by Jo Raven
Feral. Sexy.
My cock is so hard it aches. I wrap my hand around it before I realize, groaning in relief as I squeeze the hard length. I won’t get any fucking sleep tonight unless I take care of this.
Jason’s image winks at me in my mind. He turns to face me, those dark eyes lined with black, lashes long and mouth soft. His mouth always looks soft, even when his eyes are angry.
Angry at me.
His anger sparks something in me, gets me harder. In my mind, he grabs the hem of his ridiculously short top, then smirks as he slowly drags it over his muscular chest and over his head.
Oh hell…
His dark hair is mussed, and he drags his tongue over his lower lip, tipping his head back. Hooking his thumbs in his pockets, he drags his pants lower over his hips.
Sinner, a familiar voice whispers in my ear. Sinner…
Hissing, I stroke harder, tugging painfully on my hard-on. Chasing the voice away. Fuck you, memory. I close my eyes, trying to focus on my image of Jason, but it’s slipping away, my aunt’s voice throwing me back to the past.
Back when I didn’t think I deserved any happiness, when I thought I was going to hell for wanting boys, caught between a constant blinding rage and the mortifying feeling I was the biggest freak in the carnival.
I still and blink at the far wall, my hard-on sagging.
Well, fuck.
I should stop thinking about Jason anyway. And it’s not the first time I tell myself that. I think of him often. Way too fucking often, and I need to get myself under control. I have too much resting on my shoulders right now, too much on my mind to obsess over that damn hooker.
That damn annoying, sexy hooker, because I should be more worried about work. Setting money aside. College, maybe, like Ocean keeps nagging me about. Stop working two jobs, find time for classes. Deal with my parents—the very same who strung my brother along with lies, sucking in his hard-earned money like parasites, until they up and left.
And now they’re back.
Rage warms me up from the inside, a burning blade that takes my attention off my desire for Jason. My parents deserve all my focus. I need to make sure they’re out of our lives for good.
Revenge, you might think? Getting back at them for the pain they inflicted on their children over the years? Nah, not worth the trouble.
But they are back and want more, and I won’t let them sink their claws into Ocean again. He’s too trusting. Too good.
Unlike me. I never trusted them, never expected them to pretend they cared. And I’ll take care of this, without involving my brother. My turn to look after him, have his back.
Which is another reason I wanna go to school, or at least manage to get a better-paying job to take the load of responsibility off his shoulders. He has a kid now. He should stop worrying about me.
And shouldn’t have to worry about our freaking parents at all.
I’ll make damn sure of that.
Chapter Two
Jason
I wake up cold, dark nightmare cobwebs clinging to my sweat-drenched skin.
It’s always like that, always damn cold, especially when I wake up in an unknown bed, an unfamiliar room, in the half-dark. My skin crawls. My head is pounding, and my mouth tastes like fear.
The other side of the bed is empty. Just me, then. The relief is undeniable, although seeing who brought me here would settle the mystery of where I am faster, and calm the frantic beat of my heart.
Pressing a hand to my naked chest, trying to contain the goddamn hammering, I push the covers off and take stock of my surroundings, trying desperately to remember what happened last night and where I washed up this time.
Just not the Club. God, please tell me it’s not the Club.
A bruise in my side makes me hiss as I swing my bare legs off the bed and stand unsteadily, the pounding in my head deafening. I can feel more bruises on my hips, on my legs.
The walls are a nondescript gray with humidity stains, the carpet on the floor thin and worn, rolling up at the corners. The bed, when I turn around to look at it, is old, the mattress sagging.
Shit, it could well be a room in the Club I’ve never seen before.
This means Simon could be around, and the cold creeps deeper, seeping into my bones, making them ache.
It’s not Simon I followed here last night, though, I’m pretty damn sure of that, and as I lean against the wall, wrapping my arms around myself and shutting my eyes for a few precious seconds, I remember the guy. Short, with a beer gut, almost bald, in a dark suit and smelling of stale sweat. He picked me up in a bar downtown and practically dragged me to his car, and then…
I frown, and I rub at the ache between my brows with my thumb. Yeah, then it all went to shit. Then again what’s new, huh? He slapped me around, got off on the fear I did my best to hide, forced me down, and fuck…
Goddamn fucker.
Bile rises in my throat, and I swallow it back down. I brace a hand on the wall, taking deep breaths. Being ass-naked in this drafty room ain’t helping with the shivers. I should get dressed.
Better not to remember, not to think. At least I’ve recalled enough to know this ain’t Simon’s Club, thank God for small fucking mercies.
Time to blow this pop stand. I’m surprised the guy didn’t kick me out the moment he was done. Wouldn’t be the first time. Where are my clothes? I squint in the gloom as I push off the wall, and I stumble.
Oh man, I feel groggy. Did I hit my head at some point last night? Or… he poured me a drink, didn’t he? Fuck knows what was in it. Christ.
Anger sparks in my chest, chasing away the chill of fear and self-pity. I’m grabbing my stuff and getting outta here now. I spot my fake leather pants under the bed, and my black top bunched up in a corner of the room.
Scowling, I scoop it up and drag it over my chest, ignoring the dizziness and flaring aches. Irrationally, I’m spitting mad that this john thought he could throw my clothes around like that—and the fury covers up the fear of not remembering most of it.
I live on anger. It’s what keeps me going every day.
Shit, I can’t find my jacket. I have a light jacket I carry with me to throw on after I’m done with a john, but it’s nowhere to be found. And… fuck, my money. Normally I demand payment up front, but johns don’t always comply. Not like I can force them, or afford to piss them off and drive them away.
I check again the pockets of my pants in the slim hope I put it there. Not that I remember him handing me any cash, but we’ve established that my memories of last night are scattered and have gaping holes.
Ah fuck. Nothing. I need to find the guy, demand my payment, so I shove my feet into my boots and step out of the room, searching. I don’t do this for fun, dammit. There is no fucking fun in it.
Another memory from last night slithers through me—a hand grabbing my face, a sweaty body covering me, shoving me into the mattress, smothering me—and I choke on bile.
I slam a hand into the wall, waiting for the nausea to pass. I’m okay. I’m fine. Probably just need to put some food in me. That’s all. I should get going.
There’s a staircase, so I start down the steps. The place looks like a cheap hotel, and as this sinks in, I realize it’s no coincidence the guy skipped before I woke up.
Probably didn’t pay for the room, either.
I stop on the dim stairwell, looking down at the dingy reception desk, and curse my luck. This sort of place has hourly rates, I’ll bet, and there’s no way in hell I can pay for the night I just spent here.
But this ain’t my first rodeo, ladies and gentlemen.
Taking a bracing breath, willing the acid in my stomach to stay down, I slink down the steps until I can get a better look of the reception desk.
A guy is sitting there, looking bored or half-asleep. It’s hard to make out his face from this angle, but his head is lolling sideways. A radio is playing faintly in the background. Sounds like a football match, or a talk show. Sounds all lik
e the same shit to me, especially with the blood still rushing in my ears.
No time like now. Asleep or not, I keep my eyes on the guy as I climb down the rest of the stairs, doing my damnedest to keep my steps quiet. Holding my breath, I cross the lobby, or whatever this filthy, dark space before the door is, and reach for the door.
“You! Hold up. You have to pay!”
Holy fucking shit. Dignity be damned, I grab the handle, throw the door wide open and scramble outside, into the rain.
I run.
I run down narrow streets and across an avenue I can’t recognize with adrenaline pounding through my veins and making my breath catch. I keep thinking I hear heavy steps behind me, and resist the urge to glance back.
Keep running, boy. Keep running. Think we won’t catch you? Think you can get away?
Fuck. Now where did this memory come from? Figures it wouldn’t be a good one.
Where do I go? Where can I hole up, out of the rain? It’s early morning, the shops still closed, the drizzle ice-cold, drenching my clothes and running into my boots.
I’m stumbling, exhaustion catching up with me, compounding the lingering effects of whatever it was I drank last night, not enough sleep, and then sex, and pain, and fuck that shit.
Better not to remember, dammit.
Running is leeching away the last drops of energy and warmth in my system, and I know from experience this ain’t a good thing. With a chest cough that won’t quit and darkness seeping into my vision, I urgently need to get somewhere dry and rest. My lungs hurt, laboring and not getting me enough air.
Getting more light-headed by the minute, the stitch in my side turning into a vicious blade, I scan the street ahead. A dark shop entrance catches my eye—thank you bunches, Giovanni’s Deli, Wine and Spirits—and I step under the awning to catch my breath, only to double over coughing and retching.
This damned cough. I thought I’d gotten rid of it for a while, but nope.
When I’m done, I step as far inside as possible, then slide down with my back to the door of the shop until my ass hits the concrete. A shiver goes through me, and I rub my hands up and down my arms.
What I wouldn’t give for my jacket right now… But when you’re out at night, desperate for a customer to pay your dinner, comfort is the last thing on your mind. Guys want to see flesh, want to check out your body. The merchandise. The goods.
So I’m kinda used to the cold. Except I didn’t expect the temperature to drop so damn much from one day to the next.
Cursing, I drop my head forward, rainwater dripping down my face, splattering the floor between my legs. This fucking life. My throat burns with acid, my hands are numb with cold, my bruises hurt with every breath I take.
Fuck this. These bruises, the vomit, the sourness of fear. God, I’m tired. Hungry, too, but I’m used to that. My eyes sting, and that pisses me the fuck off all over again. What is it all worth? What am I worth?
Why try anymore? Why care?
I lean back against the glass door, staring blindly at the street and the few people hurrying along with their umbrellas. If only my teeth would stop chattering, I might catch a wink here. I don’t have a room, and after last night’s fiasco, it looks like I’ll be sleeping on the street tonight again.
Sucks ass.
Despite the cold, I’m drifting off when a shadow falls over me, blocking the gray light and the spatter of rain. A whiff of a woodsy aftershave and leather follows.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” a vaguely familiar male voice says. “Jason?”
No fucking way. I lift my head, the voice and the broad-shouldered frame clicking into place. “Raine Storm.”
He glances up at the sky, then arches a dark brow. “More like a drizzle.”
Goes to show how tired I am when it takes me a moment to get his lame joke.
“You’re so funny,” I grouse, and my voice sounds like a cheese grater, broken and rough. I start lifting my hand to give him the finger.
But his blue eyes widen. “Christ, what the hell happened to you?”
What didn’t happen to me? All these years, all my life, I just… Nothing new, I wanna say, nothing happened to me, but there’s a lump in my throat that won’t let me speak.
Not that Raine Storm would care anyway.
Nobody ever has.
Chapter Three
Raine
Last person I expected to see on my way to work was Jason. The very same guy who’s been haunting my mind, the one I’ve been trying to erase from my thoughts, with no luck.
And he looks… wet. Very wet, and cold, and miserable, huddled against the door of a deli, dressed only in pants and one of those damned barely-there tops he insists on wearing. Did he miss the change of season? We’re in September, dammit.
He’s staring at me, and his dark eyes seem a bit unfocused. He opens his mouth as if to say something, but nothing comes out.
I frown. Is he on drugs? I may not have spoken to him in a while, but I’ve heard him talk to Ocean on occasion. Guy’s quick with his tongue—and I don’t mean in that way.
Fuck, now I can’t stop thinking about his tongue and what it can do.
Jesus.
“Jason.” I crouch down in front of him and realize he’s shivering. “What’s the matter, forgot your jacket?”
He swallows hard, and my gaze follows the movement in his throat. “Something like that,” he drawls finally. “Whatcha doing down here in the gutter with me, pretty boy?”
Okay, this is more like the Jason I remember. “I pass by here every morning on my way to work.”
“Work?” He makes it sound like an unknown concept, and fuck, I really should stop staring at his bright eyes, the way his teeth are sinking into his lower lip, the muscles flexing in his inked arms as he loops them around his bent knees. His knuckles are red and scuffed, and there’s a fine tremor to his long fingers.
“Collateral.”
“Damage?” he mumbles.
“Ah-huh. The tattoo shop? Damage Control’s sister shop?”
He sighs, closes his eyes. “Fuck, right. I didn’t know it was around here.”
“Right around the corner. Never seen you around here, though.”
“Not my usual haunt,” he admits softly, a rough edge to his voice that stirs something in me. I don’t know what it is, but I don’t like it. “You tattoo people, like your brother?”
“Nah. I just hold the fort in the mornings.” At his clouded look, I shrug and straighten, my knees creaking. “I man the front desk. Megan is there in the afternoons. Well, I need to get going, or I’ll be late.”
And hell must have frozen over if I’m making polite conversation with Jason.
“Yeah, off you go, baby,” he says softly. Then he sneers. “Wouldn’t want you getting scolded, would we now? Run along to your cozy, boring little job.”
I knew it was too good to last. I snort and shake my head, shoving my hands into the pockets of my rain jacket. “Forget I even asked.”
“Asked what?”
Christ. “Just don’t stay out here, or you’ll freeze to death.”
“I can take care of myself. Always have.” Stubborn. Glaring at me.
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
As I turn to go, I realize I’m straining my ears to hear his comeback. Ought to be good, and I want to hear it. I want the snap of his anger, the spark of it.
But it doesn’t come, and come to think of it, why is he sitting there in wet clothes, doing nothing? Isn’t it too early in the morning for him to be working the streets?
A muffled sound from behind me stops me in my tracks. Not sure what it is, but it makes me turn around. Cars are passing by, splashing the sidewalk with last night’s rain, their lights on. The rain is picking up.
Through the curtain of falling drops, I can barely make out his slender form huddled in the darkness of the shop entrance, but somehow, I know deep in my bones that something’s wrong.
So I start back toward him
, resisting the urge to run.
The sound I heard before comes again. He’s coughing, and when I duck under the awning, I find him hunched over and panting, wet hair hiding his eyes.
“Jase.” I reach for him, and he jerks back, eyes wide. “Hey. You okay, man?”
From close up, his face is an unhealthy gray, the light scruff on his cheeks making his cheekbones jut out so sharply they look like they could break the skin.
Shit.
“Leave me alone,” he rasps, and maybe I should, because despite looking like hell warmed over, he’s glaring at me, his hot gaze dripping with anger and contempt. “Just go.”
“What can I do?” I demand to know, crouching down. “Anyone I can call to come pick you up?”
He makes a sniffing sound and bares his teeth in a sharp grin. “My limo. Call my chauffeur over, why don’t you, Raine? Be a good boy and go fetch.”
Jesus fucking Christ. “Any friends?” I snap out. “Or did you drive them all away with your goddamn attitude?”
