The Escort Trilogy (Books 1-3)

by Ashley Love

  No one else bothered me for the eternity it took to reach the ninth floor.

  I stepped out as soon as the door opened, brushing past men and women in suits and power-walking down the corridor. I wanted to get it over with, as quickly as possible, even if I didn't really know what 'it' was.

  I shoved open the glass door at the end of the hall, staring down at the woman in her white blouse and severe bun as she sat behind the reception desk. She wore one of those wire headsets attached to the phone on the desk. An immense window behind her bathed the room in pale light.

  "I'd like to see Troy Holloway," I said.

  The woman gave me a look that said, 'and just who the hell are you?' Her lips curled in an amused smile. "Mr. Holloway is in a meeting right now, Miss...?"

  "It's important," I said firmly. I slipped off my sunglasses and stared her down. Or tried to.

  She didn't look the least bit fazed. "He's a very busy man, dear," she said in a condescending tone. "I'm sure that whatever you need to speak with him about can wait."

  I didn't back down, no matter how foolish and out of place I felt. "No, it can't."

  The receptionist sighed, rolling her eyes for effect. She tapped a couple buttons on her phone, touched the headset beside her ear. "I'm sorry to bother you, Mr. Holloway, but there's a young woman here to see—" She paused, listening. "Yes, sir, I told her that. She seems to be very adamant."

  "Tell him it's Yvette," I said, loud enough that I figured Troy could hear on the other end.

  The receptionist frowned, annoyed, and listened to Troy's voice. Finally, she nodded and sighed, giving me a forced smile. "He'll be right out—"

  "Thanks," I snapped, and stepped away, turning my back on her. I heard the receptionist mutter 'little bitch' under her breath. I entertained the idea of returning the insult, but forced my pride down. I was just nervous and scared, that's all. I breathed in, trying to calm myself.

  I heard doors open, looked toward the far wall as wood-paneled double doors gave way to Troy. He looked the epitome of the Business Tycoon in his midnight blue, pin-striped suit and white shirt with black tie. He gave me a look that was at once sympathetic and confounded.

  "Come on," he said simply, stepping to the side. I marched past him, into a short hallway. There were double doors about fifteen feet ahead, closed, and a single door to the right. It was to this smaller door that Troy lead me.

  There was a small board room beyond, dominated by an oval mahogany table and several plush leather chairs. Troy closed the door behind us and I whirled around to face him.

  "I want to know how Sean died," I said, struggling to restrain my emotions.

  Troy pursed his lips. "Read the police report," he said simply, stepping around me toward a little water tower. "From what I heard on the news, its was a robbery that went wrong. Very tragic."

  I glared at him. "Don't you give me that bullshit, Troy," I said. I leaned on the table. "I wanna know what happened. I wanna know if he said anything before you shot him in the fucking head!"

  Troy matched my glare with one that was ten times as intense, making me gasp and thoroughly destroying my self-righteous anger.

  "Don't ever speak to me like that," he said darkly. He came around the table, every step and movement of his body deliberate, powerful, threatening. I scampered back, against the wall behind me, suddenly and totally aware that I was in a room, alone, with a murderer. I stared up at him in abject fear.

  Troy glowered over me. "Don't think that the events of your little life are all I think about," he said. "I took you in, Allie. I gave you the means to live out your desires, whether you understood them at the time or not. Some people might feel obligated to me for that."

  He stepped away, took a flask from his jacket. I just stared, shaking.

  "But not you. Not Alyssa Green," he said, taking a sip from the flask. He looked back to me. His face softened somewhat, his lips twitching for a moment in a smile. "It took me a while to realize that, while I had opened the door, you were the one to walk through it. I had expected you to be...reluctant, hesitant. But you weren't. You reveled in it."

  I forced myself to calm down. "Wh-why, Troy? Wh-why—"

  His eyes studied mine. "Because I couldn't take it back," he said. "If I couldn't erase what had happened to you, then at least I could erase the person who did it."

  I swallowed nervously. "He didn't have to die," I said, fighting down the tears. "He's got two kids, Troy!"

  He smirked suddenly, a rude expression. "Better off not having a rapist for a father."

  I shut my eyes. I didn't want to look at him. "You son of a bitch."

  "I've been called worse, believe me."

  "I thought I knew you," I said. "I thought I understood who you are—"

  "And who is that?" he asked abruptly, making me open my eyes again. "Who did you think I was?"

  I couldn't answer.

  He let out a short, rueful laugh. "I finally get the chance," he said, "to show you, to...do something for you. To exact your revenge—"

  "I didn't want that!" I cried.

  "Didn't you?" he yelled, matching my outburst. "I saw the pain, the anger, the shame on your face, Allie! I saw what he did to you, and it broke my fucking heart!"

  I gasped, reeling back, staring at Troy's face. I didn't want to admit what I was thinking, what Troy was telling me: that he had killed Sean out of love for me.

  He tilted the flask back again, wiping his mouth. His outburst ashamed him, I knew. Troy Holloway never lost control, after all.

  "But I was too much of a coward," he continued. "As much as I wanted to, as much as he deserved it, I knew I couldn't do it."

  I frowned at his words. What is he saying? He didn't kill Sean? But if he didn't—

  I suddenly remembered that night, when we are all in my apartment. Logan talking to Troy, telling him what had happened. Troy taking out his phone, Cleo's reaction when he told her who he was calling...

  "Mr. Stone," I whispered.

  Troy said nothing. He took a last sip, then fixed the cap on his flask and slipped it into his jacket. His hand came out holding his cell.

  I didn't say anything as I watched Troy dial. He did not look at me. He listened to the ringing on the other end for a moment.

  "Mr. Stone," he repeated.

  I was silent on the ride in Troy's Mercedes. I sat as far away from him as possible in the passenger seat, looking out the window, staring at my feet. Troy didn't say a word. I didn't know where we were going, and I didn't ask.

  We arrived at an industrial park, full of rust-walled warehouses and smelling of chemicals and grease. A light rain had begun to fall, and it soaked into my hair as Troy lead me to a little door in one of the buildings.

  The sounds of our shoes echoed in the cold, dank hallway as Troy lead me through a little maze. We finally arrived at a steel door, and Troy paused, finally addressing me.

  "The man you are about to meet does not exist," he said meaningfully. "Therefore, your conversation will never have happened. Do you understand?"

  I nodded nervously. "Y-yes," I said.

  Troy shoved open the door and stepped through. I followed, finding myself in a large warehouse room, huge windows along the top of the twenty-foot-high ceiling spilling pale, stark light. The warehouse was empty except for a single figure who stood in the middle, casting a long shadow that stretched out toward me.

  He wasn't at all like I imagined. Hollywood and TV had told me what hitmen looked like. My idea of professional killers had been of big, stocky men in black suits and sunglasses. Physically impressive men who could stare down anyone. Men with shaved heads and trimmed goatees, beady eyes and square jaws.

  But the man before us was barely my height, slim and wiry. He wore brown slacks and a pin-striped half-sleeved shirt with a dark blue tie. He had a narrow face, a large nose, and big ears. His brown hair was short but in need of a cut. Round, wire-framed glasses were perch
ed on his nose. He looked more like an accountant than anything else.

  Yet there was still something ominous about him, something in his unassuming appearance that seemed deliberately unassuming, like a façade erected to conceal the dangerous man behind.

  "I don't like this, Mr. H," the man said. His voice was nasally, like a fussy librarian.

  "Humor me," said Troy.

  The man—Mr. Stone—stepped forward, hands in his pockets. He stopped about ten feet away. I couldn't see his eyes, only the reflection of my own face in his glasses.

  "Is she cool?" Stone asked simply.

  "Yes," I said before Troy could respond. "I'm cool."

  Mr. Stone chuckled. "You'd better be," he said with a thinly-veiled threat.

  I shuddered. The man's casual, deadly confidence was intimidating. He was more frightening to me than some hulking bouncer or a sinister assassin dressed in black. Such men, at least, were recognizably dangerous. But Mr. Stone was so... normal that I simply had to understand that he was a deadly killer.

  "So, what's this about?" he asked, pacing slowly, scuffing his heels on the concrete floor.

  I glanced at Troy, who just stared back, blankly. This was my show. I looked back to Mr. Stone nervously. "Sean Jackson," I said.

  Stone wrinkled his nose. "Sounds familiar," he replied.

  "It should," I said, growing bold. "You killed him on Halloween."

  Stone chuckled, his mousy cheeks bulging. "Actually, it was the next day," he said flippantly. "Took me a while to find him."

  I gritted my teeth. Now that I was faced with the reality, the confirmed physical being of the man who had ended Sean's life, I didn't know what to say.

  Stone stepped closer, looking in my face. He pursed his lips. "You know, it's not often I get to feel a sense of satisfaction about my work," he said. "But seeing you...damn. I shoulda taken longer with him."

  I breathed in, feeling the tears flow. I looked away from the killer.

  "Hey, don't back down now," he said. "You wanna know what happened, right? How he cried and begged, the expression on his face when I told him he was going to die? Isn't that what you wanted to know?"

  I breathed out, crying, squeezing my eyes shut. This is a mistake, I thought. Why did I want to know?

  "Tone it down, Stone," said Troy.

  "Shut up, Troy," snapped the killer. He took another step closer to me. "Hey, pretty girl."

  I drew a breath, and fixed my eyes on the man. "Don't call me that," I snapped.

  Stone chuckled, showing yellowed teeth. "Wow. She's got spunk," he commented. He turned away, taking a few steps. I followed him with my eyes.

  "Did he say anything?" I asked.

  Stone smirked. "You mean, aside from 'no, no, please, no?'"

  I winced.

  "At least pretend to have a heart, Stone," Troy growled.

  Stone fixed Troy a look, sucked a tooth in contemplation. He nodded. "All right," he said, and faced me. "Yeah, he said something. After I smashed in his face and tied his hands behind his back, when I was standing behind him with a gun to his head...he said something."

  I steeled myself. "Wh-what did he say?"

  Stone rolled his shoulders, popped his neck. I got the feeling he was uncomfortable. That realization was strangely encouraging. Maybe Mr. Stone was human, after all.

  "He said he deserved it," the killer said. "He actually didn't beg or plead at all. I thought that was kind of strange, so I asked him why. He told me he had hurt the woman he loved, and he didn't think he could go on living anyway."

  I felt the tears flow, tried to choke them back. Oh, Sean...

  Stone continued: "He actually told me that, if I hadn't come along, he would'a done it himself. And you know what? I believed him. He had a bottle and some pills ready to go."

  I cried some more, shaking, wrapping my arms around myself. I resisted a little when Troy touched my back, but found myself leaning against him as I sobbed.

  "And the last thing he said...his very last words..."

  I forced open my eyes, stared at the little man through the flood of my tears. "Tell me. Please."

  He frowned, working his lips. "He said...I think his exact words were, 'I'm sure gonna miss the beach.'"

  "Oh, God!" I sputtered, and collapsed to the ground. The emotions of a lifetime, it seemed, poured out of me. Tears flowed down my face, dripping to the floor as I slapped my hands upon the concrete. The beach, I thought. Where we both said 'I love you' at the same time...

  I cried for an eternity it seemed, screaming and bawling, my cries echoing in the warehouse. I was barely cognizant of Troy pulling me to my feet, of stumbling beside him as we left. Or the car ride back to my place. Or Troy carrying me inside and placing me on my bed.

  All I really remembered was crying for days.

  6

  Sean was dead, and I had met the man who had killed him. Trying to return to a normal life after that, I felt, was nearly impossible.

  I withdrew from the semester, and even though it was too late to get any tuition back, I didn't care. I could easily pay my father back, although he would wonder where the money came from. I went back home for a while, staying with my folks through the holidays. My brother Roger made a surprise visit, with his fiancé Carla in tow, right on Thanksgiving day. I was happy at my brother's return home; I hadn't seen him since I was sixteen.

  My parents, more specifically my mother, could tell that something had happened, but I didn't tell her what. By that point, my wounds had healed, at least the physical ones. Still, knowing that I needed support, my mother gave me all I could ever want. And my father, despite his stoicism, was still my father. He would always be my rock.

  For those two months, it was as if my life away from home had never happened. I managed to forget about that day in the mall, more than a year before, and the snowballing of events that had happened after. I forgot about Sean, and Troy, and about all the men.

  At least, I did for a little while.

  "Honey?"

  I turned toward the door from the house as I stood on the rear patio. My mother, dressed in her favorite holiday sweater, emerged with two cups of hot cocoa. I smiled. It was Christmas Day. We had spent the morning opening presents and watching old home movies. The evening before, we had all gone caroling in the neighborhood. Yet as much as I had enjoyed the trip through the nostalgia of my youth, and the comfortable, warm feel of being back home where I was unconditionally loved, I was conscious of the fact that I had changed. I didn't belong to this life anymore.

  "Hi, Mom."

  She gave me an affectionate smile. "I'm worried about you, baby," she said.

  I smiled, took the offered cup of cocoa. "I'm okay," I told her.

  She stepped up beside me in the chilly air. "You know, it's not like you to keep things to yourself, Alyssa," she said. "Haven't we always talked?"

  "I'm not—" I began, then stopped. Mom was right. Hell, she always was, right? "I met a guy, and...it was nice, and fun, and...perfect...for a while."

  My mother smiled, massaged my shoulder. "Ah, first love," she said wistfully.

  I managed a smile. "Something like that."

  "I take it he's not around anymore?"

  I shook my head slowly. "No, he's not around anymore," I said.

  My mother kissed my cheek. "Don't fret, honey," she said. "My first love didn't last, either. No one's does. It's just the way it goes."

  I sniffed. "I miss him."

  Mom put her cup down and came around behind me, hugging me tight. "I know you do, honey," she said soothingly. "And you'll never forget him, and never stop loving him. And you never should."

  I trembled a bit, crying a little more, shedding the last tears I ever would for Sean.

  "He's your first love, baby," Mom continued, and kissed my cheek. "No matter what, he'll always be with you in your heart."

  I breathed out. "God, I hope so."

  Troy was
surprised to hear from me again. I figured he assumed I was never coming back. I had broken the lease on my apartment and put everything in storage, after all, and dropped out of college for the semester. Understandably, he was momentarily speechless when I called him out of the blue on a cold January morning and told him I wanted to see him.

  We met in a little casual dining restaurant. I got there first and asked for the most secluded booth they had. I ordered an iced tea and waited.

  He showed up in jeans and a blazer, a white turtleneck beneath the jacket. I couldn't help but smile as he approached the table. Troy didn't look a damn bit different, even though it felt to me that it had been years since I last saw him.

  "Hi, Troy."

  He slid into the booth, and just looked at me. He wasn't quite sure what to think or expect, I guessed.

  "Surprised to see me again, huh," I said, furtively looking from his hands to his dark eyes.

  "That's an understatement," he responded.

  I took a deep breath. This is harder than I thought it would be. "I wanna come back."

  His expression didn't waver. "No."

  I met his gaze. "I want to come back," I said, more firmly.

  He looked down, interrupted as the waitress came over and asked what he would like to drink. Troy curtly asked for an iced tea. He spoke to me again after she headed away. "Why?"

  "Because I'm good at it," I said. "Because I like it."

  Troy sighed. "I don't think that would be the best thing for you."

  "And what do you know about what's best for me?" I asked.

  My statement was not biting, nor accusatory. Troy lifted his head. "You've been through a lot."

  I nodded. "We both have.”

  He leaned back in his chair. "But why come back?" he asked. "Why...why be an escort again? Is it about the money? If you need money Allie, I'll cut you a check right now."

  I shook my head. "It's not about the money," I said, then smiled with self-admonishment. "Not entirely, anyway. It's about me. Just me."

  He leaned forward, eyes narrowing. "I don't understand you," he said. "I used to think I did, a long time ago. When you were wide-eyed and eager. But...I don't think I ever did."