by Skye Warren
Fabulous.
“Sure, lover.” I tried to squeeze by him, but he caught me in the doorway. His hands were everywhere, his foul liquor-breath suffocated me, and the doorjamb cut into my back. “No need to rush, handsome. We’ve got all night.”
He grunted and stuck his tongue into my cleavage. His sweat-sheened head filled my vision, and I swallowed bile.
Shit, I wasn’t ready to go back. I never would be.
I had to. It was a miracle Henri had let me off so easily. The least I could do was bear my punishment gracefully.
But my new boyfriend’s face felt slimy. I felt slimy.
I’d only been out of the game for a few months. Maybe more, if I didn’t count Philip, which was debatable. Still, there was no reason to freak out over a simple groping. I’d made it through much worse.
Just let him. Let him.
Let him touch and grab and pinch. Let him slobber. Let him treat me like I was a piece of meat, no thoughts, no feelings. Let him treat me like this was all I was good for. Do it for long enough, and I might start to believe it. Lord knew I already did.
Think of something else.
Not him, the man on my speed dial I never called, not while I did this. I didn’t understand why it hurt him to see what I was when he met a dozen other hookers in his daily work, each worse off than me, but it did. I couldn’t think of my best friend Allie or her daughter either, because to imagine them in this position was a weight too heavy to carry.
His fingers were inside me, pumping away. Thank goodness I’d lubed up, or this would really hurt.
It still hurt. God.
Philip, now he understood me. He wouldn’t mourn for me or feel guilty. We did what we had to and didn’t waste time on remorse. But I’d told him I was done with the life. I’d promised I’d let him know if I needed help. I needed help, needed…
“Stop,” I gasped.
He froze and then gently rocked his fingers back and forth, like a child testing his boundaries.
I lowered my voice. “Wait, lover. I just need to freshen up.”
He raised his head and blinked, confused. “You look pretty to me.”
My stomach twisted at the compliment. He looked so earnest, his eyes slack with lust and his mouth covered in his own spit. This wasn’t a guy who got off on hurting or humiliating. He just didn’t know how to deal with people, wouldn’t know how to please a woman if he tried. Hell, maybe he was trying.
“Thank you.” I choked on the words. “I want to look good for you. Make it good for you. Give me five minutes. Please.” Because if he didn’t, I would freak. If he didn’t get his thick fingers out of me and off my skin this very second, I was liable to do something really stupid. Like leave and to hell with Henri and his hired fists.
The guy backed up, though. His face contorted into an uncertain composition of wounded lover and dissatisfied customer, but he released me, stepped back. I attempted a smile, ignored the pounding in my ears. I wanted to tell him that I would be right back, that everything would be fabulous, but how could I when I didn’t believe it myself?
I’d forgotten how to lie. In this business, I was as good as dead.
I pushed off the wall and stumbled my way down the hall. I passed the sitting area, catching flashes of rumpled suits and one lace-clad female body straddling a guy probably twice her age. What was her name? Jenny, Janey, what the fuck ever because it was all a lie. All fake.
The bathroom was empty—thank God for small favors. The sound of the door slamming cracked loud in my head, even though surely it wouldn’t be heard above the music. I locked it anyway, turning the little knob. So flimsy, an illusion of safety.
I rested my palms on the counter and stared at myself in the mirror. Blonde hair that I’d straightened this afternoon, sleek and shiny. Makeup—perfect, even though lover boy had slobbered down the side of it. Waterproof stuff, cum-proof stuff—never let them see you sweat.
Even my eyes were steady. Clear. Empty.
I searched my appearance for something, any sign of weakness—none. This was what strength looked like, then. Oh, I had confidence aplenty. I strolled and drawled and acted my fucking heart out, but that was the secret. For me, it had never been an act. I hadn’t been hiding what was inside me. There was nothing inside me.
So what was one more empty promise? If he really cared, he would be here right now. He would have protected me from this. What was one more trick? If the life was all I had, I might as well live it.
I touched up my makeup, just because. My hand trembled only a little, but my face came out flawless, like always. And then there was nothing left to pretend, no way left to stall.
The hallway was still empty, and I started to head back to the sitting area. I heard a sound over the pulse of the music: a muffled cry. The hair on the back of my neck stood on end; my heart began to race.
No big deal. Of course there would be those sounds at a party like this, where women were paid to perform, to endure. Probably she had faked it on purpose. But I knew she hadn’t.
Still, don’t get involved. That was the first rule of staying alive. Even that pitiful kid from yesterday had instinctively understood how it worked: look away, pretend you don’t see, don’t start trouble.
But there it was again, that sound. It curled sharp nails into my gut, signaling danger. Get away.
I had stayed alive for years by keeping to myself. Those latent self-protective instincts were still there, still honed, and yet I couldn’t walk away, couldn’t leave her there without knowing.
I crept down the empty hallway and paused at one closed door. At first there was nothing. I almost turned away, left, but then I heard a moan. A female moan of fake pleasure, and that was fine, just fine. Time to go.
A thud sounded from the end of the hall and then echoed in my chest. Inexorably I walked to the last door, knowing through instinct or experience exactly what was happening here. It didn’t matter the men or the woman; it was always the same. Too much, too fast, too hard. I didn’t know, wasn’t expecting. Too late, bitch.
A tear slid down my cheek. It was more than just my safety at stake here. Get away.
I twisted the knob and pushed the door open a crack, exposing just a sliver of the scene. The face of a girl, her face contorted in fury. The grin of a man. Hands holding down arms. The low sound of laughter. A little slice of hell, and what was I supposed to do about it?
I could do nothing.
This wasn’t a young girl on an empty street corner who could be cured with a fast-food burger and a lifetime of therapy. This was one of Henri’s girls, off-limits for me and mother-fucking-hen Marguerite Faust. No one could help her, just like no one could help me.
I saw her body jerk with purpose. Heard the crack as her kick landed on someone’s skin. The laughter grew louder, more combative.
Shit. She was going to get herself killed that way. Beaten, at the least. Didn’t she know that? Didn’t she care?
But Henri didn’t do hand-holding. Had he recruited this girl fresh out of high school? Given her money she desperately needed to get away, to help her friend, only to indebt herself to him forever? Dumped her at this party without any training or knowledge or a goddamned thing?
This wasn’t about me. I told myself that, but it didn’t help.
I pushed the door open and stepped inside. Four guys, not counting the ones out in the sitting area or my erstwhile boyfriend.
I smiled and set my hips to sway. “Hello, gentlemen. I see you’ve started the party without me.”
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Other Books by Skye Warren
Standalone Dark Romance
Wanderlust
On the Way Home
His for Christmas
Hear Me
Take the Heat
Stripped series
Tough Love (prequel)
Love the Way You Lie
Better When It Hur
ts
Pretty When You Cry
Criminals and Captives series
Prisoner
Chicago Underground series
Rough
Hard
Fierce
Wild
Dirty
Secret
Sweet
Dark Nights series
Keep Me Safe
Trust in Me
Don’t Let Go
Dark Nights Boxed Set
The Beauty series
Beauty Touched the Beast
Beneath the Beauty
Broken Beauty
Beauty Becomes You
The Beauty Series Compilation
Loving the Beauty: A Beauty Epilogue
About the Author
Skye Warren is the New York Times and USA Today Bestselling author of dark romance. Her books are raw, sexual and perversely romantic.
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Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. Except for use in a review, the reproduction or use of this work in any part is forbidden without the express written permission of the author.
Rough © 2015 by Skye Warren
Previously in Giving It Up © 2012 Amber Lin
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
