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It’s him. The escort I asked for. I recognize him from his picture on the website.
He’s giving me a once-over, his eyes hooded in the dim lights of the lobby, his lashes wet and dark. Silver hoops glint at his earlobes.
“Hey,” he says, his voice deep and raspy, “are you Paxtyn Page?”
Do I have my name written on my forehead? How does he know it’s me?
Crap.
“Yes, that’s me.” I clear my throat, and try not to stare at his bright eyes, the scruff on his square jaw. “And you’re Riot.”
He grins, revealing deep dimples, and cocks his head to the side. “That’s right. Nice to meet you, Paxtyn.”
I nod, my heart racing. God, he’s different from his photos. More...present. Taller, wider. So handsome. Even from this distance, he gives off heat. His energy fills the space between us.
A bad boy. One hundred percent bad—tattooed, pierced, muscular and rough. The agency claims that he’s the real deal.
Load of bullshit. Escorts make lots of money. The bad boy image sells. I bet they slap some tats on them and pass them off as genuine—like a horse with painted zebra stripes to look exotic at a circus.
The real deal...I know that kind well. Always ready for a fistfight. Aggressive. Handsome, but arrogant and dangerous.
The only difference is that this one is fake. He’s some upper class boy who wants to make money to pay for his vices and his expensive drugs. His nice lifestyle.
Doesn’t matter. The main thing is, he has to do what I say. To get my money, he has to dance to my tune. The agency ensures that. Training the escorts, placing restrictions on everything they do with the clients.
Still...I know other women pay these bad boys for the thrill of doing something exciting; to pretend they’re risking something. They have no idea.
I’ve risked it all, and lost. Thought I could handle a real bad boy, and now I know better. Now I’m paying one of those bastards to try and heal my wounds. Like someone with a snake phobia touching snakes in a zoo. Like someone who almost drowned returning to the water.
“Is everything all right?” He’s moved infinitesimally closer. His eyes glint, some pale shade of gray. “You haven’t changed your mind?”
“Not at all,” I say, glad he hasn’t asked why I was about to step out into the rain when we said we’d meet inside the hotel. That would have been awkward. “Let’s go.”
***
The Atrium Hotel is a new discovery of mine. Located in downtown Chicago, it’s a boutique hotel—small but sophisticated, with antique furniture and a dimly lit bar with mahogany tables and ornate mirrors on the walls.
I glance at Riot as I lead the way to the bar and perch on one of the stools. He has a swagger in his step, a way of rolling his hips like a cowboy as he struts his stuff.
Confident. In control.
A shudder goes through me. For a moment I see another face superimposed on his, a bearded one with a cross tattooed on one cheek.
No. That was in the past. Not now.
He takes off his jacket, drapes it over the stool next to mine and sits on it, rolling up the sleeves of his blue shirt. “Are you okay?”
“Yes.” I try not to look when he folds his muscular arms on the bar. “Perfectly fine.”
He lifts a dark brow at this, but says nothing.
I wonder if he feels out of his element here. If he was real—if he was a biker, or a r
acer, or a gambler used to dark dives—then he’d feel like a fish out of water.
He shows no sign of it, though, glancing around him and lifting a disdainful brow. He’s used to places like this. It reinforces my certainty that these boys aren’t what the agency paints them to be. It’s just marketing. They aren’t street bad. They’re only greedy for easy money.
And we’re not here for his comfort. I’m paying him money. He accommodates me. That’s how business is conducted.
