Riot (Bad Boy Escorts #1)

by Jo Raven

  Dex meows, and Batman pokes his head around the door, giving me a soulful look, which means he’s hungry. I fill their bowls and let Dexter down so he can have his kitty dinner. I watch them eat.

  The boys look content. This is their home. We have each other. It’s a better family than any I’ve ever had. No fights. No backstabbing. No yelling and cursing.

  Why isn’t it enough anymore?

  It’ll have to be. Just a phase. Just a fucking phase.

  I glance at the bottle of scotch on the living room table, decide against it, and opt for a hot shower. Yeah, I know I showered at the gym, but it’s cold. There’s the bite of snow on the air, and my heater isn’t working so well. Might as well warm up and get into bed. Gale gave as good as he got back at the gym, and my solar plexus aches from his punches.

  It’s a good ache, though, clean, tugging at tired muscles. Different from the confusion inside my head.

  Pax, Pax. Her face flashes in front of me as I undress, as I touch where her hand stroked over me, over my pecs, over my stomach, and lower...Fuck, I’m hard, hard like I was in that hotel room.

  With a grunt, my hard-on hampering my movements more than my bruises, I kick off my shoes, socks and pants, push down my briefs and step under the warm spray. A sigh escapes me. I brace my hand on the tiled wall, bow my head under the showerhead, let the water drench me, the warmth seep into my muscles and bones.

  Pax tied to the bedpost, her tits bared, her legs spread…

  Fuck. I grab the soap and scrub myself angrily. Turn under the spray. Just stop, stop thinking about her. A client. Someone who’s seeing you as some sort of therapy.

  Sex therapy.

  I’m so fucking hard, goddammit. Why am I fighting it? She never needs to know I jacked off to the thought of her.

  Leaning back against the wall, I grab my dick and stroke it. Oh fuck, yeah. I keep fighting it and fighting it, and what good does it do? Need her...Shit, I can picture her on her knees, sucking me off, her soft mouth around my dick, her small hand circling the base.

  Shit, so good. Need more. Need to see her, feel her, but I can’t, so I tug harder, faster, my breath catching as the pressure starts to crest. I knew I wouldn’t last, not after fantasizing about her all day today—and the days before. Fuck, since the day I met her.

  And tied her to that bed.

  Oh shit. I thump my head back on the tiles as my dick jerks and hot cum splashes my chest. Pleasure hits a second later, snaps through me like lightning, wrenching a moan from my throat. Another splash of cum and my strokes slow.

  My muscles tremble, turning to jelly. I let the water wash me clean and I slide down the wall to the stall floor. Resting my arms on my bent knees, I let my head fall back and close my eyes.

  I’m drowsy, my dick finally limp. I could fall asleep where I’m sitting.

  Only problem is, nothing’s clearer. The fact I just came thinking of her is a fucking big clue to the fact that I’m fucked to hell and back.

  Chapter Nine

  Paxtyn

  Can’t stop thinking of him, no matter what I do. It’s been days since I last saw him at the hotel. The feel of his hard muscles under my fingertips, his cock straining under the thin cloth of his briefs, and the outline of the barbells. The taste of his mouth—salty and sweet—and the look in his gray eyes. The way he looked against the dark bed cover. Flushed. Aroused. Handsome. Sexy.

  A sexy devil.

  Is it normal that my thoughts keep coming back to him? To how good he felt wherever I touched him? Is it a good sign? Does it mean I could date someone again?

  Aren’t we way ahead of ourselves here, Pax? a sarcastic voice in my head asks—a voice that sounds too much like Corey’s.

  Corey who’s sprawled beside me on the sofa, scowling at the TV. He’s one unhappy boy tonight.

  “Hurts when someone else breaks up with you, doesn’t it?” I nudge him in the ribs, because any distraction from my thoughts of Riot is good distraction.

  “Shut up.” He props his elbow on his knee and plants his chin in his hand.

  Ignoring me.

  “It happens to everyone, Corey. You need this experience once in your life.”

  “Bastard. How dare he do this to me? Frigging moron.”

  “What? Leave you? The thing you were about to do to him?”

  He shakes his head. “You’re not helping, you know.”

  “Aww.” I reach over and hug him. “You’ll get over him. Seriously, you were going to dump him, so why are you acting like this?”

  Like he’s sad.

  Crap, from up close his eyes are red-rimmed. Was he crying earlier? Boys don’t cry easily, and I’ve never seen Corey shed a tear. Not even when other boys bullied him at school back when, or when his dad told him to leave home unless he started liking girls ASAP. If it wasn’t for his uncle who took him in, I shudder to think where he’d be right now.

  “You’re right,” Corey says and draws away from me, cutting through my thoughts. “I don’t know why. Maybe I’m just not used to it.”

  Yeah well. He dumps everyone before they dump him, so of course he isn’t used to it. In fact, it’s as if...as if it’s a preemptive strike. Do it before someone does it to you—like his family did with him.

  I knew all this of course. Psychology major, remember? It’s hard to miss. Every time I look at Corey I see a frightened teenager, rejected by his only parent and fighting tooth and nail to survive, to be who he is, be accepted, and all I want is to hug him again and say something meaningful, something comforting.

  If only I could help myself, too, use what I’m learning to understand how to get rid of my fears. Corey always said it was a mistake, studying psychology. That the only people who can never understand themselves are psychologists.

  I guess he doesn’t like us, much like I don’t like therapists—because they weren’t able to help us, and we blame them for it somehow.

  Dammit, how can I help Corey?

  “We should go out,” I decide, and he turns to stare at me. “What? You’re moping.”

  “You’re moping, too,” he says.

  Oops. That obvious, huh? “Not the point.”

  “You didn’t see that escort again, did you? What was his name again?”

  Great, I managed to distract Corey only to have him focus on me. Who’s going to distract me now?

  “Riot. Forget about him. Like I said, we should go out. Meet people, drink, dance. Have fun. Sitting here, wallowing in our misery, sucks.”

  “Know what? You’re right.” Corey juts out his chin and gives me a bright smile. “Let’s go, girlfriend. Let’s go find us some boys and have the time of our lives.”

  I seriously doubt that, at least for my case, but I let him haul me to my room and dress me up—he loves doing that—before dragging me out of my apartment.

  Can I do it? Let a boy stand close to me, touch me? A boy that’s not Corey?

  A boy that’s not Riot?

  I guess only a test will tell.

  ***

  The bar Corey chooses is one I’ve visited a few times. Quincy’s. It’s in fashion right now among college students. They like it because the booze is cheap and the music is good—a blend of seventies, eighties and modern funk.

  “Come on,” Corey says, dragging me inside. “Frank said they’d be here tonight. Better chances of forgetting our woes if we’re not alone, right?”

  Right. I try to remember who Frank is as I follow Corey into the misty, murky depths of the bar. Classmate of his, probably. Corey studies English literature, and his friends tend to use quaint words when they speak.

  Then again, mine tend to psychoanalyze everything and blame childhood traumas and sex for everything.

  “Pax, this is Frank.” Corey thrusts me toward a dark haired guy with a long beard, and instinctively I press back.

  Beards. The guy who hurt me that night had a beard. Shit.

  “Welcome, friends, to this reunion of the spirit,” Frank declares and
raises his glass. “To the spirit.”

  Corey laughs and I smile but my heart isn’t in it.

  Bad start.

  Even worse is that I wish for Riot to be there. Last time with him I felt so calm– even though I freaked out a little at the end, when my control failed me and I kissed him. I ran away, sure I was about to have a panic attack.

  It never came. How many times ever since did I find myself grabbing the phone to call the agency, make another appointment?

  Too many. Every time I told myself what a terrible idea that was and put the phone down. You don’t miss an escort. You don’t lust after them. You don’t crush on them.

  Period.

  For him, I’m a job, and for me he’s...No clue what he is. My feelings are so jumbled I don’t even know what I’m feeling.

  “Come on, Pax, let’s get some moves on.” Corey grabs my hand. “They’re playing our song!”

  I laugh. “I don’t even know this song.”

  “Well, you live under a rock, so it doesn’t matter. Come on!”

  He drags me between tables to a small dancing area where a few daring souls are gyrating to the beat, and I let him. Why not? I’ve been mostly a recluse since the incident, but I used to like dancing. And drinking. And partying.

  Besides—meet boys, right? This is our mission.

  Not so many boys on the dance floor, though, and before the song is even over, Corey drags me to the bar.

  He’s giving me whiplash tonight.

  “I thought that was our song?” I whine as he orders beer for both of us.

  “Was it? I’m not sure anymore.” He’s eyeing a guy sitting on a stool a few feet away.

  Ah. All clear. “Yeah, maybe not.”

  The guy’s a California surfer kind of boy, with long blond bangs and blue eyes in a tanned face. Cute, I guess. By the time our beers arrive, Corey has made his move, asking the guy for his name and stepping closer to him.

  What happened to not being alone tonight?

  With a sigh, I turn my back to the bar, lean against it and sip at my beer. Too late I realize I’d been hoping Corey wouldn’t hit on someone right away. That we could dance and chat for a while longer.

  Kind of selfish, I guess. I do want him to have a good time and feel better. But was one hour too much to ask before he goes off and leaves me alone?

  Alone in a bar full of people.

  Alone in my life.

  And yeah, hello depression. I was supposed to have fun, so I will. Enough sitting around, doubting and longing for something—and someone—I can’t have.

  So I gulp down some more beer for courage, leave my half-empty glass and set out to cross the bar, check out the boys.

  There are many, standing in groups, talking, and I catch the eye of one. He’s tall and blond, much like Corey, but with a trim beard and nicely defined muscles that bulge under his gray T-shirt when he reaches up and rakes a hand through his hair.

  He’s handsome. Pretty blue eyes, nice features, nice body.

  Not like Riot’s, though.

  And why am I thinking of Riot again? Why can’t I imagine touching another guy?

  “Looking for someone?” he asks, suddenly close, and I backpedal.

  “Not really.”

  “Good.” He smiles, all white teeth. No dimples, though—and why does it matter? He puts his hand on my arm, and now he’s way too close. “I’m Gale.”

  “Hi. Could you just...?” I try to shrug off his hand, my heart pounding, and oh shit this isn’t good because fear is clogging my throat, taking my breath.

  Shitshitshit.

  “What the fuck are you doing, Gale?” a familiar male voice snarls, and Gale’s hand is gone from my arm, and so is he—another guy taking his place. Dark brows, dark hair, pale gray eyes.

  “Pax, are you okay?” Riot. Riot is standing in front of me, and how’s that possible? “Hey.”

  He’s not touching me, and I want him to touch me. Steady me.

  “What are you doing here?” I breathe.

  “Come on, let’s go talk. I want another drink.” He reaches for me, stops, his hand curling into a fist. “Pax.”

  I lick my lips and nod. “Yeah, let’s go.”

  ***

  We return to the bar. Corey is nowhere to be seen, and this time I’m grateful as I miraculously find a stool to sit on. I climb on it and watch Riot order his poison.

  Whisky, apparently. Somehow that doesn’t surprise me. He looks...rough tonight. Rougher than usual. He doesn’t seem to have shaved in days, and his hair is longer, hanging in his eyes.

  His glass is slid across the bar. He takes it and turns to me. Silent. Measuring me with his eyes.

  Probably wondering if I’m about to go into full panic mode and start screaming at him. Wouldn’t be the first time.

  But I’m calm now. He’s here, and I know nothing bad can happen to me.

  Crazy. This is crazy.

  He’s only dressed in a tight-fitting black tee and faded jeans, and his orange flame tattoos seem to glint like inlaid metal on his arm. The hoops in his ears glimmer in the half-light.

  He has a red line on his cheek. I frown, lean closer. A scratch?

  “You sure you don’t want anything? A beer?” he asks.

  “I’m fine.”

  “So you’ve met Gale.” He sips at his whisky. “Colleague. He likes hanging out here. It’s his favorite bar.”

  Right. Another escort. “Sorry I freaked out.”

  “You got nothing to be sorry for. He’s an idiot.”

  That makes me smile, and after a moment Riot smiles back. Which means I’m staring at his mouth, the full lips, the hint of a dimple.

  Stop it, Pax.

  Easier said than done, especially when he licks his lips and looks down at his glass, his long lashes casting shadows on his cheeks.

  “What did that to you?” I point at the scratch. “Dexter?”

  “You remember the name of my cat?” His smile widens, and whoa, there are the dimples. So hot I have to press my legs together, a throb starting low in my belly.

  “Dexter and Batman, the dog with the bat ears.”

  “That’s right.”

  He doesn’t say anything about the scratch, and I hesitate to ask again. He looks tired, really tired, like he hasn’t slept in days.

  Without thinking, I reach for him, drag my hand down his bare arm. “Are you okay?”

  He stills. Everything about him stills. His gaze drops to my hand. “Pax.”

  “What?”

  “You’re touching me. And I haven’t even asked you to.” I lift my hand and he makes a grab for it. “No. Leave it. I like it.”

  My heart is pounding again, but not out of fear. Excitement. I’m happy that he likes it. That he came to my rescue. That I’m seeing him, sitting close to him.

  Didn’t know a heart can pound in different ways.

  “So.” I have to clear my throat, my voice gone scratchy. “Are you okay? You look like you’ve had a rough week.”

  “I did, sorta.” His skin is warm under my palm and fingers, and his pulse beats where my thumb is pressing, strong and steady. Reassuring. “Yesterday was a shitty day.”

  “Why?”

  He shrugs and makes a face, as if he’s bitten into something sour. “Not all clients play nice.”

  What? “A woman did that?”

  He nods, and crap, my worry fades into jealous anger.

  I pull my hand away. How screwed up is that, that the first time in years that I want a guy it has to be an escort half of Chicago has slept with?

  He doesn’t try to stop me this time. He swallows the rest of his whisky in a long gulp and signals for the bartender to bring him another.

  “And you?” he asks. “How have you been?”

  “Okay. You know.”

  “I don’t know. You seem upset every time you leave me. I was worried about you. I couldn’t sleep.”

  My anger melts away. How could it not when he’s looking at me
like that, saying such things?

  “You barely know me.”

  “I know you were hurt. I wanted to help but I’m not sure I made things better or worse.”

  “Better,” I say, because it’s true. “I just need more time to work through everything.”

  I have his attention. Those gray eyes are fixed on me. “Really? Fuck, that’s great. You have no idea…” He shoves a hand through his hair, pushing it out of his face. “I thought I’d pushed you too far.”

  Crap, I’m drawn back to him, the need to touch him overwhelming. I lift my hand to his cheek, trace the scar. He flinches, clearly not expecting that.

  “You didn’t,” I tell him. “Not your fault, any of this.”

  He leans into my hand and God, this boy. I want to kiss his mouth again, cup his face and press my body to his, fear be damned. Taste him. Somehow I feel that underneath the surface, there’s more he isn’t showing.

  “Will you tell me what happened to you?” he asks quietly.

  His scruff tickles my fingertips. I trail them down to his mouth, trace it. So soft. He groans softly, his breath warm on my skin. His lashes lower.

  “I had a friend called Ethel,” I whisper, and wonder if he can hear me over the din of the bar. It doesn’t matter. “We were friends since we were little. She was the wild one, the crazy one. Always dressing up, chasing after boys. Bad boys.”

  He draws air to speak, and I cover his mouth with my hand.

  “It was my call. She didn’t force me into anything. I wanted to be like her. Free. Independent. Wild. Desired. We had just finished school, and there was this boy she really liked. He invited her over. She accepted. And she asked if I’d go with.”

  “Go where?” His eyes have darkened with concern. I love how they change with his moods—arousal, anger, affection.

  “I know now I shouldn’t have done it, that it was stupid. That I should never have followed Ethel to that bikers’ club out of town. Never should have stayed. Then I wouldn’t have had to watch as they raped and beat her.”

  “Jesus, Pax…”

  Not sure why I’m telling him. Why I trust him.

  “I managed to text for help before I was tied up to a post. Texted my parents. I wasn’t raped. Wasn’t killed. I was lucky.”