Tell him a thousand dollars. Anything to make him drive away.
“I’m not for sale,” I say, my voice catching.
“What? Speak up.”
“I’m done for the night,” I say, more clearly.
Anger flashes through his eyes, mixed with disdain, and I’m glad I didn’t get into his car. I’m glad I didn’t let him put his hands on me. It might have cost more than my dignity. “Your loss,” he says, before driving away, leaving a spray of gravel on my bare legs.
Red taillights disappear behind a building, and then I’m alone again.
Hungry and cold and desperate again.
Why couldn’t I have gone with him? Spread your legs. Open your mouth. Survive. That’s what Ky told me to do. It makes so much sense, but I’m stubborn. And stupid, maybe. Filled with this pointless hope that something will save me.
This isn’t a fairy tale.
The door slams open, and someone steps out of the Den. He’s framed by the garish, glittering light—only shadow and movement. Broad shoulders and long legs. I take a step backward without thinking about it. I’ve learned to trust my instincts in the past six months. Something about this man says dangerous.
He takes two steps forward, stopping right on the edge of the curb, his body a hard line against the whistling wind. The streetlamp limns a face with harsh grooves. Blond hair in wild disarray, curling at the ends, turning damp in the night. A trench coat and black shoes that gleam. He reminds me vaguely of a pirate. He could be standing at the bow of his ship, watching the skyline for secrets of a storm.
He turns, sudden and sharp, as if he heard me. I didn’t make a sound. It’s only my heartbeat that could have given me away, rapid as a rabbit.
Blue eyes narrow. “Ashleigh.”
It would be better if he didn’t remember my name. Better if he could have looked at my legs and my breasts the way the man in the car had done. It would be better to believe that every man would treat me like trash. Knowing that some men are good and kind and caring—but not for me, never for me—hurts worse than anything. “I’m not for sale.” The words slip out before I can stop them. He didn’t even ask my price.
He raises one eyebrow. “Then you’d be the only one.”
Jaded. Maybe I’m not the only one determined to think the worst of the world. “Is that how you think of women? They aren’t all out to get your money.”
For a moment I think he’s going to stride away. He’ll disappear into the night. Hours from now I’ll be wondering if he were real. The possibility hangs in the night like dew. It’s what he wants to do. What he should do. Everything about him, from his clothes to his manner, speaks of a man with manners. With a real job and a real house and a real girlfriend. He shouldn’t be talking to me.
Then he turns toward me, decisive. In a moment he’s in front of me. Another second, and I’m backed up against the stone bricks of the Den. “It’s not how I think of women, sweet thing. It’s how I think of everyone. Men included.”
“Do you have a price?” I manage to ask, even though it’s risky to talk back to a man. Especially when his large frame has me tacked to the wall like a freaking butterfly. This close I can see the shadow of hair on his jaw, the mole beside his right eye.
“Yes. Me.” A harsh laugh. “I’ve got a price. It’s not even a high one.”
“What is it?” It’s like a street urchin wandering into Tiffany’s, this question. It doesn’t matter what the answer is. The number will always be too high. Whether he wants a society wife or a mother for his children, it will never be me.
“A kiss.”
The word lodges in my skin, sharp and hot. “A kiss?”
There’s challenge in those blue eyes. And pitiless knowledge. “A kiss is all it takes for me to fall head over heels. I’d believe I was in love with you, build a fucking castle in the sky, because I’m that kind of idiot, aren’t I?”
A whisper. “Two hundred dollars.”
His gaze drops to my lips. “I thought you weren’t for sale.”
I changed my mind when he talked about castles in the sky. He’s still in love with someone else. That much is clear from the bitterness in his voice. I can’t be that woman, but I can pretend for a single night. Somewhere warm. His arms.
“Two hundred dollars and your name.”
That earns me a clap of laughter. “My name.”
“And dinner.” I don’t know where I get the courage. Dinner means I don’t need to eat for another two days. Two hundred dollars means I’m set for another two months.
His name should mean nothing to me.
He bows his head, hiding his eyes. A droplet of rain falls from his hair to my chest. “Christ. What the hell happened to you? No, don’t tell me. I can’t listen to a sob story and still fuck you, and I really want to fuck you.”
Sob story. That about sums it up. There’s a hole in my chest where those words hit me. Seared edges from the realization that I’m that transparent. That every man who’s wanted to fuck me, who’s offered me money, the man who rolled down his window, they knew. Maybe not the specifics, but they knew enough. Women don’t stand on street corners because things were going okay.
“Fuck.” He reaches into his coat pocket. Something slim and black. He opens it and finds money. Hundred-dollar bills, I realize, as he shoves them into my hand. Two of them. “Take it. And get the fuck off the street before someone like me drags you home and makes you cry.”
The money is still warm from the heat of his body. I clench the bills in my fist. Emotion chokes my throat. Thank you. I can’t make myself say the words.
He turns away, not waiting for gratitude, ready to disappear into the night.
“A kiss,” I manage to say, and he stops.
Chapter Five
Sutton
I’m turned away from the Den, my hands into my pockets, head down. The night is caught somewhere between rain and clear. Beads of moisture gather on the sleek black fabric of my suit. Fog mutes the sound of my dress shoes on pavement.
The entire world narrows to the woman behind me. A kiss.
Leave. Walk away. Don’t fuck a girl that broken.
I know about the underbelly of Tanglewood. And I know better than to think I can solve problems that thick. A few Benjamins aren’t going to change her life. But there’s a difference between not helping her and actively using her. Touching her, even the lightest brush of my fingertip across her cheek, would cross a line.
She doesn’t want to be here. There are women who choose sex work without a dark history but none of them do it this way. Only the most crude and dangerous men would shop for a woman here. Men like me, apparently.
The brick wall holds her up. She looks fragile against the city. Small and fundamentally breakable. How am I supposed to leave her here? But how can I take her with me? There’s only the thinnest thread between the beast inside me and the man I pretend to be. My true self, the bastard who loses everyone he loves, has never been this close to the surface.
She looks at me with unfathomable dark eyes. There’s pain hidden in the depths, but I don’t see that right now. I’m only looking at trust. Undeserved trust.