by Raven, Jo
Why is it important to you? Why do you insist on knowing? Why do you act concerned?
“Nothing. I’m just…” She lets her hair fall over her face. Guess she likes hiding, too. “Just curious.”
Strange how my chest constricts with disappointment.
“And if you find out I’m a bad boy for real?” I look down at her hand in my hand, so small and fragile and beautiful. “That I’ve done bad things in my past? That the agency was telling the truth?”
She chews on this, her eyes darting from our joined hands to my face. “No way. What the agency says is just marketing, to attract women. We like the idea of a bad boy. Well, most women do.”
But not her. Because she’s seen the real deal and still hurts from that encounter.
“I thought you said you didn’t believe I was a rich guy with gambling problems.”
“Maybe not that. Maybe you’re saving money for something. A house? A car?” She’s staring at me, expecting an answer, and I chew on the inside of my cheek to keep silent. “Why can’t you tell me?”
“Because maybe you were right after all.” I shrug. “Maybe I spent my rich dad’s money on fast cars and lost it. I’m not a good guy.”
“Yes, you are. I know it.” She sounds so convinced, and hell, it makes me want to grab her, cling to her. Believe her.
Problem is, like she said, she doesn’t know shit, not about me. Better that way.
“Maybe,” I finally say, and it’s a lie, lying bitter on my tongue. I’m not saving anything, not a penny, and I’m not a good guy. I’m a selfish bastard and deserve any welt, any whipping I get.
Any pain life decides to deal me.
***
In the next few days, I don’t hear from Pax. That is, the agency doesn’t call me with any new appointments with her, and although I’ve grilled Johnson as much as I dared, he insisted she didn’t ask for one.
Didn’t call, he said. Swore on his mother’s life.
His mother’s dead, so that means fuck-all, but still. No way I can verify any of this, is there? Johnson is king of the reception desk and string master of all us escorts, controlling our movements and lives.
There was a time I thought I could be a free man. Break free of all the bad, find a decent job somewhere and live a normal life. Even when I worked with the Hellfire Fighters I thought I could one day leave. Gather enough money to reboot my life.
And look what it brought me. Where it led me. Kyle’s medical expenses seem to be growing by the month, and the debt for his surgeries is a black hole, siphoning dollars.
I doubt I’ll ever be free. Not before I’m eighty and use a walking stick to move around. Or before Johnson, out of spite, sends me to a client who’ll break my bones for fun and put me out of business for good.
At least since I told Johnson about the whipping and the welts, he hasn’t made me any more appointments with the two fuckers who tried it. Waiting for the welts to fade, I guess, before he sends me back.
Which is another way to end my career as escort, because I might just snap and punch the man until he can’t get up, and tie the woman, leave her tied up for the cleaning maid to find.
I shiver as I finish up my treadmill at the gym and grab my towel to wipe at my face. Gale is not here today, but Zeke is using the punching bag like it fucked his puppy, snarling and cursing, sweat streaming down his face and back.
Whoa.
Mopping up the back of my neck, I head over to him, careful not to step in the way of his punches.
“Hey, man. What’s up?”
He cuts me a sharp glance, curls his lip and goes back to beating the shit out of the bag. “Riot.”
I prop my hip against the wall and fold my arms over my chest. “The bag insult your mom or what?”
“Shut the fuck up.”
I snort. “Leave something for me, will ya? I need to beat something up, too, and I wouldn’t want that to be you.”
“Yeah?” He tsks, delivers a roundhouse kick to the bag. It groans, its chain rattling. “That right? Suck my dick, asshole.”
“Just spill, Zeke. What the hell happened?”
“What, you Dr. Freud now or something?”
“Why, because I’m fucking asking why you look ready to murder the damn bag?”
“Fuck you.” He punches the bag one last time, making it swing back and forth, and turns away. “Piss off.”
Yeah, no way. “Zeke. Come on.”
He rubs his gloved hands through his short hair. “It’s nothing.”
That makes my hackles rise. It’s exactly what I’d have said if things were going to hell. Come to think of it, it’s exactly what I did say to Pax the other day.
“Spill. Don’t make me beat the truth out of you.”
“In your dreams. Bastard.” But it’s half-hearted.
“Let me buy you a beer. I know a nice place.”
He finally nods and together we head toward the locker room to shower and change. He’s quiet, which isn’t strange for Zeke, but he’s quieter than usual.
Like, stone silent.
Snow has been falling all afternoon and we tread through it, leaving deep imprints on the sideway heading to the bar—not the student-packed one, although I itch to check if Pax is there—but another, smaller one around the corner. Shaking the snowflakes off our jackets, we settle on our stools and I order us two beers.
It takes quite a lot of prodding, still, until Zeke finally opens up enough to tell me what’s going on. It turns out he just found out his mom died.
Fuck. And me cracking jokes about her.
But that’s not all.
“They found her, at home, alone,” he says, his voice subdued. “Dead for days. Weeks? Fuck if I know. From the smell.”
His voice hitches, and he takes a gulp from his beer.
Shit.
“Didn’t know you were close,” I say.
“We weren’t. That’s the fucking point.”
A point I don’t get. Because I’m stupid. “So why are you so upset?”
“Don’t you fucking get it? It’s my fault. If I hadn’t cut all ties...She died alone, man. I can’t imagine…” He rubs at his eyes. “Can’t imagine it, dying alone. Pneumonia. All the smoking, I guess. Nobody to call a doctor. Nobody by her side. She was still my mom. I thought...Thought we’d have time to somehow work things over, meet again.”
And he missed the chance. Now she’s dead.
Talk about regrets and what ifs. Because deep inside he still loved her, and he never told her, and now it’s too late.
Fucking hell.
“Gotta go.” I slide off my stool, throw some bucks on the bar. “Sorry, Zeke. Catch you some other time.”
I leave him to stare after me, and I feel kinda bad because I dragged him there and forced the sordid story out of him, but there’s someone I need to check on.
Need to make sure she’s okay, and tell her what I want, what I feel, even if it’s the biggest mistake of my life.
Chapter Fifteen
Paxtyn
I have the cold from hell. My nose is red and running, my eyes leak, and my throat feels like someone coated it in sandpaper. The coarse type, too.
Plus my head hurts and I’ve running a low grade fever for the past couple of days. Corey said that, in his professional opinion, I should skip college and stay in bed. So I did, because Corey knows how to wield a thermometer, a skill I lack, and besides, I feel like road kill.
Dressed in a fluffy house robe and bunny slippers, my hair a messy bun on top of my head, I get up from my spot on the sofa. God, if Riot saw me like this I’d die of embarrassment. Not that I’m in any shape for sex right now—even if the thought of getting naked with him again raises my temperature another degree.
Not today, Pax.
In fact, maybe it’s a good time to stop obsessing about the sexy, handsome escort and focus on someone else. Someone who might want me, and not get paid for it by the hour.
But it won’t be Riot.
<
br /> My heart hurts at the thought of not seeing him again, of being with someone else.
Or maybe it’s the cold. That’s what it is, I tell myself as I shuffle into the kitchen for my hourly cup of black tea with honey, my nose stuffed with Kleenex to avoid leakage. It’s not that I miss Riot. That I have any feelings for him.
No. No way.
Need to eat something, and drink something warm. I take down the honey from the cupboard, set the mug on the table and grab the kettle—when the doorbell rings.
I freeze. Who can that be? It’s already dark outside. Even the snow has stopped falling. There’s a silence to the world.
Until the doorbell rings again, snapping me out of my daze. It has to be Corey. He’s been checking on me every day, and although he came by this morning, maybe he wants to see if my fever has broken—or to borrow my Friends DVD box set. It’s a toss-up between the two.
Putting down the kettle, I shuffle to the door, pulling out the Kleenex from my nose at the last moment before I open.
“Corey, if you came for the Friends box set, you’re—”
“Hi, Pax.”
I stare. Can’t stop staring.
It’s Riot. At my door. Hands in his jacket pockets, cheeks ruddy from the cold, his gray eyes sparkling like gems.
Maybe my fever has gone up. Hallucinations? I blink, and he’s still there, head cocked to the side, giving me an assessing look.
“Are you okay?” he says.
“Yeah, of course.” I wave my hand, then realize I’m holding the bunched up Kleenex and stop. “Just a bit sick.”
“You’re sick?” He says it like I’ve announced I’m on my deathbed, some of the color leaving his face. “What’s wrong?”
“Just a cold. Nothing important.”
He steps closer and I move aside to let him in. “You sure? You don’t look so good.”
The heat climbing my neck now has nothing to do with being sick. “Why, thank you. That’s—”
“I didn’t mean it that way,” he says softly and turns, taking my face in his hands. I’m speechless as he brushes my mouth with his soft lips, his stubble scratching my chin.
Then a cough rattles me and I pull away. “Stop.” I push on his chest—to no effect, but hey, I tried. “You’ll catch my cold.”
“In sickness and in health,” he whispers, and I frown as I struggle to catch my breath. My ears are kind of blocked from blowing my nose all the time.
“What?” He can’t have said…
“I was worried,” he replies, and he does look worried. “Let me take care of you.”
Okay, what the what? This is...“I didn’t call the agency. I wasn’t—”
“Dammit, Pax, this has nothing to do with the agency. I don’t want money, okay? Just let me be here for you.”
His dark brows are drawn together over his eyes, his jaw is tight, his chin jutting out. He’s angry, I realize. But…
“You should be in bed,” he says firmly. “I’ll make you tea, or whatever you want. Go on. I’ll bring you the tea.”
I’m gaping at him, and resist the urge to pinch myself. “Okay,” I whisper, not sure what else to say, because how do you refuse something like that? Riot offering to make me tea?
Riot who said he was worried about me, and came by to see me?
God, I must be dreaming. There’s no other explanation. But hey, if it’s a good dream, don’t change the channel, right?
Or something like that.
***
I’m lying in bed, under the covers, a stack of pillows behind me, a tray with hot tea and cookies beside me.
Riot is sitting on the edge of the mattress, going through my stack of DVDs, his lashes throwing long shadows over his cheeks.
Still dreaming.
That’s okay. It’s good while it lasts.
“How about this one?” Riot says, thrusting a DVD package at me—because I’m keeping them in their cases. Guess secretly I’m a hoarder.
“Tristan and Isolde? That’s what you want to see?”
“I’m trying to find something you would wanna see,” he says, his tone a bit defensive.
“I bought all those movies. I like them all. Why don’t you choose something you might like, too?”
Go with the flow. Let the dream run its course.
“Okay, this one, then?” He holds up Fight Club.
No surprise there, really.
“You sure are a fan of fight clubs, huh? I bet you saw the movie a hundred times.”
“Never watched it,” he says and gets up to put it into the DVD player. “How come you don’t download movies from the internet like everyone else?”
I shrug and reach for a Kleenex to blow my nose. “I’m not that good with technology. That what you do?”
“Nah. I don’t have a TV.”
“Why not?”
“No reason. Not much time in the evenings.”
Right.
You forgot for a moment there, Pax, didn’t you? What he does for a living. Having sex with all those women who—
“Scoot over,” he says, and I blink at him, my nose buried in the handkerchief. “Scoot over.”
So I scoot over and he sits beside me, over the covers, and puts his arm around me.
Okay, rewind, play: Riot sits down on my bed, next to me, and throws his muscular, inked arm around my shoulders like that’s what we normally do in the evenings.
Curl up on my bed and watch movies. Together. Like a couple.
Oh my God. When I wake up and he’s not there I’ll die, crushed with disappointment.
That’s it, this dream wants to kill me…
***
“How’re you feeling?” A hand is stroking my hair, lightly massaging my scalp. My cheek is mashed to a muscular shoulder, my senses flooded with male spice and musk.
Riot’s. It’s his voice, his shoulder I’m resting on. His hand on my hair.
“Good. I mean, yeah...Sleepy.”
“That’s because you were asleep.” There’s a smile in his deep voice, and his fingers move to the back of my scalp, kneading.
I moan softly, pleasurable jolts running down my neck and back. “Sorry.”
“Why? I’m glad you’re resting.”
“You’re still here.”
His fingers still, then resume their movement. “Yeah. That okay?”
“It’s great. I just can’t believe you’re really here.”
A huff or snort, not sure. “Really here? What do you mean?”
“Like, I thought it was a dream.”
A beat of silence. “A dream.”
“If this is a dream, it’s nice.”
“It’s not a dream,” he says, sounding amused.
“Then you’re really good at this.”
“Acting as a pillow?”
“Taking care of me.”
He’s silent for a while, stroking my hair, his breath warm against my forehead. He brushes his mouth over my skin.
“I want you to be well. I care for you, Pax.”
My heart stops. Then starts again. Okay. Backtrack. What is he saying? My brain’s fuzzy, and I don’t trust my senses.
“Riot, did you—?”
“Would you like a bath?” he whispers.
I blink, lift my head. “What?”
“A bath.” He pulls my head back down, resumes the stroking. “Would you like one? I mean, it’s not that you smell bad or anything…”
A snort escapes me. “No?”
“Not at all.” He sounds earnest. Eager. “I’d love to bathe you.”
Oh God. I’m warm all over. Smiling against his T-shirt, I nod and think, if it’s not a dream, then what does it mean?
***
The bathtub is full of steaming water and blueberry bubbles when he leads me to it. He’s down to his underwear, and if I wasn’t feeling like crap I’d have appreciated the view more.
As it is, I let him drag me to sit on top of the closed toilet lid and undress me. He takes off m
y robe, lets it pool on the floor, and starts on my pajama bottoms. He slides them off me, together with my panties, and I shiver. Not just from the cold.
He’s so gentle. He’s always been careful with me, but this...The way he steadies me before he moves me, the way he lifts my arms to take off my tee, the concerned look in his eyes…
Well, it’s not helping with my resolution not to fall for him. It was easier when it was only sex, and overcoming my fears.
Harder when he’s giving me this other side of him. The one I only imagined until now.
“Come, Pax.” He lifts me up, guides me into the bathtub, then climbs in after me. He sits and settles me between his long legs, my back resting on his naked chest, my head propped on his shoulder. He takes the sponge and soap from the holder. “Okay?”
“Yeah.”
More than okay. Warm, comfortable. He’s surrounding me with his body, and I feel protected. Safe from harm. Cherished and cared for.
He wets the sponge, passes the soap over it, and then runs the sponge over my body. Over my arms, over my shoulders, down my chest, over my breasts. My nipples tingle and pebble from the roughness of it, and when he continues down my stomach, I shift restlessly.
This feels good. Way too good.
His stroke continues down my thigh, then circles back up to do the other one. My pussy clenches with need. Crazy that I should need release so badly when I’ve been so sick I could barely get out of bed, but here, warm and relaxed, leaning against Riot, I want.
Want him. Like every time.
Maybe my body is conditioned now to get aroused whenever he’s near, I think fuzzily as the sponge touches the top of my mound and presses down between my legs. Maybe soon even the sound of his name will be enough to make me wet.
Wait, doesn’t it happen already? The other day—
Oh God.
“Riot.” I moan his name as he swiped the sponge down, over my sensitive clit, spreading me, stroking me.
He says nothing, breathing fast against my neck, his mouth branding me. His cock is hard in the small of my back, hot and throbbing.
The sponge glides back up, and back down. I grab the edges of the bathtub, my body arching backward as he does it again. I’m going to come. There’s no way to stop it. He’s just going to—
“Fuck, Pax.” He drops the sponge and pushes two fingers inside me.