Riot (Bad Boy Escorts #1) Page 4

  The feeling of wrongness persists, though. What really happened in that hotel room? Why did she asked me to tie her up, touch her and hurt her, and why did she lose it afterward?

  There could be a perfectly good explanation for all this, I tell myself as I jog down the sidewalk. She wanted something wild, and got scared. Don’t read too much into it.

  But I don’t know why, I can’t let it go. Can’t let her go just yet, not without knowing what it is, what upset her, scared her. What she’s running from.

  Which is stupid. Real stupid, Riot. You don’t need this shit. You’ve got enough on your plate and you know it.

  “Pax!” She hasn’t slowed down. Fuck. I open my stride, ignore the curious passersby giving me looks. Damn, she stops at a car and opens the door. I start running full out. “Wait. Dammit, wait!”

  I reach the car as she starts the engine. With a curse, I open the door and climb inside.

  “What are you doing?” She’s glaring at me. “Get out.”

  I would, but her eyes look red and shiny with unshed tears. “The hour isn’t over.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You’re paying me for one hour. It isn’t over. Use it.”

  “What for?”

  “Whatever you want. Use me.” I suck in air and look away, because saying the words hurts somewhere deep inside I don’t want to acknowledge. “Anything, Pax.”

  It’s just my job, I tell myself. That’s all.

  “I...I don’t know,” she whispers, and the pain in her voice forces me to turn back to her. Those chocolate eyes are still too bright, and I shouldn’t care, but for whatever inane reason, I do.

  “Don’t know what?” I ask.

  “What to do.”

  Okay, rewind. “About what?”

  “My life!” She bangs her fist on the steering wheel and a tear slips free, rolling down her smooth cheek.

  “Pax…” What the fuck do I do now? See the messes I get myself into? “Talk to me.” I reach over, pull her small fist from the wheel, hold it in mine like a precious stone. “Tell me what’s wrong. It’s what I’m here for.”

  “I can’t…” She sniffles, and the sound snaps through me like a gunshot. My hand tightens around her fist. “Can’t be with men. Too scared.”

  “Be with men. As in…?” I’m torn between laughing and gaping. “As in sex?”

  “As in anything.” She starts to pull her hand away from mine. “As in touching and sitting close to them.”

  I stare at her. I am staring, and I fucking know it, but what the fuck? I sure didn’t expect this. Yeah, she screamed at me at the hotel, but that was after I tied her up and touched her and…

  Fucking hell. “Christ, Pax. Then why? Why the bondage and slapping and—”

  She’s crying. Her sobs are quiet, barely shaking her, and the tears slip down her face and drip on her coat, leaving shiny trails.

  Fuck me. “Hey, now.” I want to put my arms around her, but she just said...she said she doesn’t touch men, or sit close to them, so what the fuck do I do? Where do I find the rules for this sort of situation? “It’s all right.”

  Whatever. I mean if she’s telling the truth, it can’t be fucking all right, can it? But without knowing why she’s in this state, not much I can do.

  At least she’s not screaming for me to leave this time.

  “Listen,” I try again, feeling like shit that I can’t think of a better way to comfort her. “Can I hold your hand?”

  She lifts her tear-streaked face and stares at me.

  Yeah. Not a question I thought I’d ever have to ask in this job. Can I touch your tits, sure. Want me to fuck your ass, oh yeah. Wanna try the flogger, absolutely.

  Can I hold your hand? Jesus. First time ever.

  “You want,” her voice hitches, “to hold my hand?”

  Yeah, like I said. Crazy.

  “Yeah. I like your hand.” I really do. It’s small and fine and her nails are a pale pink. “Can I?”

  She hesitates.

  “I won’t bite it, or crush it, or hurt it in any way.” I don’t know why I think she needs to hear this, but she seems to relax a little, which is fucked up, I swear. “I just wanna hold it.”

  When I reach for it, she lets me. I lift it in my bigger hand like a prize. I smooth my thumb over the slender bones, and she shivers.

  “What now?” she whispers.

  Yeah, Riot, what’s your fucking brilliant plan now?

  “Will you tell me why you’re so scared of men?”

  She shakes her head, dark hair dancing over her face, hiding her expression.

  Big surprise.

  “A man hurt you,” I say. Not hard to guess. “Sexually. Did he rape you, Pax?”

  She jerks, tries to pull her hand free. I tighten my hold just a little. She can still break the hold if she wants.

  She doesn’t. “No.” Her voice is small, so small I barely hear it.

  But I hear it. And I can breathe again.

  Whatever happened to her, it wasn’t that, and although obviously something bad did happen, I have a feeling I could help her get over it.

  Slowly.

  If she lets me.

  “Did he beat you?” I recall what she asked of me in the hotel. “Did he put those small scars on your hips? Did he slap you and touch your breast?”

  She nods. A tiny nod, but I see it.

  I hear and see everything when it comes to this girl. Can’t help myself from paying attention. She’s my focus more than any other woman I’ve ever been with.

  “He tied you up.”

  She bites her lip, nods again, and fuck, I want to punch a hole through the car window. Motherfucker who did this to her ought to be dead or rotting in prison for life.

  “Will you let me?” I ask her, and she blinks those dark, wet eyes at me.

  “Let you do what?”

  “Help you. Take away your fear.”

  “Riot…” A shudder goes through her body. “I tried.”

  “You tried the hard way. You tried to relive it all, didn’t you?” Dammit, it’s all falling into place now. “At the hotel. And it only scared you more.”

  “And what can you do?” This time she does rip her hand out of my hold. “Huh?”

  “Like I said. Take it slow. A step at a time. Show you I won’t hurt you. That it can be good, Pax. So good, and so liberating.” I stare at her, will her to look back. “I’ll let you tie me up, if that’s what it takes.”

  Her gaze flares, her brows draw together. “You would?”

  “Yeah, that’s right. Damn right I would. For you.”

  Can’t mistake the interest in her eyes. She likes the idea, or likes the thought of having me under her power—maybe punish me for what happened to her?

  What am I doing? Jesus.

  And yet...Never had any girl or woman tie me up, and the thought of Paxtyn doing it has me hard in two seconds flat.

  Right now, I’m not sure who’s more fucked up: her or me.

  “You really think you can help me?” There’s hope in her voice, and God, I wish I could promise her it will work.

  “You won’t know until you try, right?” Like with everything.

  “I need to think about it.”

  “Of course.” Because this isn’t just a leap of faith for her. It’s also a matter of money. “I could ask the agency if they can do a discount for you.”

  Bullshit. They don’t do that. But I’d pay the difference.

  See how fucked up I am? My protective instincts are up like red flags. They’ll be my downfall someday. They’re the reason I’m in this line of work in the first place—and sleeping in a dump, living out of cans and ramen noodle packages.

  “Don’t,” she says, and my stomach twists.

  She won’t let me in. She won’t let me help.

  Fuck.

  “As you like, Pax. It’s your decision.” I turn to open the car door. I shouldn’t feel so sad, so angry and helpless. I barely know her, fo
r fuck’s sake, and she’s only a client.

  “Don’t ask for a discount,” she says from behind me, and I still. “Money’s not the problem.”

  Licking my lips, my heart pounding like a machine gun in my chest, I turn back to her. “Yeah?”

  “Let’s give it one more try.” She lifts her chin, and Christ, I want to crush my mouth to hers, kiss her until we pass out for lack of air. “At the same hotel. I’ll leave your name at the reception.”

  “When?”

  “I’ll call the agency. They’ll let you know. One hour.” She lets out a small huff. “Same price?”

  That little question lands me back to reality with a crash.

  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 fateful 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…”