“He wouldn’t hurt me,” I say immediately.
“People do crazy things while under the influence,” Anders says, sounding faintly apologetic. “I don’t think he’ll want to hurt you, but he might not be able to stop himself.”
He leaves the room, and I’m left with only the harsh breathing of Ky and the intense presence of Sutton behind me. I don’t think he’ll want to hurt you, but he might not be able to stop himself. I think it’s more about Sutton, that statement.
* * *
Ashleigh
I keep vigil over Ky while he sleeps, feeling sick that I let him worry for me. We’re supposed to stick together. He saved me. Why couldn’t I protect him?
“It’s not your fault, you know,” comes a voice from behind me. A woman walks in wearing jeans and a Henley, her exuberant blonde curls a contradiction to her casual clothes.
“Penny,” she says by way of introduction. “My mom named me Penelope from the Odyssey which I’ve always thought was a weighty namesake for a girl from the trailer park.”
“Ashleigh,” I say.
“Ash-leigh. That feels like a weighty name, too. A mom who had hopes for her child.”
You can be anything. She never thought I’d be a prostitute. “She’d be so disappointed.”
“Maybe.” Penny comes to sit down on the other side of Ky. “Or maybe she’d be proud of you for surviving. It’s a lot easier to give up when things get that hard.”
“Or maybe she’d rather I died than become this.”
“No. Never. No mother would want her child to die. Because that’s the end. This way, there’s more. It doesn’t always feel like it, but there’s more.”
Ky seems so fragile on the bed. “More for him.”
“So much more. A lifetime of hope and yearning and loving.”
I glance at her. “I know who you are. Penny Scott. You own this place.”
“With my husband, yes. The Den is our safe space. You’ll find your own.”
Something about the implication in her voice makes me look at her sharply. “It won’t be with Sutton. We aren’t… We aren’t like that.”
“Okay.”
“I’m serious. He pays me for…” Tears spill over my cheeks. “He pays me for sex.”
She doesn’t look shocked. “He’s downstairs right now. Been there for a few hours now. How much is he paying you for this time?”
I turn away. He’s only downstairs out of guilt right now. He only found me tonight out of guilt. You’re seventeen. How old did you think I am? Eighteen. At least. “You don’t understand.”
Her footfalls cross the carpet. She places a hand on the crown of my head, soft and absolving. “No, I don’t understand. I don’t think many women do, but they’ll judge you anyway, won’t they? They’ll think they know better, because it’s easier than acknowledging the truth—that we’re all vulnerable, that we’re all one second away from a life of desperation. It isn’t something you brought on yourself. It’s something you’re surviving, and you’re doing it with more grace and more strength than those people could dream about.”
Tears are falling freely now. “I don’t know what to do about Ky. He’s so young and so reckless. Sometimes I think he wants to die.”
“If that’s what he wants, you can’t stop him.”
“Can’t I?” I turn pleading eyes to her, this woman who’s a stranger, this person who’s shown me more compassion than I could have imagined.
“No,” she offers gently, “But you can sit with him. That’s what you’re doing, and it’s a beautiful thing. Would you like to take a break? You can have something to eat? I’ll wait with him.”
“No, thank you,” I say on a damp sigh.
Her expression is soft. “I’ll have a tray sent up, then.”
She’s been gone a few minutes when Ky stirs on the bed. I’m at his side, offering a drink of water to his parched lips before he can speak. “What did I do?” he asks, his voice hoarse.
“You didn’t do anything,” I say, unable to stem the flow of tears. It’s like a faucet that’s been turned on—and the handle broke off. There’s no way to make them stop now. “It was me. I was gone, and you were worried about me.”
Even in this state the concern comes into his dark eyes. “Where were you?”
“There’s this guy.”
“Only sad stories start like that.”
My heart squeezes. “I know.”
“Don’t get attached, Ash. You know that.”
“I messed up,” I whisper.
His eyelids droop heavy, and I know he’s about to sleep again. I hold his hand so he’ll know he’s not alone. Even if he can’t hear me, he’ll know that much. “Not your fault,” he mumbles, and I don’t know whether he’s talking about his bad trip or getting attached to Sutton. Maybe both.
* * *
Sutton
I’m nursing the same glass of bourbon. It doesn’t taste like anything. Hugo’s here with me. If I had to guess, Damon Scott called him. He loves to pull our strings like we’re puppets. He has a glass of water, because as soon as he’s done, he has to drive home to his wife and baby.
“Get the hell out of here,” I say, clenching my hands around the glass.
“There’s no need to get hostile, mon ami. I’m not going anywhere.”
Sometimes Hugo really is a bastard. “I don’t need a babysitter.”
“Oui. Bon. I’m not going to nurse you.”
I swear he gets more French the more he wants to annoy me. “I’m not having some kind of weird rebound relationship because Harper and Christopher got married. I just got to know her, and I care about her as a friend, so I’m making sure she’s okay.”
There. That all sounded very reasonable.
Too bad it’s a bunch of shit.
Hugo gives a French sigh and takes a sip of water.
The Den is pretty empty. It’s a Wednesday night, but even so this is sparse. It’s more than a bar. It’s the playground of the rich and licentious. It’s also a modern-day salon for free thinkers. “Where the hell is everyone?”
“I think they took one look at your face and ran away scared.”
I run a hand over my face and hair. “I’m not that bad.”
“Well, I think Damon Scott may send you a bill for lost service.”
Before I can respond, the door opens. Blue comes inside, bringing with him a wave of cold, damp air. It must have started raining. Now I’m very sure that someone called them. Hugo and Blue were two of my closest friends.
Along with Christopher.
The four of us met every week, no matter how busy we got with work. We’re sounding boards and support. We’re steady rocks in an upside-down world. We even had a name, being the ambitious bastards that we are. Thieves Club. Because every dollar earned is a dollar taken from someone else. Whether we earned that money through investments or buildings, or in Hugo’s case, sleeping with wealthy women.
Blue sits down with that damned military bearing. “What did I miss?”