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“Must’ve.”
Brain fog was one of the hardest symptoms to open up about. All my thoughts felt like they were in a wind tunnel, constantly flying out of reach. Even trying to describe the experience alone was a challenge. And now, Kordin’s using it against me.
“You should invite them over for dinner sometime.”
“And subject them to your cooking?” This chuckle is just as nauseating.
I can cook, just not the kind of food Kordin’s accustomed to. I wasn’t raised on crab legs and ribeye, so I have no idea how to prepare them. I don’t even like them enough to try. Crab legs are too much work for too little meat and ribeyes are mostly fat. Just because rich-people food costs more money doesn’t necessarily mean it tastes better.
“We can go out.”
His humor dissolves. “I don’t think that’s appropriate.”
“Why not? I could get to know your friends bet—”
“You’re going to make me spell it out?”
I wave a hand. “By all means.”
“Chief Hull can’t be seen out in public with a prostitute.”
That’s why I would’ve remembered meeting the Hulls. Even if I wanted to forget, my past would never allow me to. Nor would my husband. He still calls me a prostitute—not former—despite me retiring eight years ago. No matter what I wear, how much I make, who I marry, my past is always here with me because to people like Kordin Debrosse and the Hulls, it is me—then, now, forever. Half the police force were regulars at The Playground, both up front and back in Lost and Found, but I’m the only one branded for the rest of my life. Not them. Not the ones who repeatedly and unabashedly cheated on their spouses. Not the ones who got too rough because they knew they could. There are no consequences for men in power; only the women who could easily take it all away. Sex workers hold all the cards because if we ever chose to show them, it’d be a clean sweep in every single tax bracket.
But we’re told we don’t have any power. We’re told we’re nothing. We’retreatedlike nothing. And after a while, we believe it. It’s easier to fall down a waterfall than swim up one. The constant deluge at the bottom becomes…familiar. It’s anything else—No, everything else, that you become wary of. Kindness is just a tactic you learn to spot instantly. Gifts are physical tokens of manipulation. And love… Love is the most lethal weapon in existence because it’s more addicting than crack, it’s priceless, and it’s invisible. You cannot see it until it’s too late, and by then, you’re already hooked. Once you experience love, you’ll do anything to feel it, to keep it, to protect it. I’ve seen people loan out their bodies trying to buy drugs, but I’ve seen people lose themselves entirely trying to find love.
Love is the world’s biggest serial killer, yet it’ll never make headlines.
“I, however, have no reservations. I’d love to go out with you,” Kordin says, as if that lessens the sting of the blow he just delivered.
Fake love is a gateway emotion; it opens the door to real love.
Unless you keep it closed and locked.
I lift my eyebrows. “How about tomorrow after work?”
“I was thinking right now. I’m sick of ordering in.”
“My massage—”
“That? After everything you’ve been through, you deserve more than one massage. I’ll book you a whole wellness package somewhere else.” Bringing his phone back up, Kordin starts typing with his thumb. “Somewhere nicer.”
Nicer. He means farther away.
“Tonight?” Reece’s face flashes in my mind. I wouldn’t get to say goodbye.
Do I need to say goodbye? We’re not anything…serious. Technically we’re not anything at all.
Are we? I gave him a ring, which could’ve really muddled things if I hadn’t made it clear that it meant nothing.
“No, I need you at the office right now. Next weekend.” Kordin holds up his phone to show me the hotel confirmation. “All booked. Luxury wellness resort in the Catskills. You’ll go up Friday evening and return home to me Sunday afternoon.”
He didn’t even pretend to search for a place to ship me off to. He already had one lined up, awaiting his credit card number.
“Go ahead and cancel tonight’s appointment, then we can leave.”
“I already had dinner.”
“Lenox. Not everyone enjoys drinking their meals. I’m craving a juicy porterhouse.” His stare sharpens as he uses his left foot to propel his wheelchair forward several inches in my direction. “So, call. I’ll wait.”
