by Jo Raven
Again that appraising look.
Wait a sec. Is he checking me out?
“She said it didn’t go too well, and I thought it was over, but then…” He shakes his head, rolls his eyes. “Then she refused to say another word about it, or you.”
“So?”
“So if you knew Pax well, you’d know the things she doesn’t talk about are the ones foremost on her mind.”
“That’s a stretch.”
“Not at all.”
“You’re not a mind-reader.”
“No, I’m her best friend.”
What are we even talking about? Shit. “So she never talked about me.”
“That’s correct.”
Dammit. “And that means she’s been thinking about me.”
“You’re a little slow on the uptake,” he winks, “but so hot I’ll forgive you.”
Blink, blink. “Are you hitting on me?”
“Nah. I wouldn’t do that to Pax. Can’t compete with her anyway.”
Holy shit. Laughter bubbles up inside me and I force it down. “No, you can’t.”
“I thought so.” He looks pleased about that. “Has she eaten today?”
“No. I was gonna…” I huff. “Prepare something for her.”
“You can cook?”
I shake my head.
“Right. Let me go say hi and you can help me. We’ll make her a feel-better soup.”
“Feel-better soup?”
“Yeah. Stay put. Or even better, go and put a T-shirt on or something, otherwise I’ll never get anything done. Oh boy.”
Fanning his face he pushes off the sofa and walks out of the room, when all I can think of is—Pax’s friend is gay, and I was on her mind.
***
“Say again what soup this is gonna be?”
“Curried carrot and celery soup.” Corey says the words as if that’s what everyone who’s sick should have for dinner and is chopping carrots as if he was born doing it. He’s not even looking at the chopping board, the knife or his fingers, for chrissakes.
“Right. That.” I focus on cutting up the spring onions he has passed me. “You do that often?”
“What, cook for Pax?” He throws the chopped carrots into the pot, and grabs a jar of curry paste from the cupboard. “We sometimes cook together. She’s a good cook. Girl has talents, if only she lets herself go.”
Talents. Oh yeah, when she lets herself go, she’s like a naked flame. My body heats up thinking of how she rocked on top of me, how she—
“Pass me the onions when you’re done, will you?” He’s stirring the pot, his eyes half-closed. “And grab me the fresh cream from the fridge.”
“Yes, sir.” I stick my tongue out at him and turn to the fridge. Fresh cream. I hope it says so on the pot. Or jar. Or carton?
“Hey, it was you. I knew it.”
“Come again?” I grab what I hope is the thing he’s asking for—Crème Fraiche says the label—and turn.
“You’re the one Pax was asking about. See, told you that you were on her mind.” He has a smug look on his face, and I’m torn between the desire to wipe it off and curiosity.
Curiosity wins out. “Where?”
Besides, Pax will never forgive me if I punch her best friend.
“At the tattoo shop where I went to get my ink.” Corey waves the wooden spoon he’s been using to stir the soup. “Here, give me the cream.”
I give it to him on autopilot. He sets it aside, checks the pot. The smell is damn great. It makes my stomach growl. Come to think of it, can’t remember eating today, either.
“She was asking about me at a tattoo shop. Why?”
“Because of the ink on your back. That skull and the flames and that word. Hellfire.”
She mentioned that, didn’t she? “And what happened?”
He adds a pinch of salt, sniffs at the fragrant steam rising from the pot. “Happened? What do you mean? Ethan told her about the fighting club.”
“Ethan?”
“The tattoo artist. Good friend of mine.”
“Right.”
“Wanna see my new tattoo?” He reaches down, lifts his pant leg, and I catch glimpse of a star and words before he straightens. “He rocks his ink.”
“I don’t care about your tattoo, man. What did Ethan tell her?”
“That you’re probably a fan of the club. Trying to protect her, I guess. He’s a nice guy. Heart of gold.”
“Protect her. From what?”
“The truth.”
I freeze, my hand propped on the counter. “What the hell do you mean?”
“Oh, come on, Riot. Don’t be coy.”
“I’m sorry?”
“You’re not a fan of the underground fighting club. You used to fight for them.”
A shiver wracks me. “Bullshit.”
“You should come clean, pretty boy. She really likes you. Wouldn’t want her finding this out from anyone but from yourself.”
Fuck. He’s right, goddammit, so I ignore the pretty boy comment. “How did you know?”
“You mean apart from the badass tat on your back and the flames on your arm?” He turns the heat on low and leans back on the counter. “You don’t look like a rent boy, Riot. I’ve trawled the escort sites, I’ve seen plenty. You don’t look soft. You look like a fighter.”
I shrug, partly pleased to hear it, partly annoyed. “I’ve left all that behind.”
“Yeah, I bet you did. Why the agency, though?”
“None of your business,” I grind out. “I’m gonna check on Pax.”
“She won’t settle for anything less but the whole of you,” he calls after me. “You know that.”
Hell, of course I know it. I just didn’t think I ever stood a chance with her, and now her friend says I do, I have no fucking clue what to do.
***
“What are you and Corey making?” She’s sitting up in the bed, her back propped against three pillows. Her cheeks are rosy. She looks much better than she did last night when I came over.
“A get-better soup. With carrots. And curry? I think.”
She claps her hands. “Oh, the curried soup? I love that one.”
I kinda hate how there’s so much history between her and Corey. Like, they’ve shared so much and know each other’s preferences and can practically read each other’s minds.
Then again...I was on her mind.
And she doesn’t sleep with him, like she does with me, so…
Heh.
“You have a strange expression on your face,” she says. “Come sit with me.”
I perch on the bed. “What?”
“You look like the cat that ate the canary.”
“Yep. Roasted and with a honey glaze.” I bare my teeth at her, and she laughs.
Score.
“Sounds like Corey has already imparted some of his culinary secrets to you?”
I snort. “Takes longer than half an hour to teach me how to cook, babe.”
“That’s because Corey’s cooking is as complicated as his twisted brain.” She makes a face. “What has Corey told you? Should I be afraid?”
I put my hand over hers on the covers. “Of me? Never.”
“I’m not afraid of you.” There’s truth in her dark eyes.
“Good.” A protective growl rises in my throat.
Would she be afraid of me if she knew about my past? Dammit, Corey is right. I need to tell her.
But I can’t. Fuck, I can’t. Not now. I’ve never been more scared of losing someone in my life.
“Did he show you his new tat?”
When I shake my head, she sighs. “What?”
“It’s a heart struck by an arrow on his chest. He thinks he’s in love with the tattoo artist of Under Your Skin. Ethan something.”
A heart? “Thinks he’s in love, huh? What if he really is?”
“Corey? No.” She glances at the door, as if expecting him to walk in on this conversation about him. “If he was, he’d have g
one back for another tattoo.”
Ah fuck. I chuckle to myself and turn my face away to hide it. “Right.”
If the fresh star tat on his leg is any indication, Corey can read Pax better than she can read him. At least, that’s my hope. He says she thinks about me—but what does that mean anyway?
What the fuck am I doing?
***
The soup is freaking delicious. Spicy and tangy, it explodes on my tongue like a firework. I swear I can taste color. My ears pop.
Son of a bitch, Corey. If he wasn’t gay, I’d seriously be scared of Pax choosing him over me on the merit of his soup alone.
“Man, this is….” I point with my spoon at the bowl, at a loss for words.
“Spectacular?” Pax supplies. We’re sitting on her bed with our bowls. She has a tray on her knees.
“Yeah. That.” I scowl at him. “Don’t let it go to your head.”
Corey smiles. “Me? Never.”
“Oh no,” Pax mutters in a false baritone. “Me? Never. Ever.”
“Pax.” Corey laughs. “She always does that.”
Yeah. I noticed. I snicker as I inhale my soup, feeling strangely...comfortable. At ease in my skin.
Happy. Yeah, that word again.
I let their banter flow over me, wind around me, warm me up to my soul. I need her. Have to find a way to tell her who I really am, who I was, without frightening her. My past is my past. I have put it behind me, and even though my present isn’t a huge improvement, well...At least my job’s not illegal. That counts for something, right?
And if I could...Christ, if I could, I’d leave the agency in a heartbeat. If the money wasn’t needed for Kyle, I’d never had joined in the first place.
“Riot? What do you think?”
“About what?” I blink, the spoon in my hand, halfway between my mouth and the bowl. The empty bowl.
Damn, spaced out.
“About cooking together next week. I should be fine by then.”
Meet with friends to cook. Like normal people do. Cook with my girl and my girl’s best friend.
Only she’s not mine.
She’s not mine, and I’m not hers. I belong to everyone. To anyone with some bucks to spend for the night.
I take my bowl and get up. “Have to go now. Thanks for the soup, Corey.”
“Riot, wait.” Pax is struggling to get up, and no matter how much I wanna go to her, kiss her and tell her everything will be all right, I can’t.
I fucking can’t. Can’t tell her about the past, can’t promise her the present. Can’t put my need for her over Kyle’s life, can’t be selfish when the last time it cost so much, so I turn around and get the hell out.
Because I also can’t say goodbye.
Chapter Seventeen
Paxtyn
He left. He just left, without another word.
Corey has taken away my tray, and has tried to make conversation but my heart’s not in it.
My heart’s broken.
I knew this would happen if I let myself feel things for Riot. Fall for him. Then I stopped fighting it, fell head over heels, and now…
This is my fault. Corey was right.
“You were right,” I tell him as he bustles around my bedroom, straightening my furniture, putting dirty clothes into the laundry basket.
“About?”
“Riot. About meeting with an escort, about thinking this was the answer.”
“But you did it, Pax. You got better.”
Leaning back on my pillows, I think about that. He’s right. Again.
“You should rest, girl.”
“Still. I shouldn’t have kept meeting him. That was a mistake. It’s just that he’s so...nice.”
“And handsome,” Corey helpfully adds.
“Thoughtful.”
“And damn hot.”
“Shut up, Corey.” I swallow hard. “Stop being right for a minute.”
He sighs. “What can I do?”
“I don’t know.” My eyes burn with unshed tears. “Sit with me and watch a movie. Eat chocolates. Talk about the weather.”
Talk about anything and anyone but Riot.
“Sure thing. Can we watch The Fringe?”
“Again?”
“We haven’t watched it in ages.”
“You mean two weeks.”
“What can I say? Peter Bishop is hot.”
That makes me snicker, and although the tears finally fall, sliding down my cheeks, I know it could have been worse. My best friend is here, and I have chocolate and warm blankets to hide under.
It will have to be enough.
***
The days pass. I get better. The pain in my heart, in my mind, doesn’t. Not yet. I guess it will take time. I find myself pulling up the agency’s number on my cell phone, time and again.
I don’t press it. I don’t call.
Why did he get up and leave like that? He’d been so nice to me that night and day. Always so gentle, so wonderful. What did I do to push him away?
Was it because I asked if he would like to cook with us? Did he realize how I felt about him? Was that why?
Screw him. If that’s all it took to drive him away from me, then I don’t care about him.
I shouldn’t care.
But I can’t stop. That’s why it hurts as if my heart is going through the shredder. Corey says time will make it better. Not sure what Corey knows about heartbreak. If he goes through this every time he breaks up a relationship, then he’s superhuman.
Or has no heart. Maybe that’s why he says he doesn’t do love.
God.
It doesn’t help that I have something of his. Riot’s.
He forgot something at my place. I put my hand into my pocket, touch the silver earring I found on my bathroom floor. One of his. I doubt it’s of any great value. Just a plain silver hoop, but it’s burning a hole through my pocket, through my thoughts. I need to return it to him, cut off the last tie, get rid of the last excuse to see him.
Kill the hope he might drop by to inquire about the earring, about me.
Meanwhile, I’ve thrown myself into my studies again. It’s almost Christmas. The shops are in full multicolor deco, the streets covered in snow and lights hanging from the lamp posts.
Normally I go to Corey’s parents’ house for the holidays. My parents will be off to a ski resort somewhere, as usual, or so their last message said.
No surprise there. We’re not close, not since that night two years ago. My fault, too. My silence, and my pain pushed them away. Then I moved here, and I rarely ever see them anymore.
Regret clogs my throat for the first time in a while. I could call them. Hear their voices. Tell them...Tell them I’m better. Maybe we could meet.
Or not.
Better I may be regarding the past, but I’m not okay, and not in the mood to rehash what happened years ago and make amends.
Not right now.
Studies, reading, TV marathons with ice-cream and hot chocolate. That’s my cure, and I’ll take as much of this medicine as necessary until I’m fine.
***
“Heading home?” Corey is finishing his coffee as we walk between buildings. He throws the empty paper cup into a trashcan without missing a beat. “Thinking of going out later?”
It’s Friday afternoon. Hordes of students will be spilling into the town in a few hours to overtake every bar and dance club.
“I’m not sure.” I shove my hands into the pockets of my coat, my finger caressing the silver earring.
“Why not? Come with me. Frank will be there. You remember Frank.”
“Frank is the one who likes quoting dead authors, right?”
Corey laughs like what Frank does is really funny. “See, you remember him.”
“Who could ever forget him?”
“Well, we’ll be at Quincy’s, where you first met Frank.”
And Gale. And then Riot.
So no, I can’t go there. Not if there’s any chance
of meeting Riot, just when the pain is starting to get bearable.
Or maybe manageable. I’m learning to live with it, like with a wound that won’t close.
“I will see, Corey.”
“You’re lying to me. You won’t even consider it.”
Change of tactic. “Will Ethan be there?”
“No.”
“You dumped him already?”
“No. I haven’t dumped him.”
“Did he dump you?”
He’s uncharacteristically quiet, walking beside me toward the parking lot. I let him be for a while, but in the end guilt wins out.
“Sorry. That was bitchy of me. I just don’t know—”
“We didn’t dump each other, because nothing happened between us. Dumping implies something happened. A relationship. Sex. A budding emotion. Ethan and I are not involved.”
Ouch. I mean, I gathered as much, like I told Riot, but still...
And why am I thinking of Riot again? Crap.
“Give me a call if you change your mind and want to have a drink with us.” Corey veers toward the parking lot just as I slow down. “Good night, girl.”
I stop, watch him go. “Corey…”
Way to go, Pax. Why can’t you think before you open your big mouth? Corey has been holding my hand and spoon-feeding me soup and ice-cream since Riot walked out of my apartment, and this is how I repay him.
I’ll give him an hour to cool off, and then call and apologize.
So many calls to make, so many regrets to make up for.
Speaking of phone calls...I finger again the silver earring in my pocket. Time to end this cycle of hope and despair. Return the earring and move on.
Pulling my cell from my back pocket, I search for the agency’s number and hit call. One, two, three rings and a guy—Johnson—answers.
“Bad Boy Escorts, how may I—?”
“Paxtyn Page speaking. I have something belonging to one of your escorts, Riot Gallagher. I don’t suppose you could give me his phone number?”
“I’m sorry, Ms., Page, but we don’t hand out our escorts’ addresses or phone numbers.”
It was a long shot anyway, but I had to try. “I understand. I’ll just drive by the agency then and drop it off there.”
“Ms. Page…” Johnson hesitates and I wonder what this is about. “If I may ask. Riot Gallagher. When was the last time you saw him or talked to him?”