by Raven, Jo
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 applied.
“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.”
“Don’t stay too late!” Lisa, a nice redhead from my Statistics class calls out.
Statistics. I’m telling you, psychology is like a hybrid between humanities and sciences, half philosophy and half neuroscience. Not at all how I imagined it to be.
And crap, it’s late…again. Since my last disastrous meeting with Riot, I’ve thrown myself into my studies like a madwoman—a good thing, all things considered, as I’ve neglected my classes and reading for months. I have essays to turn in and projects to work on.
Except my mind is not on my studies. No, it’s stuck on a certain gray-eyed escort with an easy smile and a smoking hot body.
Shit.
Gathering up my books and my laptop, I stuff everything in my bag and head out of the library. I need to get my act together. Can’t let what happened with him rattle me, even as the memory of his body under my fingertips makes my blood run hotter in my veins.
Because we all know what comes after that if I meet him again, if I try to go further: panic, tears, a backslide into the past.
No, better stop thinking about him. Somehow. Study harder. Maybe I should get a pet. A furball to cuddle with at night.
And of course that makes me think of Riot’s pets—Dexter, and what was the other one? Batman? Strays he picked up from the street. He said I was like the kitten he rescued. That I needed to learn how not to be afraid.
Said he could help me, but he was wrong. He can’t. I can’t be helped. The past is too strong. Wraps around me like a rope, a leash, a noose.
I can’t win. And he can’t save me.
My car engine takes a moment to warm up, and I rub my hands together waiting for the heater to kick in. It’s a cold, cold night. There’s a scent of snow on the air.
The cold in my bones can’t be chased away, no matter how wrapped up I am in my coat and scarf. In fact, in these past two years, the only time I felt warm…
The times he held my hand. It was as if heat spilled from his fingers into mine.
And this isn’t helping. Nothing’s helping. I already decided I can’t see Riot again. If only my heart felt less heavy, my thoughts lighter.
If only I didn’t want to see him again so much. Even if it won’t help. Even if it’s to feel his warmth, his fingers around mine for a moment.
What is this weird need? The need that has me pulling out my cell from my purse and dialing the agency before I realize what I’m doing.
“Bad Boy Escorts,” the receptionist’s by now familiar, smooth baritone greets me. “How may I help you?”
I clutch the phone to my ear and suck in air. “Hi. This is Paxtyn. Paxtyn Page. I’m—”
“Ms. Page. What a pleasure to hear from you again. You wish for Riot or another of our boys?”
Crap. “Um. Riot, but I—”
“Excellent. Tonight? He’s free.”
I swallow hard. “He is?”
“The usual time? Eight?”
Wait, I have a usual time after three meetings? “I was calling to ask—”
“Eight o’clock it is then. The usual place?” The receptionist sounds pleased. Of course he does. That’s money for the agency, and himself. “All set. I’ll let him know.”
“Wait! That’s not what I called to say. I just…”
But he’s hung up already. I mean, I called the escort agency. What else would he think I wanted?
What am I doing?
What have I done?
I could redial. Tell the guy to cancel the appointment. I haven’t signed anything. Nobody can make me go to the meeting against my will.
Of course not. I called because I want this. Even if it doesn’t fix me. Even if it’s just a moment’s fix, a need for something elusive and hard to define.
Warmth. Quiet. A flash of desire. A strong hand gripping mine. A sexy grin. God, I can’t wait to see him again.
And this is bad. Really bad. Like, if Corey knew, he’d have a fit. He’d have absolutely no problem telling me I’ve lost it and what a stupid idea it is to ever meet Riot again.
***
My palms are sweaty, my mouth is dry and my knees shake. You’d think I’m a schoolgirl going on her first date.
I hardly remember, although I know I was that, once, and I went on a first date, and a second, and many more. But it’s as if that terrifying night erased everything that came before it—my adolescence, my childhood.
But it hasn’t. It only obscured them, darkened my memories. It hasn’t killed them.
Somehow, the thought of seeing him again gives me hope I will find the person I used to be under the layers of fear. No clue how he can do that when I hardly know him—when every time I’m determined not to return and yet here I am.
The doors of the hotel slide open and I step inside.
A familiar setting. The potted plants beside the dark reception desk, the round hanging lamps over the plush armchairs.
The tall, muscular man lounging by the desk, arms in his pockets, one biker boot propped against the wall.
He’s not looking my way, a distant look on his face, and I take a moment to study him—his long legs, his wide shoulders straining against his leather jacket, the strong line of his jaw, those soft lips. That tousled dark hair.
It’s as if he’s fresh air and I can breathe again.
Jeez, Pax. Just move already. Talk to him.
Ugh.
Before I take one step, though, he turns, his gaze finding me unerringly. I don’t know what I expected him to do—scowl, or paste on a fake smile as he’d do for any client.
I don’t expect that bright smile that lights up the grays in his eyes, turning them silver, or for him to push off the wall and stride toward me.
“Pax.” He’s acting like he’s happy to see me. Like he missed me.
Which is ridiculous.
“Hi. This was a mistake.” I snap my mouth shut, open it again. “I wasn’t going to call.”
His smile wavers, in and out of focus. It sharpens again. “But you did.”
True. Otherwise we wouldn’t be here. Standing like this. Awkwardly. Uncertainly. His hands still in his jeans pockets and that bright smile on his face that makes my heart hurt.
“Shall we?” He nods at the elevators, and something shifts in his gaze, a glint of lust that sends a hot pang of need through me.
Because I do need, I still desire, in spite of my fear. And it’s hard not to lust after a man like Riot. He’s so damn hot.
He leans against the reception desk like he did last time, at ease, muscular forearms resting on the polished granite. His dark hair falls in his eyes. He must have used a gel or something before, because now it looks soft and it flops on his forehead in silky tassels. He’s shaved, I realize, and he looks younger like this.
Boyish. Cute.
Sexy.
I hide a shiver as I receive my key. Thankfully, the obnoxious girl who flirted with Riot isn’t on shift. Not that the way the older lady manning the desk today is undressing him with her eyes is any better.
Jealous, Pax?
Of course not.
I grab the key and head for the elevator, keeping my gaze ahead, not glancing to see if Riot is following. I step into the carriage and turn just as he enters. Like every time, heat pours off him, seeping into me. I want to press up against him, drink it in, feel the hard contours of his body under my hands, my lips, feel him molding on my curves.
When he turns to press the button for the third floor, I let out a shaky breath. Then he closes the small distance between us and looks down at me.
Holy shit. So close.
Though he doesn’t touch me. No part of our bodies is touching, but his gaze is like a wall of fire, crashing into me, passing through me. My core clenches, my breasts tighten, and I press my back against the mirror covering the insides of the elevator, breathing hard.
What is he doing to me? He’s only standing there, looking mildly amused. And then we stop, the doors dinging as they open.
Dazed, I watch as he reaches down, between his legs. Tugging. Accommodating his hard-on.
He’s aroused. Holy crap, he’s so hard I can see the outline of his cock inside his jeans.
“Coming?” he rasps, gesturing at the open elevator doors, and it takes me a second to make sense of the word.
Right.
As I step outside, onto the landing, and lift the key to open the door to the room, I wonder what’s about to happen.