He nodded silent encouragement.
“That’s it. Don’t look away.”
Violet flame kindled in the depths of his gaze, pulling me in like a magnet. The elegant apartment around us fell away, until it was only the two of us. Then, I fell away as well, and it was only his voice, shaping the world until it made sense for the first time in hours.
“After you arrived, we went down to the club together,” that voice explained. “You were the Ferrero Rocher of arm candy—I couldn’t have asked for better. But it’s hot down there, and stuffy, and I dragged you around for hours. You started to feel dizzy, so I brought you back up to the penthouse to recover before you left. You’ll feel better in a minute, and then you’ll head home a few hundred dollars richer than before.”
The truth of the words settled around me, my awareness of self filtering back in, even as an unaccustomed sense of serenity washed through me. Yes... I’d been overdoing it for some time now, trying to keep all the plates spinning. No surprise that it had finally caught up with me, but I was feeling much better now.
The voice came again, a wry note entering it. “Fortunately for the integrity of this cover story, vampire blood heals human wounds. I’m going to drip a little onto that burn. It will itch for a few moments, and then feel better. When it does, wipe it off with that handkerchief and forget all about the injury, and the blood that healed it.”
Something cool and wet dribbled between my breasts. The itching came; the pain went. I dabbed at the spot with the handkerchief before handing it back to him, stained red.
“Now comes the part where I really overstep my bounds,” said the voice. “Not that you’re in a position to appreciate it, I guess. The women I hire all have their own reasons for doing what they do. Some of them are sticking it to their repressive parents. Some of them are putting themselves through college. Some of them just like sex and figure, why not get paid for it? So... tell me why you’re here when you clearly don’t want to be.”
The earlier serenity fled, buried beneath an avalanche of relief at finally being able to tell someone my secret. Fresh tears prickled, blurring everything.
“I need the money to pay off debts owed to some really bad people, and I don’t know how else to get it fast enough,” I breathed. “I don’t want to do this; I don’t even like sex. I’m thirty years old and I’ve never had an orgasm.”
“Jesus Christ,” the voice muttered.
I tried to unpick the emotions being expressed through the low curse, and couldn’t.
“I know there’s something wrong with me,” I continued, the words coming faster and faster until they were tumbling over themselves. “I never liked it. I was fifteen the first time, and it was awful. But I ended up pregnant, and I tried a few times afterward, but it was still just—”
“Stop,” said the voice. “Morgan—there’s nothing wrong with you. Mind you, there might or might not be something wrong with the idiots you’ve slept with.” A pause. “Shit, I’m sorry. I knew I shouldn’t have gone there.”
I twisted the words to and fro, trying to make them fit. There was... nothing wrong with me?
“Okay,” the voice continued. “God help me. I’ll probably regret this, but I’m damned if I’m continuing this conversation while you’re still under. So—while you were recovering from your dizzy spell, I asked you what got you into escort work and you told me the truth. Now, it’s time to wake up.”
I blinked rapidly, aware that I’d zoned out of the conversation. Geez—I must have been more out of it than I’d thought. Talk about unprofessional...
“Oh, my god,” I said, heat rushing to my cheeks. “I am so sorry. I can’t believe I said all that aloud!” My hands flew to my face, trying to hide my embarrassment. “Ugh. Worst. Escort. Ever.”
Even feeling as humiliated as I currently did, I was also relieved. Dizzy spell aside, this night could have gone so much worse. I only wished I could look forward to other clients being like this guy. But seriously—what on earth had possessed me to spill my guts like this? For such a closed-off dude, he must have some kind of superpower when it came to pulling out confessions.
Leonides let out a low huff. “Don’t worry about it, Morgan. Before I send you home, though—tell me straight. Do you need help dealing with these men you owe money to?”
For a humiliating instant, I fought the urge to say yes, god, please—I don’t know what the hell I’m doing, please help me fix this horrendous mess. But then sanity reasserted itself, and I pasted on a plastic smile and dragged my invisible armor around me.
“Aww. That’s really sweet of you, Leo,” I told him with the hint of a wink. “But I’m on it. A few more rich sugar daddies like you, and I’ll be all set.”
He nodded, accepting it. “Fair enough. I’ll let you go, then.” A wallet appeared in his hand, and he peeled off five crisp hundred-dollar bills. “Thank you for the evening, abbreviated though it was. Please accept a small tip as my apology for dragging you around in the heat and the crowd for so long.”
I accepted the money, smile still firmly in place, and looked around for my purse—only to find it squished between my hip and the cushion, the strap still tangled over my shoulder. “Thanks. And sorry again for dumping on you like that. I really don’t know what came over me.”
“Don’t mention it. Oh, and don’t forget your necklace.” He gestured at the table.
I frowned at the tangle of chain and gemstone, not remembering having taken it off. “Wow, I guess I really was out of it.” Rather than try to unpick the knotted chain, I swept it into my purse as well.
Leonides rose as I did, and ushered me toward the front door. “Be safe, Morgan,” he said when I turned to wish him goodnight. “There’s some crazy shit out there in the world.”
He paused, as though debating whether to continue. “And... at the risk of being a presumptuous asshole, if you ever want a no-strings evening spent remedying the ‘never had an orgasm’ thing—on or off the clock—I’m easy enough to find, these days. Some people just aren’t wired for sex, but that’s different than being saddled with a string of shitty partners.”
I stared at him, trying to decide if he was serious or not. He... appeared to be. Which—wow. From a different guy, the offer might have sounded skeevy as hell. Yet, somehow I couldn’t seem to take it that way, coming from him. Plus, there was the small matter of me being a literal prostitute now, which didn’t leave me much in the way of high ground when it came to skeeviness.
Of course, whether he could actually make good on his unusual offer was a whole different question.
“I’ll... keep it in mind,” I decided. “Goodnight, Leo.” And with that, I let myself out, heading for the elevator leading to the club below.
FOUR
“MOM! I’M GONNA be late for the bus!” Jace’s voice filtered through my early morning haze, drawing me back to reality from a weird, half-formed dream.
I blinked sleep from my eyes and peered at the clock, wondering how on earth I’d managed to sleep through my phone’s alarm. Had I forgotten to plug in the charger or something?
“Just a second, babe!” I called back. “I overslept, sorry.”
Stumbling out of bed, I fumbled for my robe and slipped it on. My phone wasn’t just unplugged—it was completely missing from its usual spot on the bedside table. I tamped down the panicky compulsion to start looking for it immediately.
Priorities, Vonnie.
Setting it aside in my mind for the moment, I headed toward the sound of Jace’s voice. The smell of toast and cinnamon butter wafted from the tiny kitchen, and I sighed as I stepped through the door.
“A nutritious breakfast, huh?” I teased.
Jace hooked me a crooked smile over his shoulder. “Hey, you snooze, you lose. Besides, you really think I could cook bacon and eggs without burning something?” He went back to pawing through his backpack, dark cowlick falling over his forehead.
I snorted. “Yes. But I guess I’ll let it slide,
just this once.”
At fourteen, Jace was already turning into a slightly shyer, slightly ganglier version of his father. Most days, I could barely see myself in him at all. And that was okay—just the realities of genetics at work. I was a virtual cocktail of Irish and Scottish recessive genes, while Richard was third-generation Chinese American, brown-eyed and black-haired.
Jace came up with a piece of paper clutched in one hand. “Can you sign this? I need it today.”
I took it, scanning the first few lines. “Field trip?”
“To the art museum, yeah. Next Thursday.”
“Sounds like fun,” I said, and he shrugged, noncommittal. I scribbled my signature at the bottom before handing it back and adding, “Oh, hey—I can’t find my phone, so if you need anything after school, call the store. I’m working the afternoon shift today.”
“Yeah, okay. Thanks, Mom. Gotta go!”
He shot me a quick smile, and then he was out the door, leaving me alone in the apartment—only the muffled sound of the upstairs neighbors moving around breaking the silence. With another sigh, I pulled out some more bread and popped it into the toaster. Maybe this was a cinnamon-toast-for-breakfast kind of day after all.
Without Jace’s presence, I had nothing to distract me from thoughts of last night. Was I technically a prostitute now, given that I’d only been paid for my company, and not for actual sex? I shook my head sharply, irritated with myself.
Despite barely touching any alcohol at the club, my head was pounding this morning. My eyes were gritty and bloodshot. Geez, I’d better not be getting sick—that was the last thing I needed.
After a self-indulgent breakfast of cinnamon toast and instant coffee, I returned to my bedroom and dug through the ludicrously small purse that went with my borrowed dress. Five hundred dollars in cash? Yup. ID? Yup. Lipstick and powder? Check. Tangled necklace at the bottom? Check.
Cell phone? Nope. Because of course not.
My fingers worked absently at the knotted necklace chain, working it free. Unless I’d flaked out and left my phone in the car—unlikely—there was really nowhere else it could be except the club. The dress didn’t exactly have pockets, and that was all I’d had with me. Which meant I must have left it at The Vixen’s Den.
Awesome.
On the upside—if the pitiful number of hours I’d been able to get at my retail job this week could be said to have an upside—I wasn’t due at work until one o’clock today. That was enough time to grab a shower, do the shopping, drop off Guillermo’s cut of the money from last night, send the red slut-dress off to be cleaned, and still take half an hour to swallow my pride and swing by the Den before my shift, in hopes that someone had turned in my phone. Assuming, of course, that the place was even open during the daytime.
I could Google it and find out, except, y’know, missing phone. My laptop had died three weeks ago, and I wasn’t about to risk putting any data associated with my so-called side gig on Jace’s computer. So, the Old School approach it was. Walk up to the building, try the door, and see if it opened. If the place was locked up tight, I’d just have to cope for a few more hours without the joys of cellular connectivity, and try again after my shift.
Jace could reach me at Barton’s this afternoon by calling the store’s number if he had to, and in a real emergency, he could also call his dad. It would be fine. Squaring my shoulders, I laid out a clean outfit and went to start my shower.
* * *
The building housing The Vixen’s Den wasn’t quite as impressive in the gray light of a cloudy spring day as it was at night. If I hadn’t known already that the interior boasted marble floors, elaborate plaster ceilings, and a penthouse suite to die for, I would have taken it for one of the many similar gentrified apartment buildings scattered through the Central West End.
The main door wasn’t locked. There was no doorman or bouncer stationed at the entrance, but a prominent security camera blinked its red eye at me as I entered. I’d expected the interior to look a bit more faded and threadbare in the unforgiving light of day, but no. Everything appeared freshly renovated—clean, bright, and sharp.
The stage at the far end was empty, but a handful of patrons were propping up the bar, drowning their lunchtime sorrows in top-shelf booze. A few glanced at me, taking in my practical ‘I work retail’ ensemble before seeming to lose interest. As I approached, delicious smells teased my nose—rich and savory. Plates of tapas sat in front of several of the barflies. They looked... really good, actually. Good enough to make my stomach rumble, reminding me that I wasn’t going to have time for lunch today. I dragged my attention away from the food and turned it to my target, the bartender.
He wasn’t exactly what I would have expected in a place like this, though I supposed the lunch crowd also had a bit of a different vibe going, compared to the classy nightclub crowd. Pale and sharp-featured, he was sporting enough hardware on his face—in the form of nose and eyebrow piercings—to set off a metal detector at twenty paces. His eyes were a striking shade of steel gray, but they were completely overpowered by a wild ombre fauxhawk, shading from electric blue at the top, to what I suspected was his natural black color where the hair was cut shorter on the sides. Tattoos wound down from the rolled up sleeves of his shirt, swirling around his forearms.
He raised an eyebrow as I sidled up to the bar. “What can I get you today? We’re running a special right now—half off the new sampler plate if you buy a drink.”
Despite the guy’s... bold ideas regarding personal branding, he looked kind of gaunt and worn down, like someone recovering from a long illness. His tone was friendly, though, so I figured he was as good a person as any to ask about my lost property.
“Actually, I was at the club last night,” I said, a bit sheepishly. “I think I left my phone here, and I was hoping someone might have found it and decided it was too old to be worth stealing.”
The bartender’s smile dimpled at the corner, and it struck me that he wasn’t half-bad to look at despite the pallor and the piercings. “Tell you what—give me a minute and I’ll try to find out for you.”
I smiled back. “Thanks.”
Tapping my fingers restlessly on the polished wood of the bar, I waited for him to call whoever he needed to call, and tried not to let memories from last night filter in and take over. Still, I startled slightly when he returned, his voice interrupting my reverie.
“Sorry, no phones washed up in lost and found last night, I’m afraid to say. Which totally sucks—losing your phone is the worst. Anything else I can do for you? If you need to make any calls, you’re welcome to use the landline.”
I debated taking him up on the offer so I could let Jace know I was still cell-less. Probably pointless—getting a teenage boy to voluntarily text or call his mother was on par with getting a cheetah to turn vegetarian, anyway. I’d call him from work on my break to check in, when he’d at least be out of classes.
Unfortunately, I’d realized on the way over that there was one other possibility regarding my phone, and as much as it embarrassed me, it would be foolish not to mention it. I steeled myself to sound casual.
“So, um, it’s possible that I might have left my phone... upstairs, last night. In the penthouse?”
Silver metal glinted in the overhead lighting as the guy raised an eyebrow. He gave me a discrete onceover, and paradoxically, I felt myself bristling.
“What?” I asked, aware that the word had emerged a bit more aggressively than it probably should have. I had no doubt that my traitorous cheeks were flushing bright red.
The bartender appeared to realize that he’d been staring, and blinked. “Sorry, nothing. It’s just that... uh... well... let’s just say you’re not the boss’s usual type.”
My jaw clenched. “I clean up well,” I said through gritted teeth.
“Right. Sorry,” he said again. “I’ll just call upstairs and see if he’s in.”
He disappeared, a little more hastily this time. I tried not
to notice that the exchange had caught the attention of the nearest patrons as I attempted to deconstruct my irritation over it. Leonides had made no bones about the fact that he had a type—namely, hot professional sex workers. In the end, my reaction was probably down to the realization that not only was I selling my body, but apparently that body didn’t look like ‘hot professional sex worker’ material in the cold light of day.
I glanced down at my black polo, khakis, and tennis shoes, covering a wince. Yeah, okay. Dressed like this with my hair pulled into a harsh ponytail and minimal makeup, I looked like a thirty-year-old mom heading to her eleven-dollar-an-hour job in retail.
Ouch.
“Hello again. Back so soon?” The dark-laced velvet voice made me whirl in place, my breath catching.
Jumpy, I chided myself.
Leonides raised an eyebrow, looking as put-together at noon as he had at midnight. Behind me, the bartender’s footsteps approached, returning from the back.
“Sorry, he’s not answering his—” The guy cut himself off abruptly. “Oh. Never mind. Hey, Gramps. Your friend here lost her phone last night.”
“I thought I might have left it upstairs accidentally,” I said, finding my tongue in time to wrest the conversation back to practical matters. I resolutely did not think about how my return might look to a man who’d casually told me to swing by anytime if I ever wanted a free orgasm, courtesy of the house.
“I didn’t see it, but I’ll go check,” he said. “Did you want to come up?”
Something very close to mortification flooded me. Maybe he did think—?
“No!” I said quickly, stomping on the little corner of heat inside me that wasn’t related to embarrassment. “I’m on my way to work—” I stumbled, cursing myself for sounding like a babbling schoolgirl. “My... other work... and I thought I’d just, y’know, stick my head in and see if it had turned up.”
Vampire Bound: Book One Page 3
