boy Escorts #1)

by Jo Raven

  “We can just talk, if you like,” he says, his voice low and even. “And you can let me hold your hand.”

  Harmless. Just talking.

  I unbuckle the belt and take off my coat, drop it on top of his jacket on the armchair.

  “Come here.” Riot pats the bed by his side. “Tell me about yourself. Your studies, your work, your family. Whatever you like.”

  “I can’t do this,” I whisper.

  “Yes, you can.” He sounds so sure of it, I sink down beside him automatically. “Your hand.”

  He waits until I place it on his palm. His fingers curl over mine, gentle.

  So close. Closer than we were the first time on the bed, closer than we were in my car, our legs touching.

  “I...I study.” I have to cough, clear my throat.

  “What then?”

  “Psychology.”

  “Well, this should be interesting,” he mutters, flashing me that dimpled grin, and tugs on my hand until we fall backward on the bed. We lie there, staring at the ceiling, our hands clasped together, tucked in the space between our bodies, and he folds his other arm under his head. “So what’s your professional opinion? Give it to me straight. Am I as crazy as I seem to think?”

  Chapter Six

  Riot

  She giggles again. I fucking love the sound, like cascading water or crystals tinkling. I look at her out of the corner of my eye, lying there beside me. She’s the most relaxed I’ve seen her so far.

  “You don’t think I’m crazy?” I prod. “Insane?”

  “No. I don’t think so.”

  “How about self-absorbed and arrogant and…” I rack my brain for more epithets. “A navel-gazer?”

  “I don’t know you well enough yet,” she says, still smiling.

  “Okay. How about hot?”

  “Hot?”

  “Yeah, do you think I’m hot?”

  Okay, I’m pushing it, but I need to move this to the next level. Holding my hand is a good step, but I need her to think about me as a man. As sex. As the thing that scares her. Can’t think of another way to fix this.

  “Sure, you’re hot,” she says quietly, and I grin. She tugs her hand, trying to free it. I resist.

  “What would you like to do with me?”

  Her eyes widen. She tugs harder and I release her. She sits up, her hair falling in her face. “Do?”

  “Yeah.” I fold both arms under my head, keep my body loose, my expression mild. “Do. With me. This body is yours for the night.”

  “For one hour,” she corrects me.

  Right.

  She chews on her lower lip, and it’s sexy how she takes me in, as if for the first time. I swear I feel her gaze traveling over me, over my face, my chest, my stomach, down to my crotch, and I’m hardening inside my pants. It’s slow, maddening, as if her attention is dragging the blood down to my dick, filling it up. A sweet ache fills my lower body, making it heavy and warm.

  Shit. Can’t remember the last time this happened to me, this getting hard not because I have to, not because I force myself to, but because a pretty girl is checking me out.

  The realization is like a kick to the stomach. My life stopped that night Markus died. I guess I knew it somewhere deep inside my head, but I never stopped to think about it.

  Stop to think how fucking sad it is that I haven’t felt this good in years, and she hasn’t even laid her hands on me.

  We’ll work on that.

  “You can touch.” I wink at her. “I won’t move. I promise.”

  “Touch what?”

  “Me.” I lick my lips, because Christ, this is turning me on like nobody’s business. Crazy. “Feel my body. No need to undress me.”

  “No?”

  “Well, not yet.” She hesitates and I fight the urge to grab her hands and put them on top of my throbbing hard-on. “Or ever, if you don’t want, Pax. This is your call. You’re in charge here.”

  This is it. This is fucking it. The moment when she has to make up her mind if she wants to go through with it. If she wants to explore what scares her. If her desire is stronger than her fear.

  I hold my breath as she clenches her small hands in her lap, a flush spreading over her cheekbones.

  Come on, Pax...Come on.

  She lifts one hand, trails it over my chest. Heat spreads where she touches, seeping through my T-shirt. Her eyes dart from her hand to my face and back, nervously, as if she’s afraid I’ll suddenly transform into a monster and bite her head off.

  Dexter was like that. Hell, Batman is still like that. I need to reassure him every day that I won’t harm him. It takes a while—and yeah, trying to distract myself with my pets’ reactions isn’t fucking helping my hard-on.

  Dammit, I’ll wait. I’ll take the time, if she’ll take it, too. Feels like a dark seduction where I’m not sure who is seducing who. I’m trying to tame her, and she’s driving me crazy. I’m asking her to touch me, and her touch is setting me on fire.

  Jesus.

  As she digs her fingertips into my pecs, pokes into my stomach, finds my bellybutton through the fabric and dips her forefinger into the small dent, I do something I haven’t done in years.

  I think unsexy thoughts. Just like when I was a fucking teenager, struggling not to shoot my load when a girl I liked crossed my path. When I had no control over my body.

  Like now.

  Her fingers continue their journey south and my breath grows shallow as they approach the bulge of my erection. Will she touch it? Touch my cock that’s throbbing, trapped in the thick denim? The barbells on either side of the crown drag against the fabric, sending small jolts of pleasure down my spine.

  She stops, an uncertain look crossing her face, and I bite back a groan of disappointment.

  Fuck. This isn’t about me, dammit.

  She doesn’t move away, though, her hand a warm weight on my stomach. “Riot…”

  “Hmm?”

  “Not sure what I’m doing.”

  “Touching me?”

  “Not that. I mean…” Her gaze is dark, thoughtful. “How will this help me? Touching you like this?”

  “It’s a start.”

  “A start to what?”

  “What do you think?” I wag my brows at her, and she laughs softly, glancing away.

  Score.

  Then her hand glides back up to my pecs, over my shoulder, down my arm. “Love your tats. They’re flames, aren’t they?”

  Shit. “Yeah.”

  “Pretty.” But she says nothing more.

  Of course she doesn’t, idiot. She has no clue what the flames mean. You think you’re still in the underworld with the shadows of men, blood, and death, but you’re not. You left. And by leaving you caused more death and more misery.

  You were supposed to die. Not Markus. Fix that now, if you fucking can.

  “Is Riot your real name?”

  Okay, this isn’t going the way I thought it would. Need to put this conversation back on track.

  “Something wrong with my name, Pax?”

  She shakes her head, smiles.

  “Too many questions. You asked for one hour. You’re wasting it.” I prop myself up on my elbows, and she stills. “Fewer questions, more touching.”

  “And if I don’t want to touch you?”

  “Don’t you?” I smirk at her, and she lifts her chin, challenging.

  Damn, I like that about her. Even terrified she won’t give up, she won’t let me do whatever I wish. I like it a bit too much.

  Hot.

  Suddenly she’s scooting away, climbing off the bed.

  “Whoa. What happened?” I sit up, my brain scrambling to switch from the thought of her hands on me, her sexy mouth, those soft tits showing over her cleavage—to her stepping away as if I grew fangs and fur. “Did I do something? Did I scare you?”

  “I need to go,” she says, grabbing her purse and coat from the armchair.

  “Where? Fuck.” I check my watch. “The hour isn’t up ye
t.”

  “It doesn’t matter, Riot.” She pulls on her coat, gives me a determined look. “This isn’t working. It makes no sense for me to stay any longer. I have an exam to study for.” She presses her lips together, makes a face. “You’re a nice guy. Thanks for trying to help.”

  “Pax...Wait.”

  Fuck. I thought that we were doing fine. That we were making progress.

  But she’s already leaving. “Goodbye, Riot.”

  “Yeah.” I clench my hands on my thighs, force myself to stay, not to go after her. “Goodbye, Pax.”

  Hell. It shouldn’t bother me. I shouldn’t give a shit. It shouldn’t matter. She’s a client, for fuck’s sake. I’m just the commodity. I don’t have wants and desires.

  I shouldn’t want more time with her, more of her touch, her sweet smile.

  And it doesn’t matter anyway, because there’s absolutely nothing I can fucking do but watch her go.

  ***

  I sit and stare at the closed door for a while, then get up and go into the bathroom, figuring I still have some time before they come and kick me out of the room. I splash water on my face, rub it viciously with the towel.

  Tell myself to suck it up and stop thinking about it.

  About her.

  Getting obsessed much? Quit this, Riot. It isn’t like you to get hung up on a girl, no matter how pretty she is.

  It’s her pain, I realize. Her sadness. Her fear. It has a hold on me. Won’t let me go.

  Well, tough.

  I turn toward the shower, consider a quick hand job to take off the edge, then decide against it. If I do, I’ll be giving in to the fantasy, stroking myself to the image of her, to the things I want to do to her.

  Not exactly what I need if I want to forget about her.

  Besides, I have more work tonight. Another appointment. An easy one, with a steady client I’ve had since I started at the agency.

  Get your head on straight, Riot. This is the life you’ve chosen, the one that can pay the debts and bills for Kyle. You made a promise. You keep that promise, no matter what. No cold feet now. Not over a girl who’s too scared to even touch you.

  Turning away from the mirror, I run my hands through my hair and tell myself to get on with it. I have time, but I need to walk this off, this strange feeling that’s squeezing my chest. I grab my jacket and head out, into the cold winter evening.

  The cold slams into me like a fist as I step onto the street. I hunch over, zipping up my jacket, and consider my options as I straddle my bike and kick off the stand. I have an hour to kill, and my head is buzzing—with Pax, with the memories, with the feeling of a wall against my back. A dead-end. A one-way highway.

  Fuck it.

  I slam the helmet on my head, pull on my leather gloves and slip into the traffic, zipping between cars. Let the cold air clear my head, numb my thoughts. I twist the throttle, rev the engine, roar through the streets. And then the noise swallows me and I slip through time like a shadow.

  That’s what I am. A shadow, a dark reflection, a stray bullet drifting through life without aim.

  ***

  The wrought iron gate is shined to a polish. I ring the bell and it opens automatically. I ride my bike into the drive and park it, climb off and kick the stand into place.

  Pulling off my helmet, I stick it under my arm as I make my way to the front door. It’s already open, and I step inside, close it behind me.

  Tall ceilings, a chandelier, prisms of light, paintings on the walls. This house makes me feel small despite my six-foot-four frame. Unreal, as if I’ve entered a fairytale.

  “Riot, you know the way,” her voice floats to me and I follow it, my biker boots muffled on the thick carpet.

  The room opens into a sunroom with ceiling to floor windows. The garden outside is lit, bushes and trees looming like ghosts in the gloom. Inside is a table set for two, and she’s seated, drinking red wine.

  “Ellen.” I walk over to her and bend to kiss her wrinkled cheek. “How are you?”

  “Better now you’re here.” She smiles brightly at me and lifts her glass. “Sit.”

  I shrug off my jacket, drape it on the back of my chair and sit down. Ellen’s a bit bossy but a good heart. She likes to spend some evenings with me, sometimes with food and wine, sometimes stroking my hair like I’m a pet.

  Yeah, don’t laugh. It’s a thing. And I don’t mind. It’s kind of soothing, mostly. Kind of weird. But not bad. And she pays for it, so...Better than having sex with someone you don’t like.

  Count your fucking blessings, Riot.

  Yeah, I’m in a funk tonight, I know. I try to shake it off as I serve both of us. Her family was Hungarian, a story she’s told me over our many meetings, and tonight the main dish is goulash. I like the hearty beef stew, and with the red wine, it’s a fine dinner for me.

  “So tell me,” she says, her blue eyes sparkling in their web of fine wrinkles. “How have you been?”

  “Oh you know me. Keeping busy.” I give her a smirk and dip my bread into the stew. “Bikes to ride, women to pleasure and keep warm on cold winter nights.”

  “You bad boy, you.” She laughs, delighted. It’s the same every time. She loves this shit. “Got into any fights recently?”

  “Yeah. A few.”

  It’s her fantasy that I’m real bad, that I get into fights. And the weirdest part? She told me the first time she met me that I look like an underground fighter.

  If only she knew how close she is to the truth.

  “Tell me about it,” she commands, and I launch into an imaginary tale of a bar brawl where I’m pinned to the bar by a bunch of bikers and I have to fight my way out. It sounds real, I know, because I can picture every move and counter move in my mind, just like I did before every single one of my fights.

  It’s easy to slip back into that role inside my mind, in the memories. My muscles tense, vibrating with anticipation as I describe how I take the thugs out, one by one.

  Kick, punch, turn, uppercut, follow through, high kick, step back.

  Fuck.

  “And then what happened?” she asks, and I blink, finding myself at her table, my food untouched, my wine glass full. Disoriented. Wondering what I’m doing here.

  Who she is.

  I take a sip of my wine to buy myself some time. Jesus. I clear my throat. “I walked out. Went home.”

  Vanished back into this life where I pretend to be something I’m not. To enjoy something I don’t. Where I’m falling through the cracks and for the first time can’t seem to find the way out.

  “What’s wrong, honey?” Ellen is giving me a concerned look. “You look out of sorts today.”

  Yeah. “Nothing’s wrong. Long day.” I swallow more wine, finish my glass. “I promise.”

  “You know you can always call me if you need help with anything.” Her tone is warm, if scolding, and I nod.

  “I know.”

  I normally don’t give my phone number to anyone, and I never take my clients’ numbers, either, but for Ellen I’ve made an exception. She’s been my client ever since I signed up for Bad Boy Escorts and she only calls to make appointments, which I confirm later with the agency.

  She has a strong dislike for the guy who answers the phone, Johnson, and I can’t blame her one fucking bit.

  “I think,” she puts down her fork, a decisive gleam I know well entering her eyes, “we should move to the living room.”

  “As you wish.”

  “Come along now.” She stretches out her hand imperiously and I get up and walk around the table to take it and pull her to her feet. Her hand is laden with rings, large stones that flash in the light. Her long dark dress swishes as I lead her across the room to the white sofa by the fireplace where a fire is burning.

  She sinks down on the white leather, arranging her long skirt like a queen. It’s hard to guess Ellen’s age. She may be forty-five, or she may be sixty-five. Her body is trim, her hair dyed pale blond and her make-up is carefully appli
ed.

  “Sit,” she says. She enjoys ordering me about. I’d punch anyone who thought they could tell me what to do two years ago. Now I just fold down on my knees on the rug and wait. “Here.” She pats her lap.

  I let out a controlled breath, tell myself to relax. Then I lean against her and lay my head on her legs.

  Good dog, a voice snickers in my head. Sit. Roll over. Good boy.

  She pats my hair, pets it, and I close my eyes. Yeah, there are definitely worse things I could be asked to do than this, and I am tired. The meeting with Pax left me reeling like a kick to the chest.

  “Why do you like meeting me?” I mutter. “I’m full of shit, and you know it. You have class. Money. You could have dinner with anyone.”

  She chuckles. “I like bad boys.”

  “Tell me the truth, Ellen.” She has paused her petting, and fuck, what am I doing now? She’s a regular client and I’m pushing her. You don’t push clients.

  But before I can snap my sluggish mind awake and figure out a way to smooth things over, she sighs.

  “You remind me of someone, that’s all. He was wild, like you. And a good person. Like you, Riot.”

  “You don’t know me,” I whisper.

  I’m a fucking shadow of myself, and a reflection of someone else.

  Fucking awesome.

  “I do,” she says. “Though, I sometimes feel, honey, that you don’t know yourself. He was that way, too, you know. But it didn’t matter. I knew.”

  “Ellen…” I pull away, sit back on my heels. This used to be easy, simple. It’s getting more complicated by the second, like everything lately.

  “Listen,” she says and smiles, her eyes old and young at the same time, full of memory and knowledge. “You only need to find someone who’ll see you for who you truly are, and show you. You need to see yourself through another person’s eyes.”

  “If I knew fucking magic tricks,” I mutter, a weight settling on my chest, “everything would be okay.”

  Chapter Seven

  Paxtyn

  “Not going home tonight, Paxtyn?” Josh, one of my classmates calls. “Gonna lock up the library on your way out?”

  I wave at him to go and offer a smile to the others. “I’ll stay half an hour more, then I’m off home.”