PROLOGUE
PAIGE
Promises.
Every promise that was ever made to me has been broken. That’s why I’ve never made one myself. I never want to break one. All that’s about to change. I’m about to make the most important promise of my life.
It’s not to my husband on my wedding day. It’s not to a boss or a best friend. No, this one is more important.
It’s to the little newborn boy in my arms. And unlike wedding vows that can be undone by a judge, this one I won’t ever let be broken. This is my promise to keep.
“I’ll do whatever I have to. Your life will be better than mine.”
CHAPTER ONE
FIVE MONTHS LATER
PAIGE
His arm tightens around my waist. God, how much cologne does he have on? Not that it matters, it’s not enough to mask the smell of whiskey and old man that seems to radiate off him. That’s really not fair. He’s not that old, just old compared to me. I’m only twenty, and he’s got to be at least sixty.
I flash him a smile. He’s paying for my company this evening, so it really doesn’t matter how old he is or what he smells like as long as the evening ends with a wad of cash in my hands. Rumor is, he likes his girls young, brunette, and blue-eyed. Rumor also is that if he really likes a girl, he’ll set her up with a place, a car, a spending account. Tonight is an interview of sorts.
His hand slides to my ass, not caring who sees. In fact, I’m sure that’s the point. He wants everyone at the party to see. Bile rises to the back of my throat, but I swallow it back down with a smile. It’s all a lie—the smile, the dress.
Lies can be big or small, but they don’t always have to come in words. Only amateurs lie with words. Master liars like me can lie with a smile, or a laugh, a forced tear. My smile says I’m happy. My eyes say I love you, but that’s not the truth. I smile to hide the pain. My eyes sparkle because they are on the brink of tears. I don’t need words to lie. I lie to survive. I lie to keep a promise.
“Fetch me a drink, sweetheart,” he says.
Another fake smile earns me a pat on my ass as I walk away. Making my way through the crowd, I let my body relax a little, giving myself the hundredth pep talk of the night. I know it could be much worse. Think seedy hotels and kinky fetishes.
The line at the bar is long, which is a blessing. I need the extra time to convince myself to stay in this game. I run my hands down the red chiffon fabric of my dress. It’s easily the nicest thing I’ve ever had against my skin. A present from him for me to wear tonight. Some would think it’s a sign of his generosity, but I know better. This man wants to control me. From the way I wore my brown hair to the makeup artist he sent to make sure my blue eyes didn’t overshadow the red lipstick he wanted me to wear to match the dress, he’s the master. I’m the plaything.
Everyone here is dressed to the nines—sequin dresses, high heels, jewels—and I fit right in. No one would know I’m “working” tonight. I wonder if there are any other girls like me here? It’s a bit ironic that this party is a charity event to support the arts in the greater Nashville area when I’m probably the one who needs charity the most. There’s an auction for a bunch of frivolous junk that no one needs.
It’s not that I don’t think the arts are important. Not long ago, I was a college student. I love books, history, museums, but I love having food on my plate, clean clothes, and a roof over my head more. I thought I’d escaped this life. College was my ticket out of poverty, public housing, and watching my mom snort, smoke, or shoot up anything she could get her hands on. I never wanted to be like her. I wanted out. I worked hard in school despite often not having the supplies I needed. I was going to use my brain, not my body, to make a living. What do they say about the best-laid plans?
Everyone else seems to be having a wonderful time, drinking and dancing, smiling and laughing, but I’d rather be anywhere else. I’m not here for fun. Nothing about this is fun. A woman doesn’t decide to sell her body, her time, her soul for fun. She doesn’t come to it until she’s out of options and no other choices remain. It’s not something you do lightly. It’s not something I thought I’d ever do, but I don’t do it for me. I do it for the only member of the male species I’ll ever love—that little baby boy.
All the women here look so in love with their dates, their husbands. Girls like me don’t get the luxury of love. Yes, love is a luxury. It’s not a right. It’s a privilege not all of us are afforded.
“Having a good time?” a deep, rough voice asks from beside me.
I look up at the man who’s suddenly appeared by my side. In my heels, I’m easily six feet, and he towers over me. He’s one of those big guys—the type you just know has to have his suits custom made. I’m pretty good at sizing people up. One look at this guy tells me he’s used to getting what he wants. I give him a polite smile. I can’t afford to give him more than that.
“My father has good taste. I’ll give him that,” the stranger says. My head whips up. Family is not part of the deal. He extends his hand. “Slade Turner.” I reach to shake his hand when he slips his hand over mine, pulling me close. Unlike his father, he doesn’t reek of whiskey and old age. “I’ve seen your type before. I know you’re just after his money.”
Straightening my spine, hoping my stilettos give me a boost, I say, “Yes, I am.” This tall, broad beast of a man jerks back just enough for me to notice. But I don’t throw him off his mission for long. He leans closer, his mere presence forcing me to look at him. “You want all of his money for yourself?” I ask with sass.
“I don’t need his money.”
“Then mind your own business.”
The bastard actually smiles at me. “I’ll let my father know you needed to leave early.”
“I’m not leaving.”
He motions with his hand to another man I hadn’t noticed standing just a few feet away. Roughly the size of a house, he’s bald, and his eyes are so dark they look like a moonless night. “Make sure she gets home.”
“Your father invited me. I’m not leaving,” I snap. No way am I losing this gig.
“He hasn’t paid you yet?” Slade asks, glaring at me.
My heart starts to thump. It’s one thing for him to think of me as a gold digger, but it’s another for him to suspect me a whore. In truth, it’s just semantics. Gold digger, prostitute, escort, whore—they all mean the same thing. All words meant to degrade women and maintain power over us.
It’s not the first time anyone’s ever looked at me like I’m trash and worthless, but that doesn’t make it any easier.
He turns to his friend. “And make sure to pay her.”
*
The sound of poverty bleeds through the window of my one-bedroom apartment. You know the sound—the sirens, the gunshots in the distance, the cries and screams of women and children. I’ve never spent the night in a rich neighborhood, but I imagine it’s serene with a humming of birds or insects in the background. Perhaps even the traffic of taxis in big cities like New York.
Dumping the contents of my wallet on the table, I hear the clang of the two pennies I have to my name, literally. Apparently, I can’t even sell my body correctly. I really needed that trick tonight. I would’ve hated every second of it, but I would’ve done it. We need it. Bad. I’d do anything for that sweet little boy asleep in the next room. Anything.