by Raven, Jo
Because while I was talking about money it was one thing—my call, my concern, my offer—but this? We’re back to square one where I’m a commodity and she’s the buyer.
Where I’m not a real person.
As it should be. As it is. Wake up, Riot. This is how things stand, and you need the money. She is not your girlfriend.
And you’re not a free man.
“Same price,” I say gruffly, throw the door open and step out before I do or say any more stupid things—like break the rules and offer to do this off schedule. For free. Like we’re just a man and a woman who like each other, like a normal couple.
We’re not. And I can’t.
What the fuck am I doing? This is getting out of hand, and I need to put the brakes on this, on the need to protect her and make sure she’s happy.
Not my problem. Not my circus, man, not my monkeys. Like I said, I’ve got enough on my plate.
No more fucking strays, Riot. No more.
***
My street is a glorified back-alley, dirty and narrow. The entrance to my building is dark and stinks of piss. I keep my eye on the shadows in the corners and other entrances as I unlock and enter the stairwell, pulling my bike behind me.
There’s an itch between my shoulder blades, like I’m being watched, but when I whip around, nobody’s to be seen. It’s not the first time, either. The other day I thought someone was following me.
Which is bullshit. Who would do that? Muggers and cutthroats, that’s who’s walking my neighborhood. They wouldn’t need to follow me or watch me. No, they’d have jumped me already if they wanted what’s in my pockets.
But what the hell do I know? Maybe they’re just keeping tabs, trying to gauge when I’ll be loaded to make it worth their while.
Wasted time. Most of the money I get goes directly to the fund for little Kyle’s medication and the debt for the surgery. As a matter of fact, I know I should have gone to visit him, but I had lots of work this week, and that first meeting with Paxtyn drained me for some reason. Rattled me.
And the appointments I had afterward were shitty. Made me feel like a lesser human.
Christ. What’s my deal today, huh? I normally don’t let life bring me down. I do what I have to do, and that’s it.
Suck it up, Riot.
I shake my head at myself as I lock my bike in the storeroom in the back of the building, and go up the narrow stairs, checking that no junkie is crowding the way, and that no drug trafficking is happening on my landing so I don’t get a gun in my face.
It’s happened before. Not the best of neighborhoods, this one, heh, but the rent’s cheap, which means I can save most of the money I earn to send to the boy’s mother.
Unlocking my door, I enter my pad and lock it behind me. Lock and padlock and then check the apartment just in case someone made it inside while I was out.
Suddenly a black ball of fur explodes out of nowhere and barrels into my legs. Tiny claws dig into my pants, into my legs, as Dexter makes his way up my body.
“Fuck, Dex.” I grab the kitten and carefully disengage his wicked claws before he digs them into my crotch. “Careful with the family jewels, buddy.”
Meet Dexter. He’s missing one of his hind legs, and he’s a serial killer of cables and electric appliances. Found him in a back alley one day, couple of months ago, coming back from an appointment, and he followed me to my apartment. He’s been my friend, my welcoming committee and my alarm clock in the mornings ever since.
A low howl comes from the kitchen, and I wander that way, Dex riding on my shoulder.
“Hey, Batman. Come here, boy.”
And he comes out of his hiding place behind the door, ears up—the ears that earned him his name. He’s a mongrel, but there’s some wolf in him, because he’s tall and lean and beautiful.
Found him outside my building a month ago, and Dex and I took him in. He was so sick and malnourished you could count his ribs. His fur had fallen out, too, and he had worms. Oh and let’s not forget the wounds. Someone had beaten him repeatedly.
Look how pretty he is now, even though he’s still jumpy.
“Slowly, boy,” I tell him as I put some food for him in his bowl and guide him to it, rubbing his back a few times. “With time, I’ll fix you. Make you feel safe. You’ll see.”
He glances up at me, as if suspicious, scared I’m playing a game to hurt him. One, two, three heartbeats, then he bends over his bowl and starts to eat.
“See, Dex?” I tell the kitten who licks my ear in reply. “He’s just like you when I found you, scared to death. But you’re not scared of me anymore, are you? Come on, let’s feed you, too.”
I unhook him from my shoulder and set him down beside his own bowl. He’s so small I sometimes find him asleep in it—after he’s licked it clean. Grabbing a can of cat food, I fill the bowl and fill their water bowls.
Then I finally make my way to the small living room and sink on the sofa, too tired to even take off my boots.
Fuck, what a day. After Paxtyn, I had to cross town to meet my next client, and now I feel dirty and worn out. Worn inside out, in fact. Like I’m not myself anymore, but a stranger wearing my face.
On the coffee table, among dirty mugs and glasses, I reach for the bottle of Scotch and unscrew it, take a long swig. It burns going down and I tell myself that’s why my eyes feel so hot.
The client after Pax was a bitch from hell. Honest to God, if she hadn’t been paying—if I was free to do as I pleased—I’d have punched her in the mouth, to stop her from saying all those things.
Fuck. I take another swig. I don’t let comments get under my skin, not normally. I’ve trained myself not to feel, not to react. Let the words pass over me. I’m like oil, floating on top of the water, on top of their fucking words, their scorn and arrogance, their demeaning demands.
Fuck her. Fuck you, bitch. Yeah, I can think, I’m not just a cock to please you. Yeah, my body reacts when we have sex, and I can’t control everything. No, I won’t lick your boots if I don’t want to, and yeah, you need to pay extra to suck my cock.
It’s your privilege, not mine. Your enjoyment. I could barely keep hard with your ugly face so close to my dick.
Fuck.
Can’t believe I managed to come, filling the condom, with her mouth around it. Didn’t enjoy it. It was a dry spasm, a painful wrench inside me, rather than an orgasm.
Can’t remember the last time sex was fun. The last time I felt real pleasure. I must have. Long ago.
I toss back the rest of the Scotch and wince at the burn. Sometimes I wonder if I should go back to the illegal fight clubs where I started out. Where Markus died. Where I found out that every choice we make affects others, even if we only think of ourselves.
Especially then. Because I was only thinking of myself back then.
Dammit.
Jamming the bottle between my thigh and the armrest, I shrug off my jacket and reach up to rub at the tats on my arm. On some days I could swear they burn like the flames they depict, like the memories they bring back, searing through flesh and bone and thought.
Hellfire Fighters. I thought they were my family once, before I realized how the boss used us to make all the money and bury us in nameless graves if we were killed in an illegal fight. Before I decided to bail out, save my skin, save my life from a fight that was sure to be my end.
And instead watched my best friend die.
All on me. My fault. I’m such a selfish prick. My vision blurs, and I swallow down the Scotch like water, let it warm me, fill me, erase me.
Won’t be the first time I wish I’d vanished into nothing, though it’s been a while since it was so bad.
Dammit. I was starting to get used to my new role in life—my new existence as a mindless toy used to get strangers off. I didn’t even mind.
No, not true. I just didn’t care. Didn’t give a shit how others saw me, how they perceived me and what I want. Haven’t stopped to think about that since that fat
eful night when my world was turned upside down. Since then it hasn’t been about me, but about the boy, about his life.
About making enough money to cover his expenses. It’s the least I can do, since I fucked up his life.
But now...Right now, sitting alone in my crappy apartment, a bottle of Scotch in my hand and a weight on my chest, I don’t know. Fuck, I don’t know what I’m doing, where I’m heading. Is this what life is supposed to be like? So fucking empty.
Paxtyn’s tear-streaked face flashes through my thoughts, and I tighten my grip on the bottle. Never had doubts until her. What is she doing to me? It’s as if her pain is awakening mine. As if her tears are corrosive like acid, eating through my defenses, though my walls, through the numbness.
And the last thing I need right now is to doubt and to feel and to want. I’ve made my bed, and now I’ve got to lay in it, come what may.
Chapter Five
Paxtyn
I’m tied to a post, my hands crossed over my head, my fingers so numb I can’t feel them. It’s as if my hands were cut off, and sometimes I look up, straining to see them, make sure they’re still attached to my bleeding wrists.
Cable ties. That’s what they used. They’re slicing into my flesh, cutting deep. Maybe the blood flowing down my arms will be enough to kill me. End this.
But not yet, and he’s there, crouching in front of me, grinning like the devil, his teeth big and stained yellow with nicotine.
“Spread your legs for me, slut,” he slurs, alcohol lacing his breath. “Open up.” He rips my panties down my legs, pushes my skirt up. “Let’s see what we got here…”
Darkness. Pain. Ice-cold fear, and I thrash against my bonds, against his hold on me, screaming behind the gag.
I wake up thrashing on my bed, my breath coming in short gasps. Phantom pain haunts my hips, my wrists, my breasts, my face. Lifting my hand, I touch my cheek, expecting it to burn, to ache.
Nothing. Just a memory.
And I should know better than to nap in the afternoon on my sofa. I never sleep well that way, but I was tired.
I sit up, lean my head back, close my eyes.
Fact is, I can’t sleep well these days, period. Not even in my big, soft bed. Since that night at the hotel with Riot, the nightmares have gotten worse. They won’t let me sleep, won’t let me be. Taunting me. Wearing me down.
What can I do? I put my hands over my face, press the heels of my palms into my eyes. What else can I do?
Riot says he can help me. But he knows nothing about my fears. For him, I’m just another job, a paying client. Every appointment with me means money in his pocket.
That’s all this is for him. The proof? He came to the meeting, despite the way we parted the first time. He’s a professional. He can brush off the wrath and tears of irate women as long as they keep paying.
And yet...He seemed genuinely interested, and worried. Careful. Helpful.
Damn he’s good. I almost fell for it there, in my car, when he asked to hold my hand. I was horrified at myself, breaking apart, and he kept me together. Maybe that’s why I agreed to meet him again.
Someone’s knocking on my door, and I frown. Who can that be? A glance at the clock on the wall tells me it’s six PM.
Then I hear the key turning in the lock, and I jump to my feet even as I know who it is. The only person who has a key to my apartment.
The door swings open.
“Pax?” Corey peers into the dimness of the room, a frown on his handsome face. “Christ. There you are. What are you doing in the darkness?”
He flips the lights on, and I wince, covering my eyes. “Corey.”
“In the flesh.” He bows with a flourish. “At your service. I’m just checking if you went off and died on me, since you won’t return my calls or reply to my texts.”
Crap. “Sorry?”
“Are you?”
“A little.” I sigh. “Sorry I worried you.”
He shrugs off his long coat, throws it over a chair, then comes over to me and sits beside me on the sofa. “Okay. Tell everything to Uncle Corey. What happened?”
Corey is a handsome guy. He has his blond hair trimmed short with long sideburns, he has the most amazing green eyes, he’s tall and imposing and totally rocks the old-fashioned style he favors with his long gabardines and tailored pants.
He also likes boys, and the difference between us is that he isn’t afraid of men and sex. At all. I swear, he changes boyfriends like I change panties.
He’s also the sweetest friend ever, for checking up on me, and a mother hen. I bet that in the next few seconds he will freak out by my silence and start mothering me.
“I’m going to make you some tea,” he says right on cue, starting to get up. “And cookies. You look pale, and I don’t like it. You need some sugar in—”
“Corey.” I grab his hand. “Stay. I’m fine.”
“You sure?” He sits back down, tugs on his turtleneck sweater. “Okay, sweet cheeks, then spill. Did you go through with that terrible idea? Tell me you didn’t. I’ve been having nightmares about it ever since.”
Nightmares, huh. Like me.
“I did, and before you say it,” I stop him with a slap on the leg, “it was fine. I’m fine, so stop your worrying.”
Okay, I’m lying, but him fretting over me isn’t going to help things, and Corey knows. He’s the only person who knows what happened on that night, apart from Ethel and her folks. Heck, even my folks don’t know everything about it.
So I really don’t need him fussing over me any more than he already is. Stressing. He doesn’t handle stress well—which is why he doesn’t date.
Or so he claims.
“So you had sex with this escort?” Fascination replaces the worry in his gaze, and I lean back against the cushions, torn between irritation and the urge to laugh.
“That’s your first question, after finding out I went through with my plan?”
“Well, that was the number one stipulation of your plan, as I recall.” His expression turns contemplative. “Get over the fear of men, and touching, and above all sex. Am I wrong?”
No, he’s not, which is kind of annoying, because right now the last thing I want to talk about is Riot and that disastrous evening.
Even more so because my next meeting with him is tonight and I’m not sure I’m ready. I don’t have any idea what to expect, or how I will react to it.
I shiver.
“We didn’t have sex,” I whisper, and I don’t care if I sound defeated, because this is Corey, who knows me well. “But that’s okay. Maybe I’ll think of another way to fix it.”
Fix myself.
“Oh sweetie.” He sighs. “Bryan has an amazing therapist. He swears by this woman. Let me get you her phone number.”
“Bryan, huh? Wasn’t it Jaxon last week?”
“Jaxon is history.” Corey waves a hand back and forth dismissively as he scrolls through the contacts on his cell phone.
“You said he was hot.”
“He was. The fire can’t burn forever, though.”
“So this is how it is, always? You think you love someone and then it all dies out?”
“Love?” He looks up, a confused look on his face. “Were we talking about love? No, hon, this is just lust.”
Right. “I know. I just…” I swallow hard. “Don’t you ever wonder if you’ll ever find someone you can settle down with? Someone you can trust, someone you’ll want for all time?”
He whistles. “Whoa. Careful with those words, honey. Settle down? Trust? For all time? They’re not in my vocabulary.”
“But why, Corey? Why not? Look around you. So many happy endings. You’re a nice, intelligent, handsome guy. What prevents you from finding true love?”
“And more hard words.” He winces. “I’m not made for relationships, Pax. For love. You know that.”
Do I? He’s an amazing friend. From his stories, he’s great in bed. So what’s the problem? I keep getting the feelin
g there’s something in his past that’s stopping him from having a real relationship, that pulls him back whenever things get real. I wish he could talk to me about it. I mean, he knows all about my issues.
“If you’re done psychoanalyzing my nonexistent love life,” he waggles his brows at me, “check your phone. I texted you the number of the therapist. Give her a try, why don’t you? She deals with sexual traumas.”
My turn to wince. “Corey, that wasn’t—”
“Yes, it was. Listen, love, I know you hate those labels.” He puts his phone back in his pocket. “I know you weren’t raped, and thank God for that. But there was sexual torture involved, and there’s a reason you can’t be with men. So humor me, okay? Give her a call. Try her out. You deserve to live a normal, happy life.”
“As you do. Corey—”
“Who says I’m not happy?” He sends me a too-bright smile, and climbs to his feet. “Have to run. Bryan’s waiting for me. Glad you’re alive, sweet cheeks. I was worried. Next time give some sign of life, would you? Keep me from getting gray hairs.”
I laugh, I can’t help it. “You’re twenty-one.”
“And your point is?” He winks at me, smooths his hands over his hair and grabs his coat from the chair. “We should go out. Saturday night. What say you, oh dark one?”
My laughter fades. Dark. Yeah. “Maybe.”
“I’ll take that as a yes,” he says, which makes no sense, but by the time I’ve formulated a reply, he’s out and closing the door behind him.
Hurricane Corey.
Sighing, I plop back against the cushions and rub my hands over my face. He’s right. I should call this therapist, go out on Saturday night, and slowly put my life back together. The way others do it. Why think I could do it differently?
Or that Riot can fix me? An escort. Sure, he’s hot, insanely so, and also kind and persistent, but why would he be able to help me when the specialists couldn’t?
This is hopeless.
***
Dressed in one of my favorite dresses and high heels, feeling the scratch of my lacy underwear against my skin, I reach the hotel and hesitate at the door.