Riot (Bad Boy Escorts #1) Page 17

  Ice slithers down my spine. “Three days. Why?”

  Another hesitation. “We haven’t been able to contact him in the past two days. He missed an appointment yesterday and...” A pause. “Never mind. I just wanted to ask if you had talked to him. Goodbye, Ms. Page. I’ll be waiting for you to drive by.”

  And hangs up.

  Ass.

  Why wouldn’t Riot answer the agency’s phone? Maybe he left town? He never mentioned anything like that to me. Then again, he also didn’t say goodbye when he left, and didn’t give me an explanation, so what do I know?

  From what little he told me, I had the impression he couldn’t afford to leave the agency because he needed the money quite desperately for something.

  My stomach is a hard knot of tension. Something’s off.

  I need to see Riot. All of a sudden that need is drowning me, choking me. Who can reassure me he’s okay?

  Or at least tell me where he lives so I can check on him myself?

  The bar. Gale.

  Of course.

  Quickly I send Corey a text to let him know I’ll be meeting him later on, and head home to change and wait and bite my nails until it’s time to go out.

  ***

  I’m at the bar ahead of the time I told Corey. A little early for hitting the bars, but hey. I’m here on a mission, and I just couldn’t sit on my butt any longer.

  Not when fear is curdling my thoughts.

  He’s fine, I keep telling myself. He’s just...what? Out of town visiting relatives? On a mini vacation he forgot to tell his employers about?

  Jeez.

  This makes no sense. Unless something happened to him. Something bad.

  And here I go again, stressing until I think I might puke.

  Corey’s late. It’s frigging cold, so I enter and wade through the early crowd, making my way to the bar. I don’t know where Gale could be, if he’ll even be here tonight.

  This is crazy.

  Only Riot did say this was Gale’s favorite bar, and that he comes here often. So, fingers crossed he won’t break that tradition tonight.

  I order an alcohol-free beer, as I’ve been on a light diet for some days now and don’t want to wander around drunk, and yuck, now I know why Corey says it tastes like piss.

  Grimacing, I put my bottle down, look around…and there he is. Gale. A flash of blond hair, a bearded face, icy eyes.

  Abandoning my non-beer, I rush toward him, shoving my way between people—and girls. Many girls, buzzing around him like bees.

  Ugh.

  “Gale.” I try to get past a tall brunette whose tits are spilling out of her tight blouse, and she drags me behind her.

  “Wait in line, bitch,” she hisses.

  What the hell?

  “I need to talk to Gale.” I struggle, slap her hand. “Get off me. Gale!”

  “Stop it,” she mutters, still holding me back. There’s serious muscle hiding in that super thin body. “Jesus, just wait—”

  “Paxtyn? Hey.” One second I’m held behind the brunette, the next Gale is right in front of me, disentangling me from the girl’s hold. “What’s up?”

  See? I tell myself. He’s out, partying. Asks what’s up. If Riot was in trouble, he’d know, right?

  “Hey Gale. Fancy meeting you here. Uh.” I lick my lips, my mouth dry. “I was just wondering if you’ve seen Riot around.”

  “Ah.” He smiles broadly. “I knew you were gonna ask me about him.”

  Well, that’s a relief at least, that he didn’t think I was here to throw myself at him like all these witches.

  “I haven’t seen him around these past few days.” He frowns, scratches at his beard. “Our schedules aren’t set, you know. They constantly change.”

  “I know.” I wish I didn’t.

  “I heard he missed an appointment with Ellen yesterday, though.”

  “Ellen?” Jealousy bites into my thoughts like a snake.

  “Ellen Morris, an elder lady he’s fond of. She comes from an old, powerful family. She calls him every few weeks for dinner or a movie. One hundred percent platonic. I think he reminds her of her son.” He shrugs. “I was surprised he let her hang like that.”

  And just like that, the worry is back, twisting my stomach.

  “Listen, I’ll understand if you say no,” I say, “but I have something of Riot’s, something he left at my place the other day. Do you think you could tell me where he lives so I could drop it off?”

  “Sure thing.” He waggles his brows at me. “Sending you his phone number, too, but I’m sure he’ll be glad to see you.”

  Huh. Not entirely sure about that, but I smile back. “Thank you, Gale.”

  He rattles off the address and I type it into my phone, while whispers weave all around us—“They’re friends?” “She knows Riot Gallagher.” “Oh my God, Riot’s hot.”

  It makes my blood boil. Or simmer. Whatever. The thing is, Riot is hot, nothing can change that, and the awe in their voices as they wonder how well I know him gives me a tiny rush of pride.

  Childish, I know. I want to yell at them that he’s mine, that with me it’s different. That what he and I share is more than just sex.

  Sigh. Wishful thinking is a powerful thing.

  “Thanks, Gale.” I shoot him a smile and wave as I turn to go. “You rock.”

  “I know,” he calls after me, and the girls cheer.

  The music is too loud, the smell of alcohol and perfume too strong. I cross the bar, elbowing people right and left, impatient to get outside now that I have what I need.

  It’s not until I’m in my car and speeding toward the address Gale texted me that I remember Corey who must be waiting for me outside the bar.

  Crap.

  ***

  “Is everything okay?” Corey texts back after I message him to let him know I changed my mind again.

  After I park in a dark street, I shoot him a smiley and a heart. Vague but hopefully enough to appease him and let him have a fun evening anyway.

  Then I sit in my car and shiver. A street lamp flickers. The next one is off, leaving a big part of the street in shadow. I don’t like this neighborhood. I feel as if eyes are watching me from behind darkened windows and twitching curtains.

  Get a grip, Pax.

  Nothing bad will happen, and hey, I have my pepper spray in my bag and the police on speed dial. Can’t let fear cripple me, stop me.

  Not again.

  I get out of the car and lock it, and hurry down the sidewalk, checking the building numbers until I find the right one—then face a problem I hadn’t thought about.

  The building entrance is locked. There’s a ring but no names for the apartments. I shouldn’t—

  Oh screw this. I should, and I will.

  I ring all the bells in the building, once, then again, and then again, until someone starts yelling something unintelligible through the inter-com.

  “Riot Gallagher!” I yell back. “Let me in.”

  He doesn’t.

  So I ring again, leaving my finger on the button.

  Suddenly the door clicks open. I wonder if it’s the guy who was yelling or someone else. The whole building is probably trying to stop me from ringing again.

  Works for me.

  The door swings inward and I step into the cold, dark lobby with its narrow flight of stairs and the smell of piss.

  Lovely.

  I tap on my phone to light it up and use it to illuminate the steps as I climb up. What a creepy place. Not horror movie material exactly, but Brick Mansions and The Wire definitely. Grimy, dark and spooky.

  Then I’m standing in front of Riot’s door—if Gale’s right and isn’t pulling a prank on me—my hand raised to knock.

  Doubt circles back around my thoughts. Is this a stupid idea? What if nothing happened and he’s just resting—or out—or with a woman?

  Oh my God, that would be…

  No. Remember how he held you, how he bathed you and fed you, Pax. It doesn’t
matter what’s really going on. You need to check on him. You owe him that much and, well, if you interrupt anything you shouldn’t, then so be it.

  Your heart might finally shatter into pieces so small the naked eye won’t see them, but you’ll know he’s safe and well and go on your way.

  Somehow.

  I knock. Then when that doesn’t seem to bring any results, I lift my phone again, searching for the doorbell. Ah, there. I ring and wait.

  “Come on, Riot. Open up.” If he’s here. If he’s not screwing a girl right now. If he wants to see me. I bang again on the door. “Riot!”

  Well, this is it.

  Wait. Gale didn’t only give me the address. He also gave me the phone number, and although he apparently won’t answer it for anyone, I might as well try.

  I half expect to hear his phone ring from inside his apartment, but there’s only silence.

  Okay. I’ve done all I could. More than I should. Disappointment weighs on me, mingling with the ever-present worry.

  Not your boyfriend, I remind myself. Not your problem.

  Something inside me rebels at those thoughts and I bang again at his door. “Riot. Open up this freaking door, or I swear to God I’ll have Gale break it down. Riot!”

  A thump sounds inside the apartment, and I step back, my heart tripping as he unlocks and opens the door.

  Oh God. I didn’t even have time to think what to expect if he was here—except for the screwing a girl thing—but he looks...rough. His jaw is dark with stubble, his hair hiding his eyes, and he’s sort of hunched over.

  And he reeks of alcohol.

  Awesome.

  “Are you—?” Yeah, he doesn’t look okay. Moot question. I huff. “May I come in?”

  He says nothing but steps back. I take that as a yes, and walk into his apartment, the door falling shut behind me.

  ***

  It’s dim inside his living room, and the smell of alcohol suffocating. There’s also a smell of wet fur and a whiff of...antiseptic?

  “Why is it so dark in here?” The hulking shape of the sofa looms out of the gloom. I barely make out a table with chairs on the other side and two doors, one of them half-open. “Why are you locked in?”

  No answer. He’s leaning on the wall by the apartment door, a darker shadow.

  “Do you know the agency has been calling you?” Like I have. “They said you missed appointments.” No reaction. “They’re worried about you.”

  He snorts.

  Okay, I give in. He’s acting too weird. “What’s going on?”

  “Nothin’.” But his voice is as rough as his appearance. Dressed in low-slung jogging pants and a stained T-shirt, barefoot, his hair hanging in his face, he looks like he’s sick.

  “You were drinking.”

  He snorts once more. Yeah I know, I’m stating the obvious. As my eyes get accustomed to the dimness, I make out a row of bottles on the low coffee table.

  Oh dear God. “How much have you had to drink?”

  “Not enough,” he spits the words and still doesn’t move from his spot against the door. “What do you want, Pax?”

  I flinch at his cold tone. Are we back to this?

  “Know what? I was worried about you. Believe it or not, although you left without a word and never called, I…” I swallow hard. “I had to make sure you’re all right. But I’ll go.”

  With a curse, he pushes off the door and staggers over to me. I stiffen—just how drunk is he? But when he grabs me in his arms and wraps them around me, I want to cry with relief.

  “Pax…” He presses his face to my hair. “Missed you.”

  God, I missed him, too. How is that possible? I haven’t known him all that long, and yet it feels like a lifetime.

  I slide my arms around his back, pressing my body against his, but he jerks and hisses between his teeth, pulling away.

  “Riot.” I step back immediately, lift my hands as he wraps an arm around his ribs. “Oh God. You’re hurt?”

  “It’s nothing.” He staggers—no, he limps to the sofa, as I stare at him, dumbfounded.

  Jesus. I start after him a moment later, and sit down beside him.

  “Riot. Let me see.”

  It’s too frigging dark. On my right is a standing lamp and I fumble under it until I find the switch and turn it on.

  “Ow, fuck.” He throws an arm over his eyes but not before I see that one of them is black and swollen almost shut.

  Crap. Looks like someone beat him up.

  I tug his arm down to take a better look at his face and he lets me. His jaw is purple and swollen, and his lower lip is split, crusted with blood.

  Yikes. I hurt just by looking at his face.

  Then I remember his ribs and pull up his T-shirt. He doesn’t move, his breathing harsh. I move aside to let the light from the lamp hit him, and a gasp escapes me.

  His whole side is black and blue, the bruises spreading down his hip and over his flat stomach.

  “Who did this to you?” My fingers shaking, I let the hem of the T-shirt fall, covering the damage. “Why? Was it for money? Did they attack you in the street?”

  “It wasn’t for money.” He turns to stare at the line of bottles on the low table as if contemplating what to drink next. “You shouldn’t have come.”

  I suck in a sharp breath and nod. Okay, I can take a hint. “Fine. I’ll just—”

  He clamps a hand around my wrist, so tightly it stings.

  “It could be dangerous for you, Pax,” he says so low I barely hear him. “What if they attacked you, too?”

  I still. “Who are you talking about? Just talk to me.”

  “Elliot and Oliver. They’re...from my past.”

  The world has stilled, too. Time has stopped. The only thing moving is the dust dancing in the light from the lamp. “What do you mean?”

  “Corey said I should tell you, but I didn’t want you to run.” His hand tightens more around my wrist and I yelp. Immediately he loosens his hold. “You scare me, Pax.”

  “I scare you?” My mouth is hanging open, my mind a whirlwind.

  His lips twitch in an almost smile, and a drop of blood beads and rolls slowly down his chin. “I feel too much when it comes to you. I want you too much.”

  “So you ran away from me instead?”

  He hangs his head. “I guess I…” He draws a shuddering breath. “I did. Didn’t think you’d stick around if you found out.”

  “Found out what, Riot?”

  Jesus, what can be so bad that he wouldn’t tell me?

  “About the illegal fight club. I worked there. I was one of the Hellfire Fighters.”

  Relief floods me. This is what he meant? “I know.”

  “You know? How the hell would you know that?” He grunts, grimaces in pain and releases my wrist in favor of wrapping his arm around his ribs again. “Ow, fuck.”

  My heart hurts to see him in pain. Don’t know what to do. “I suspected it. Then I Googled the Hellfire Fighters and found your name. Well, Riot Callahan. Not many guys called Riot out there. And there was a photo. Grainy, but I was sure it was you. Unless you have a twin brother you haven’t told me about.”

  He shakes his head, his gray eyes dark. “And now?” he whispers.

  “Now…” I touch his arm, slide my hand up, grip his solid biceps. “I’m going to find some dinner for us, put a cold compress on your face, and meet the boys. Dexter and Batman.”

  Whom I haven’t seen. I wonder if they’re scared and hiding somewhere.

  He stares at me. “That’s it?”

  “No, not only. I’ll help you shower and put you in bed.” I slide my hand up his chest to his face, rest it on his good cheek, his stubble tickling my palm. “Like you did for me.”

  He bends his head. “Won’t you ask me about the fight club? Why I left? Why I was beaten up?”

  “No.” I smooth my fingers over his cheekbone, try not to look at the other, injured side of his face. “I won’t ask you. You will tell me whe
n you’re good and ready.”

  His breath hitches once. “Pax…”

  “I trust you. You gave that back to me, took away my fear, and whatever happened back then, I’m sure it’s not your fault.”

  He looks stricken, shaken. “How can you be sure?”

  “Because you’re a good guy.”

  And if I doubted it for a second there, now that doubt is gone.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Riot

  Why isn’t she demanding to know everything? Why isn’t she pissed, yelling at me or stomping out the door?

  She knew. She knew about the fight club and didn’t run. Does that mean she’s staying?

  Bullshit, Riot. Think.

  She still doesn’t know about my part in all that happened—my mistake. Markus’s death. Kyle. The debts I’ve been trying to pay.

  The guilt I’ve been carrying around these past two years.

  I lean back on the couch, my head spinning. Partly due to all the booze I drank on an empty stomach—but hey, after I took Batman out to shit and crawled back up the steps moaning like a dying man, and after my search for painkillers in the apartment came up empty and the pain got really bad, whisky was my only solution.

  It did dull the pain a little. Also cut up time into chunks, so that my memories of the past day—two days?—are disjointed and splintered. I remember taking Batman out. I remember feeding the boys...when? Not sure. I remember looking for my phone, not finding it and giving up.

  I remember drinking. A lot. And then…

  Pax.

  I blink. I look around.

  Oh right. She’s left to check out the kitchen. I wonder if there’s anything edible left in the cupboards and the fridge, but I hear noises and soon enough a smell of something cooking hits my nose.

  My mouth waters and my stomach growls like a lion on heat.

  My head hurts. My ribs burn like white-hot blades stuck in my flesh. My back aches, where they kicked me when I was already down.

  And what they said to me...

  Dexter meows and jumps onto the sofa, climbing on my lap. He hid the moment the first knock came on the door, same as Batman. Poor dog still hasn’t come out of the bathroom.

  “Hey, buddy.” His sharp claws sink through my pants and into my flesh, the tiny pain lost in the bigger aches. I pat his furry head. “Smelled food and came out of hiding, huh?”