“Sutton’s feeling very sad over la courtisane.”
My eyebrows go up. “You know what she does.”
“But of course. I recognize her from the street corner. Very pretty girl.”
“Do you know how old she is?”
Hugo gives it a quick thought, as if doing a calculation. “I would say, seventeen.”
“Damn.”
“My knowledge of women is unrivaled.”
“Then can you talk to her. She feels ashamed of what she’s done to survive.”
“Is she ashamed? Or are you?”
“Hell,” I say on a growl. “I’m not ashamed of her. I’m goddamn pissed at everyone who made this her only choice. Her mother and father and whoever else made this happen.”
“I don’t think she wants to hear from an old colleague, but I’m always here if she needs me. There are some stains that never go away.”
That makes me raise my eyebrows. Even Blue looks surprised. He’s the one who speaks first. “You always seem so damn self-assured. I didn’t think you minded.”
“I don’t mind the good nights, of which there were many. The bad nights tend to linger.”
“I think she’s had bad nights.”
“You will help her through them more than I. Be patient. Be kind. Be loving.”
The word is like a slap. “I don’t love her.”
Blue clears his throat, and I follow his blue gaze. Ashleigh stands there looking like a betrayed goddess, hurt and proud and unbearably dignified. I don’t love her. The words echo in the air around us. There’s nothing I can say to fix them, nothing that wouldn’t sound false.
The door opens again, and I half expect to see Christopher. Which would be ridiculous as he’s on his honeymoon. But he would complete the four of us. He would know what to do about Ashleigh. I need to stop fucking wanting him.
Instead it’s a man I don’t recognize, someone tall and lean, wearing a suit. He looks like any one of the men I’d pass in the high-rises around downtown.
Ashleigh’s brown eyes widen. “You.”
He gives her an empty, implacable stare. “And you are?”
“I’m Ky’s friend. And you aren’t going anywhere near him.”
“Ah.” The man doesn’t look worried about her pronouncement. “So he is here.”
“You don’t really care about him. You only want him for sex. You have more money than you know what to do with, but you don’t love him. You can’t love him.” Her lower lip trembles. “You refuse to love him.”
The man looks back at her gravely. “I never claimed to love him, but I can take care of him. A good deal better than you, I’m willing to bet.”
“I don’t care,” Ashleigh says. “You’re Mr. Monopoly, made of paper and plastic. You’re not real. You don’t get to visit him once a month and then come here and pretend to care.”
“Ash.” The word comes soft and weak from the top of the stairs. It’s the boy. Ky. He looked young when I found him barely breathing. He looks even younger now, clinging to the post. In a few seconds the man—Mr. Monopoly—has climbed the steps and captured Ky in his arms. “Shhhh,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you.”
“You’re not taking him,” Ashleigh warns, looking ready to fight him off physically.
“Ashleigh,” Ky says, reaching for her with a weak arm. Ashleigh clasps his hand in hers. “Let me… go with him. Let me… go.”
She looks sick, like she might throw up. I want to take her in my arms, but I can’t. I can’t forget that she’s seventeen. I can’t forget the sins I’ve already committed. If she wants to fight this asshole, I’ll do it for her. But she takes a step back. “Don’t,” she whispers. “Don’t get attached.”
“You too.” An uneven laugh. “You too, Ash.”
The man gathers Ky in a secure hold and strides out. There are a driver and Bentley waiting outside. Mr. Monopoly isn’t so wrong of a name. It makes me wonder what he’s doing strolling the streets for his lovers. I suppose people could ask the same of me. As if they’re some lower class, some undeserving group of people. They don’t need love, right? Not when I’m paying them.
You have more money than you know what to do with, but you don’t love him. You can’t love him. You refuse to love him.
She wasn’t only talking to him. She was talking about me.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Ashleigh
Sutton takes me home and brings me inside. I’m too exhausted to protest. It’s the kind of exhaustion that hollows me out.
Sutton puts me in the shower and washes my hair. Then he puts me in an armchair clad only in one of his white T-shirts. He brings me a steaming cup of tea, but I can’t drink anything. I’m tired but plagued by an agitation that makes it impossible to rest.
He stands in front of me. “Tell me where you’re from.”
“No.”
“You don’t have family that could help you?”
“I told you. My secrets are my own.”
“Not if you’re in danger on the streets. If nothing else, Ky proved that much. I care about you.”
“The way Mr. Monopoly cares?”
“Yes, damn it. Is that so wrong? Why can we pay money but not give a damn?”
“I don’t owe you this. You didn’t buy my secrets.”
“I bought your time,” he says, as if cataloging a purchase order. “I bought your body. Your kisses. Is that right? Only those things?”
“Yes.” And my love. I gave that to him for free, though he doesn’t know. It would probably horrify him to know that I feel that way. Maybe he’d run away then. Except I can’t bring myself to tell him. It would strip me naked in a way I haven’t been.
“Then let me buy your secrets.”
“What?”
“How much are they? Name your price.”
I stare at him. “My secrets aren’t for sale.”
“Everything is for sale.”
God. Maybe this is the problem with being rich. You feel entitled to everything. I give him a ridiculous amount. “One hundred thousand dollars.”
“Done.” He walks over to a desk and pulls out something—a small leather rectangle that looks like a checkbook. A pen. He scribbles something down. Then he walks over to me and hands me the check. One hundred thousand dollars.
“This is ridiculous,” I say, but I sound more panicked than doubtful. “This isn’t real.”
“It’s real enough. Needs a last name, though. You ready to tell me that?”
With my last name he could probably find out everything else. That’s another one of those rich people things. “I broke my mom’s favorite vase when I was eight. I was so afraid of telling her, and seeing her disappointed, that I buried all the pieces in the backyard. One day it just vanished and she never knew where it went.”
“That’s not a real secret.”
“You didn’t specify the kind of secret you were buying.”
“My daddy used to hit me so hard my feet would come off the ground. I would try not to make a sound. I felt like that was how I’d win, by not making a sound. Now that I’m a grown-up I think, why didn’t I scream? Why didn’t I tell? Why didn’t I tell him he was a mean bastard?”