Riot (Bad Boy Escorts #1)

by Jo Raven

  Darkness. Pain. Ice-cold fear, and I thrash against my bonds, against his hold on me, screaming behind the gag.

  I wake up thrashing on my bed, my breath coming in short gasps. Phantom pain haunts my hips, my wrists, my breasts, my face. Lifting my hand, I touch my cheek, expecting it to burn, to ache.

  Nothing. Just a memory.

  And I should know better than to nap in the afternoon on my sofa. I never sleep well that way, but I was tired.

  I sit up, lean my head back, close my eyes.

  Fact is, I can’t sleep well these days, period. Not even in my big, soft bed. Since that night at the hotel with Riot, the nightmares have gotten worse. They won’t let me sleep, won’t let me be. Taunting me. Wearing me down.

  What can I do? I put my hands over my face, press the heels of my palms into my eyes. What else can I do?

  Riot says he can help me. But he knows nothing about my fears. For him, I’m just another job, a paying client. Every appointment with me means money in his pocket.

  That’s all this is for him. The proof? He came to the meeting, despite the way we parted the first time. He’s a professional. He can brush off the wrath and tears of irate women as long as they keep paying.

  And yet...He seemed genuinely interested, and worried. Careful. Helpful.

  Damn he’s good. I almost fell for it there, in my car, when he asked to hold my hand. I was horrified at myself, breaking apart, and he kept me together. Maybe that’s why I agreed to meet him again.

  Someone’s knocking on my door, and I frown. Who can that be? A glance at the clock on the wall tells me it’s six PM.

  Then I hear the key turning in the lock, and I jump to my feet even as I know who it is. The only person who has a key to my apartment.

  The door swings open.

  “Pax?” Corey peers into the dimness of the room, a frown on his handsome face. “Christ. There you are. What are you doing in the darkness?”

  He flips the lights on, and I wince, covering my eyes. “Corey.”

  “In the flesh.” He bows with a flourish. “At your service. I’m just checking if you went off and died on me, since you won’t return my calls or reply to my texts.”

  Crap. “Sorry?”

  “Are you?”

  “A little.” I sigh. “Sorry I worried you.”

  He shrugs off his long coat, throws it over a chair, then comes over to me and sits beside me on the sofa. “Okay. Tell everything to Uncle Corey. What happened?”

  Corey is a handsome guy. He has his blond hair trimmed short with long sideburns, he has the most amazing green eyes, he’s tall and imposing and totally rocks the old-fashioned style he favors with his long gabardines and tailored pants.

  He also likes boys, and the difference between us is that he isn’t afraid of men and sex. At all. I swear, he changes boyfriends like I change panties.

  He’s also the sweetest friend ever, for checking up on me, and a mother hen. I bet that in the next few seconds he will freak out by my silence and start mothering me.

  “I’m going to make you some tea,” he says right on cue, starting to get up. “And cookies. You look pale, and I don’t like it. You need some sugar in—”

  “Corey.” I grab his hand. “Stay. I’m fine.”

  “You sure?” He sits back down, tugs on his turtleneck sweater. “Okay, sweet cheeks, then spill. Did you go through with that terrible idea? Tell me you didn’t. I’ve been having nightmares about it ever since.”

  Nightmares, huh. Like me.

  “I did, and before you say it,” I stop him with a slap on the leg, “it was fine. I’m fine, so stop your worrying.”

  Okay, I’m lying, but him fretting over me isn’t going to help things, and Corey knows. He’s the only person who knows what happened on that night, apart from Ethel and her folks. Heck, even my folks don’t know everything about it.

  So I really don’t need him fussing over me any more than he already is. Stressing. He doesn’t handle stress well—which is why he doesn’t date.

  Or so he claims.

  “So you had sex with this escort?” Fascination replaces the worry in his gaze, and I lean back against the cushions, torn between irritation and the urge to laugh.

  “That’s your first question, after finding out I went through with my plan?”

  “Well, that was the number one stipulation of your plan, as I recall.” His expression turns contemplative. “Get over the fear of men, and touching, and above all sex. Am I wrong?”

  No, he’s not, which is kind of annoying, because right now the last thing I want to talk about is Riot and that disastrous evening.

  Even more so because my next meeting with him is tonight and I’m not sure I’m ready. I don’t have any idea what to expect, or how I will react to it.

  I shiver.

  “We didn’t have sex,” I whisper, and I don’t care if I sound defeated, because this is Corey, who knows me well. “But that’s okay. Maybe I’ll think of another way to fix it.”

  Fix myself.

  “Oh sweetie.” He sighs. “Bryan has an amazing therapist. He swears by this woman. Let me get you her phone number.”

  “Bryan, huh? Wasn’t it Jaxon last week?”

  “Jaxon is history.” Corey waves a hand back and forth dismissively as he scrolls through the contacts on his cell phone.

  “You said he was hot.”

  “He was. The fire can’t burn forever, though.”

  “So this is how it is, always? You think you love someone and then it all dies out?”

  “Love?” He looks up, a confused look on his face. “Were we talking about love? No, hon, this is just lust.”

  Right. “I know. I just…” I swallow hard. “Don’t you ever wonder if you’ll ever find someone you can settle down with? Someone you can trust, someone you’ll want for all time?”

  He whistles. “Whoa. Careful with those words, honey. Settle down? Trust? For all time? They’re not in my vocabulary.”

  “But why, Corey? Why not? Look around you. So many happy endings. You’re a nice, intelligent, handsome guy. What prevents you from finding true love?”

  “And more hard words.” He winces. “I’m not made for relationships, Pax. For love. You know that.”

  Do I? He’s an amazing friend. From his stories, he’s great in bed. So what’s the problem? I keep getting the feeling there’s something in his past that’s stopping him from having a real relationship, that pulls him back whenever things get real. I wish he could talk to me about it. I mean, he knows all about my issues.

  “If you’re done psychoanalyzing my nonexistent love life,” he waggles his brows at me, “check your phone. I texted you the number of the therapist. Give her a try, why don’t you? She deals with sexual traumas.”

  My turn to wince. “Corey, that wasn’t—”

  “Yes, it was. Listen, love, I know you hate those labels.” He puts his phone back in his pocket. “I know you weren’t raped, and thank God for that. But there was sexual torture involved, and there’s a reason you can’t be with men. So humor me, okay? Give her a call. Try her out. You deserve to live a normal, happy life.”

  “As you do. Corey—”

  “Who says I’m not happy?” He sends me a too-bright smile, and climbs to his feet. “Have to run. Bryan’s waiting for me. Glad you’re alive, sweet cheeks. I was worried. Next time give some sign of life, would you? Keep me from getting gray hairs.”

  I laugh, I can’t help it. “You’re twenty-one.”

  “And your point is?” He winks at me, smooths his hands over his hair and grabs his coat from the chair. “We should go out. Saturday night. What say you, oh dark one?”

  My laughter fades. Dark. Yeah. “Maybe.”

  “I’ll take that as a yes,” he says, which makes no sense, but by the time I’ve formulated a reply, he’s out and closing the door behind him.

  Hurricane Corey.

  Sighing, I plop back against the cushions and rub my hands over my face.
He’s right. I should call this therapist, go out on Saturday night, and slowly put my life back together. The way others do it. Why think I could do it differently?

  Or that Riot can fix me? An escort. Sure, he’s hot, insanely so, and also kind and persistent, but why would he be able to help me when the specialists couldn’t?

  This is hopeless.

  ***

  Dressed in one of my favorite dresses and high heels, feeling the scratch of my lacy underwear against my skin, I reach the hotel and hesitate at the door.

  I haven’t dressed up for Riot, I tell myself. It’s just that I feel better, stronger when I wear my favorite pieces. I don’t care if he likes my dress, and he won’t be seeing my underwear no matter what. He won’t undress me or touch me.

  Don’t care if I see that flare of desire in his eyes like when we were last here. Shouldn’t forget it’s all an act. He’s trained for this—to make women feel wanted, desired.

  Remember he’s a good actor.

  Christ, I don’t know what the hell we’re doing here tonight. I shouldn’t have accepted. This is a stupid idea—one more of many.

  The doors open and a couple stroll out, their arms around each other. Seeing them sends a pang through my chest.

  Love.

  Not for the likes of us, Corey said. Well, he was only speaking for himself, but what chances would someone like me have of loving someone when I can’t even get over my fear for one minute to touch a man, kiss him, sleep with him?

  Corey is the better candidate of the two of us in this game, even if he doesn’t seem to know it.

  Taking a deep breath, I push through the door and enter the hotel lobby. I’m a bit early—nerves—so my plan is to sit and read on my phone until he arrives.

  I don’t expect him to be there, standing with his back to the wall and his arms folded over his broad chest.

  My first reaction is to take a step back, flee before he sees me. But like every time, he looks up as if sensing me, and that fine mouth turns up in a faint smirk.

  Sexy…

  Get a grip, Pax. I take a step back. Remember what you’re both doing here. A business. A transaction.

  Between naked bodies, my traitorous mind whispers, and I shush it. It doesn’t matter what sort of transaction it is.

  Stop lusting after him.

  And what use is lusting if you can’t touch? Shaking my head at myself, I stop before I reach the door. Force my feet to move forward, step after step, approaching him.

  He hasn’t moved from his spot. Still lounging. Still smirking. Still looking at me with those clear, gray eyes, his dark hair tousled and shiny like silk.

  Stop staring, Pax.

  Finally he moves, straightening and coming toward me. He moves with an easy grace, like a panther or a lion, well-honed muscles lending a light rolling gait to his step.

  You’re staring again…

  “Pax.”

  I’ve never cared much for my name, but I like the way his voice caresses it, wraps around the sounds like dark velvet.

  And crap, I’d forgotten I told him to call me Pax.

  “Riot.” I also like his name on my lips, wrapped around my tongue, like a kiss, as if my tongue is tracing the lines of his mouth, his body, his soul.

  “Have you booked a room?”

  That breaks through my trance-like daze.

  Crap. Doing it again. “Yes. Let me get the key.”

  He follows me to the reception desk, leans against it with his hands in his pockets as I ask for my reservation. The girl behind the desk keeps stealing glances at him, while he manages to look unruffled and a little bit bored.

  When he catches my gaze on him, though, he smiles, the dimples making an appearance. It’s almost as if I caught him on a happy thought that makes his eyes bright.

  So of course again I’m staring when the key is handed to me and I barely manage to catch it before it clutters to the floor.

  “Oops,” says the girl, tossing her long blond hair over her shoulder, and okay, did she do that on purpose?

  “Let’s go, sweetheart,” Riot says, leaning close to me, turning his back to the girl. “Can’t wait to get you into bed.”

  It makes me want to laugh, especially when I notice her outraged expression, but I follow him without another word.

  Can’t believe this bitch. I’d need to find another hotel, if Riot and I were to meet again.

  But we are not.

  ***

  He takes the key from my hand as we step out of the elevator and unlocks the door, then holds it open for me to pass.

  Clutching my coat closed over my chest, I step into the room, my steps muffled on the thick carpet. Heavy drapes frame the large window, and I approach, looking down at lights from the passing cars.

  “How’s things?” he asks, and I turn to watch him cross the room and toss his leather jacket on a velvet-covered armchair. His T-shirt is plain black and it stretches across his muscled chest and shoulders. “How are you, Pax?”

  “I’m okay.” I shiver, although it’s warm in here.

  “You look tired.”

  I turn toward the window. “Didn’t sleep well last night.”

  “You also look beautiful,” he says, and comes to stand beside me.

  “I bet you say that to all your clients,” I mutter.

  “The fuck I do.”

  I flinch. He’s scowling at the glass, at the night outside, his hands curled into fists at his sides. A vein beats fast in his neck.

  Silence settles over us, pulsing, hot and heavy. I’m caught in its web, unable to move, or breathe.

  “You’re beautiful, Pax,” he mutters then, breaking the spell. He’s still gazing outside, or at his reflection in the glass, I’m not sure. “The women who pay for my services usually aren’t, and I don’t tell them they are.”

  There’s a knot in my throat, and I’m not sure why. I wait for him to say something more, but he only turns his head a little, and I realize it’s not the lights outside or even his own reflection he’s been looking at.

  It’s mine.

  “What do you want from me?” I whisper. God, this guy confuses me so much. “What—”

  “It’s not about what I want,” he says. “You’re paying me, remember? This is about you.”

  “I don’t know what I want.”

  “Yeah, you do.” He cuts me a sideways glance, and his smirk comes back. “You want to have sex with me.”

  “Riot…” I turn and stalk back to the bed. I hesitate there, because, really, I’m on my way to the door. “That’s the problem. It doesn’t matter if I want it. I can’t go through with it.”

  “So you do want me.” He follows me, and boy, the way he walks is so sexy. “I can work with that.”

  “Work how?”

  “Do you know,” he sits on the bed and I’m rooted to the spot. He’s so close, I can feel the heat from his leg against my shin. “I have a kitten. His name’s Dex.”

  “Dex?”

  “Dexter. He’s black, and he only has three legs. It took him a long time to accept my presence, my touch. You’re like him.”

  “I’m like a three-legged kitten?”

  “But prettier.” He grins, and those deep, sexy dimples make their appearance, drawing my gaze. “My point is, you’re scared of me. Of men.”

  “And you think you can tame me, like you did your kitten?”

  “Dexter isn’t tamed. He just likes me. And I think I can make you trust me. Lose your fear of me.”

  I doubt it. Partly because he’s so hot I may burn, and partly because I don’t know what to do with that. But...a kitten. For some reason the thought makes me smile.

  “What?” He leans back on his hands, and he looks so good, sprawled like that in front of me, his legs spread. His black T-shirt is riding slightly up, showing me a stripe of muscled flesh.

  “Nothing.” I bite my lip to crush the smile. “You have a kitten.”

  “And a dog. His name’s Batman.”


  My smile can’t be contained anymore. A snort escapes me. “Batman?”

  “His ears are like this.” He demonstrates with this fingers. “Stiff, like Batman’s.”

  Giggling, I drop my purse to the floor and sit down beside him. “Does he also have three legs, or is he the traditional four-legged kind?”

  “Four legs, this one.” Riot’s eyes sparkle. “But he’s like an octopus when he gets excited, all paws, like when I bring him his favorite treats. He’s knocked me on my ass plenty of times.”

  “So...a kitten and a dog. And a girlfriend?”

  “No girlfriend, no.” He sits up. “Just me and the boys.”

  We’re sitting side by side, our heads bent together. His scent wraps around me—his deep spice, cinnamon and pepper, and his shampoo that smells of cedar and apples. I can see the bright yellow and orange lines of his tattoo that disappear under his short sleeves, the fine hairs on his thick forearms.

  “I don’t have any pets,” I say, not even sure why I’m telling him this. “I’ve always wanted a cat.”

  “Even a three-legged one?”

  I snort. “Why is he missing one?”

  He shrugs. “Don’t know. An accident, maybe? He was hurt when I found him. I think kids abused him.”

  “That’s awful.”

  “Doesn’t prevent him from doing anything he wants, though. He climbs up my body to my shoulder every day.”

  “He does?”

  “I just need to make sure he bypasses my crotch.” He makes a face, and of course my gaze drops down between his legs, to the bulge there.

  My breath catches.

  Because it’s not that I don’t want and desire and need him. My body gets tight and hot when I see a sexy man, and Riot is...God, he’s sex on legs. My mind says, yes yes yes, do it, and I give in, I lean closer, I touch…

  And the memories crash over me, take me under.

  I hop to my feet, take a few steps away from the bed as if it has vipers coiling on top of it.

  “Pax?” He takes a deep breath, lets it out. “Take off your coat.”

  I swallow, glance at the door. Riot won’t hurt me. He can’t. He’ll lose his job. There’s that, right? Besides, it’s warm in here.