by Jo Raven
Chapter Three
Paxtyn
Oh God, what a mess. Corey was right, this was as stupid as it could get. Why did I think I could relive that night and change it? Fix it?
Fix myself?
Curled up on the bed, I let the tears flow, soak the quilt. I thought I could do it. Thought I’m so much better now at managing the horror of the memories, the panic they bring.
It was so similar to what happened: my hands tied over my head, his hands on me, the slap, and yet so different.
I mean, I didn’t ask him to cut me with a blade like it happened in my memory, the small wounds leaving scars on my hips.
And God, I enjoyed it at first. Riot’s so handsome...I was excited. My body ached to be touched by him. I wanted him.
Not different enough, though. Not enough to keep the lid on the memory. And that’s how I planned it, that’s how I wanted it. I wanted to relive it so that I could get over it.
But instead I only sank back into the fear and despair until I thought I was dying.
God, Riot. I sit up, scrub my hands over my face. Not his fault, all this. Jesus, I treated him like crap. Not so proud of myself right now. Made him do things he didn’t want. He didn’t like slapping me, I could read it on his face, in the way he held himself so stiffly.
On the surface the scene I recreated was similar to the one I lived through, but below it was the opposite: it was me forcing something on an innocent. And that wasn’t empowering.
Not at all. It’s left a bad taste in my mouth. Shame washes through me. Not only because I asked him to tie me up and touch me, because I bared myself to him as if I do this often, with random men, no. Not just that.
I screamed at him, sent him away—let it be understood I’d call his agency and not pay him—when all he did was do as I told him.
Christ, Pax. When did you turn so cruel, only thinking of yourself?
Shivering, I throw my legs off the bed and go in search of my clothes. I find my panties and dress on the floor and pull them on with shaky hands. I should go after him, see if I catch him before he leaves. Explain.
I stop in the process of zipping up my dress. What am I thinking? I can’t tell him. That’s crazy.
Shit. I sink down on the bed, put my face in my hands. I swore I wouldn’t talk about it. Took the money. Didn’t realize back then how this would haunt me, how it would ruin my life.
And besides, why would Riot want to know? He only wants his money. He doesn’t know me, and I don’t know him. He was here for a job, and he upheld his end.
Okay, then. I’ll call the agency, wire them the money. End of story. End of this disastrous evening.
Decision made, I feel slightly better. Nobody else has to suffer for my trauma and my decidedly stupid way of trying to deal with it. It will be fine. I’ll pay, he’ll forget about this, and we’ll both go on our way as if this night never happened.
He’s probably used to dealing with basket cases like me. I bet he has clients lined up to spend a night with him, and that most of them are normal women, happy to please and be pleased, to be fucked into oblivion, without demanding the recreation of a crime scene and then screaming like banshees on acid.
Shit.
I wipe my sweaty hands on my dress and grab my bag and my coat. Time to try and fix what I can, and it’s weird how the thought of having Riot hate me—or not ever seeing him again—stings.
A guy whom I barely know, whom I had tie me up and touch my breast, slap me and then leave. A guy I kicked in the nuts and screamed at to go and leave me alone.
Yeah, I bet he’s dying to see me again, too…
***
The agency guy I have on the phone sounds a bit confused as to why I am calling them to pay instead of paying Riot in person. He asks if I have any complaints.
I assure him that I have none. Then he asks me if I want to book another appointment with Riot, or any other of their escorts.
“You can also do it through our website,” he says. “That way you can go through their pictures and know more about them. You click on the pic, and read the info they have listed about themselves: their physique, their interests, their background.”
I blink and lean back on my sofa. Sounds logical, only I never thought to click on the pictures. I went through them, picked Riot because of his colors that reminded me of the thug who hurt me, and asked for him over the phone.
“It’s okay to take your time to think,” the man goes on blithely. “We have many to choose from. Some specialize in rougher games, too, if you prefer that, but we also have—”
“Can I book Riot again?” I hear myself say, before my brain catches up.
Wait, Pax—what?
“Of course you can,” the man says, and I hear him typing something, even as my mind is still trying to wrap itself around the fact I’m making another appointment.
With Riot.
The guy who probably doesn’t want to see or hear from me ever again.
“He’s free tomorrow night,” the man says. “Would you like me to book him for you? How many hours?”
“Listen...Wait.” I toy with a loose thread on my sweater. “Maybe he doesn’t want to meet me. I could just check the website.”
“Not want to meet you? That’s not possible.” The guy sounds shocked. “Has he made you feel that way? Has he offended you?”
“No, not at all.” Shit. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Good. We never had any trouble with Riot, but with that name, you never know.” He chuckles. “Perfect then. Is eight o’ clock good for you?”
“Ah, yes.”
“Same meeting place?”
“Um, no.” I rattle off the address of my favorite coffee shop, and hang up, too shaken by my own actions.
What the hell am I doing?
It’s guilt, I decide later as I sip my herbal tea standing by my living room window, looking out at the cold winter day. I just want to talk to Riot, tell him it wasn’t his fault, and that I’m sorry we parted ways like that.
Yeah, that’s it. Now it makes perfect sense. Relaxing, I turn back toward the room and stop.
The website. Information.
Curious to see what is there to know about Riot, I put my mug down on the coffee table and open my laptop. I have the website bookmarked, and I open the page with the escorts.
There he is. I lean closer, studying Riot’s pic. Now I’ve seen the man in the flesh, he doesn’t look much like the asshole from my memories. Riot’s taller, more slender, his hair shorter. His eyes are gray, I know that now, and his expression in the picture is hard to decipher.
Uncomfortable, I’d guess. Torn between cocky and unassuming. Maybe a little pissed.
For some reason it makes me smile.
Jesus. What’s wrong with me?
I click on the pic and find a page of text. It lists his hair and eye color—duh, of course—as well as his height and weight. Then comes a small bio. It reads stilted and I wonder if any of it is true:
Riot Gallagher. Twenty-five years old. Mechanic. Born and raised in the suburbs of Kansas City, before moving to Chicago to find work. His interests include martial arts, jogging, fishing, movies, and rock music.
Yeah, right. I bet that, in his real life, he goes golfing and sailing with his harem of women. He makes good money with this gig, that’s for sure.
Corey told me about escorts when he was trying to change my mind. He’s read up on them. Usually they’re guys who like a certain lifestyle and its comforts—handsome men who found a way to sell their charms. Like the escorts on the Gigolos show. They’re entrepreneurs, with college degrees, actors, and personal trainers. They found an easy way to make the big bucks and then have fun blowing it on casinos, clothes, trips around the world.
Though when I try to imagine Riot golfing or sunbathing on a yacht, it just doesn’t click. He plays his bad boy role well. He’s just that good an actor.
The thought stings a little, somehow.
T
here’s a note further down on his profile. It’s a small checklist for Riot. The boxes checked include tattoos and piercing, as well as his availability for sex at an added fee.
Piercing. Huh. I didn’t notice any on his body. The only part of him I didn’t see was…
Oh. Oh okay. A hot flush rises to my cheeks. I lean back and fan myself. Wow.
And why should I care if Riot is pierced down there? It’s not like I was ever interested in pierced cocks…
Oh God.
I jump up from the sofa and pace my living room. This is crazy. I can’t stand men touching me without getting a panic attack, and I feel hot and bothered because the escort I paid only to yell at him to leave is pierced.
Like it matters. Like I’ll ever see his piercing.
Like I’ll ever have sex with him, or any man.
Jesus. What’s left to try? I’ve visited therapists. I’ve tried yoga and meditation, hypnosis and crystal therapy, color therapy and cold and hot baths. Yeah, I have a trauma. I know that. I’ve read books about it, scoured the Internet for an answer.
Corey was right. My only bet at this point is a shrink. Drugs. Pills. What the hell ever. I’ll do whatever. Can’t keep on living this way, like a hermit in a cell, unable to face the world. Unable to face men and sex.
All because of one night, one dreadful night that changed my life.
Or...maybe I’m meant to live this way from now on. Alone. With a few trusted friends. Buried in books and studying. Spend my life trying to understand how my brain works and why the fear won’t leave me.
And maybe one day I’ll know why, even if it’s too late to live my life like every other twenty-year-old girl around here.
***
I hop from foot to foot outside the coffee shop, shivering with cold. If possible, I’m even more nervous meeting Riot this second time than I was the first. We have history now, and not a very good one. To be honest, I’m surprised he agreed to the appointment. In his shoes, I’m pretty sure I’d have had a long hard laugh and called it off.
Unless he needs the money. For his expensive hobbies. For his gambling debts or whatever. I really should watch this Gigolos Show. Corey is addicted to it.
God, I don’t want to face Corey any time soon. When he finds out how bad my decision turned out to be, he’ll never let me live it down.
Especially if he finds out I made another appointment with the same guy.
Ugh. Yeah, thinking about all this isn’t helping with the nervousness.
You asked for this, I remind myself. You set this up. So suck it up.
Warmth envelops me as I step through the door of the coffee shop, and the familiar scent of cinnamon and coffee is calming. It will be okay. I’ll grab a hot drink, find a seat, and compose in my mind what I’ll say to him when he arrives.
So I order my strawberry latte—Latte! With strawberries!—and hum under my breath while waiting for it to be ready. I’ll apologize to him, of course. That’s first on the list. I’ll give him a vague explanation about a past trauma. Or maybe say I wanted to experiment, but it scared me.
Yeah, this might do. I doubt I’m the first one of his clients to freak out with bondage. And then I’ll—
The door of the coffee shop swings open and he walks in.
The words vanish from my head like puffs of smoke.
Holy hotness. Was he that handsome the first time I met him? I guess I was so terrified I was making a huge mistake; it’s all a blur. I mean, I can’t remember much, except for his deep dimples when he smiled. And now...
Now he seems to fill the small coffee shop with his big frame and his aura of strength. His eyes glint like smoky glass in the overhead lights.
Okay. Don’t stare, Pax, just don’t stare.
Too late. His gaze lands on me, and there’s a breathless pause, a moment of stillness as if he debates approaching me or turning around and leaving.
“Your strawberry latte, miss,” Helen, the sweet girl behind the counter tells me, and I smile distractedly at her, reaching for my mug.
By the time I turn back around, he’s right in front of me.
I gasp and juggle my cup, hot strawberry latte spilling over my fingers, scalding them.
“Paxtyn.” He grabs the cup, steadying my hold, his hand covering mine. He studies my face, his gaze somber, no trace of his teasing grin from the other day, and I shouldn’t miss it so much. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah.” I draw a deep breath, and even in the stuffy air of the coffee shop that’s laden with smells, the light spice of his sweat fills my senses. Musk, and citrusy body wash, and a faint whiff of motor oil.
“Okay. Good.” He lets go of my mug, shoves his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket. “You wanna sit here? Or go somewhere? What did you have in mind?”
He’s standing there, stiffly, obviously ill at ease, probably remembering what happened and how badly it ended.
“Shall we have a coffee? Here?” I lick my lips, my mouth gone dry. “That okay?”
“Okay? Yeah, sure.” His eyes narrow. “If that’s what you want.”
I nod and gesture at the list of drinks on the wall. “Choose your poison.”
Eyeing me warily, shoulders hunched, he orders a latte, and belatedly I remember I’m supposed to pay for his drinks when we’re out. By then he’s taken out his wallet, but I reach over and hand the cashier my card.
“My treat,” I say, and he puts his wallet away, his shoulders relaxing a little.
Yeah. I shouldn’t forget this isn’t a meeting between friends. There are rules, and there’s money paid and services offered. This is business.
Stick to the rules, Paxtyn.
We stand in terse silence as his latte is prepared. The noise of the other customers surrounds me like a fuzzy blanket, and the familiar smells cocoon me, but still I’m too aware of him—his tall presence, his warmth, and the new, invisible wall between us.
“You didn’t complain to the agency,” he says at last, as his latte is placed on the counter. He takes it with a nod and turns toward me. “And you paid.”
“It was the least I could do,” I tell him and lead the way to a table at the back. It’s kind of dark here, but I like having the wall at my back. Makes me feel safe, like nobody can sneak up on me.
Haven’t felt safe since that dreadful night and I doubt I ever will again.
“So…” He puts his mug on the table and draws the chair back to sit. “Paxtyn.”
“Call me Pax,” I say and bite my tongue. Crap. That’s what my friends call me. It’s too intimate, too friendly too—
“Pax,” he whispers, his deep voice caressing my name until I shiver.
Oh man, I really like the sound of my name coming from him. And Christ, stop it, Pax. Right now.
“What’s on your mind?” he asks, before I decide what to say. “Want to try again?”
Okay, this is it. Get it over with. Do your thing. Apologize and go your merry way.
“Hey, I wanted…” Wait a sec. What did he just say? “Try again what?”
He leans forward, his gray eyes meeting mine boldly. “Sex.”
I flinch, try to hide it. “No. God, no. That was...it was a mistake.”
He leans back in his chair and lifts his steaming mug to his lips. “Are you sure? We could take it slower this time.”
“What are you…?” I shake my head, confused. He wants to try again after that fiasco? Is he insane? “I wanted to apologize.”
He puts the mug down, clenches his jaw. “You don’t have to, Pax.”
“Yes, I do.”
“No, see, such things happen in my line of work. If I failed to deliver what you wanted, then you were right to be upset.”
“That’s just it. You did all I asked of you. What happened wasn’t your fault.”
“Then why did you freak out?” He’s observing me with those gleaming eyes like he can see right into my soul.
“That’s not important.”
“Damn right i
t is. It’s the only thing that’s important. Pax…” His soft mouth tightens. “Why are we here today?”
“Told you. Wanted to say I’m sorry.” I lift my cup to my lips to stall for time.
“You said that already. Now what?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, you’re paying for this. What do you want to do with me?”
Do with him. All sorts of naughty images rise to my mind—Riot bent over me, kissing me, fucking me, touching me—and they all come crashing down.
Because I’ll never be able to do that now. My idea didn’t work out. Being with Riot—or any man—won’t happen.
“I can’t,” I whisper, my eyes suddenly burning, and push my chair back. I grab my purse. “Sorry.”
“Can’t what? Pax!”
I’m on my feet and crossing the shop before I even know what I’m doing. I have to get out, have to end this conversation before I say something I regret, before I panic, and I’m vaguely aware of his voice still calling my name.
It doesn’t matter. It’s done. Now I can go on living my life like before, hiding in my shell and hanging out with Corey who’s too sweet to be real and discussing his dream boyfriends.
Hell, I tried. Not my fault my experiment went up in flames.
Chapter Four
Riot
What the hell’s going on?
I run after Paxtyn through the packed coffee shop, trying to catch her, but she’s fast, slipping between the chairs and tables like an eel. She’s out before I reach her.
Bursting out onto the street, I look right and left until I locate her. She’s half-running, half-striding along the sidewalk, and I start after her.
Not sure what I’m doing. I should let her go. When a client is done, then she’s done. As for payment, she’ll probably pay me through the agency.
I won’t see her again.
That’s the thought that keeps spinning inside me head, the reason I’m running after her, the feeling that something’s wrong, and I’m not talking of the mess of our first meeting.
To say I was surprised when the agency called with her request for another appointment is the understatement of the year, more so when I found out she didn’t complain about me and that she paid in full.
