AllFreeNovel
Share Us
His tone is so forceful that it sends another shiver down my spine. I nod slowly, swallowing hard. “Alright.”
Does that mean this might happen again? That shouldn’t be my first thought, but it is. It’s all I can do not to lean into his touch.
“I’ll look into the problem of this cop,” he says reassuringly. “And I’ll get in touch with you when we can talk again. We’ll figure this out, Mila. I won’t let anything happen to you.”
I shouldn’t trust him. I shouldn’t feel as if I can count on his reassurance, as if by him saying that, everything will simply fall into place. But looking up into his face, I feel as if I can.
I’ll deal with it later, when I’m more clear-headed. “I’ll look out for your call, then.” The words sound stiff and awkward, too formal considering what just happened between us, but I don’t know what to say. There’s nothing that I can say, with things as they are.
Lorenzo breathes in, slowly, as if he’s thinking the same thing. And then he gives me a faint smile, and turns to leave.
When I hear the sound of the door closing behind him, I sink against the desk. Against all efforts, I feel my eyes start to burn with tears.
I don’t know what I’m doing. But I feel as if everything is on the verge of falling apart.
Mila
It’s a long, miserable week until I hear from Lorenzo again. A week of ballet practice and dancing at the club and doing everything I can to make sure that Niki doesn’t pick up on my mood. The one thing that would make this all unbearable would be for it to make things worse for him, instead of better.
I find myself constantly looking over my shoulder for the cop. I think I see him again once, the day after Lorenzo came to the studio, but not after that. It makes me wonder what Lorenzo might have done—if he might have exercised whatever connections his money gives him with the LAPD to make the problem go away.
I should feel guilty, I think, letting a man who pays to keep the cops in his pocket solve my problems. But after all, I reason, he’s the one who caused them in the first place. And I have bigger worries than the morality of Lorenzo’s dealings with the police.
The money he gave me will only go so far. It pays for Niki’s therapy, which is the most important thing. The problem is that when I’ve been months behind for the better part of a year, every payment on everything else—utilities, my phone bill, groceries—feels like it’s only chipping away at a mountain that I keep sliding back down.
Every night at the club, I catch myself looking for Lorenzo. Every time I take someone into the back room, the memory of him underneath me fills my mind—the sight of his taut expression, his straining body beneath mine, the feeling of him hard and solid against me as I made myself come on his lap. It makes my tips a bit better, at least—I’m unintentionally more enthusiastic with the men I dance for, when Lorenzo is the one I’m picturing. But every night when I go home, I feel hollow.
The fact that he hasn’t called me only underlines what he’s always said—that this is business, and nothing more. That the night in the club was a mistake. That what happened in the ballet studio was—I don’t know. I have no idea what he thinks of it as, because I haven’t heard a word from him since then.
It’s the following Friday when my phone buzzes, and I grab for it immediately. It’s not my actual phone that’s vibrating in my purse, though, but the burner—and the rush of excitement that goes through me is beyond what I rationally know I should be feeling.
I don’t have to look to see that the text is from Lorenzo. He’s the only one with the number. I open it, my heart beating hard in my chest.
Come to the office. Today, if possible.
I know why it’s brief—for the same reason that every message I’ve sent him on this phone is—but it still stings.
Niki has already gone to school. I was about to leave for the ballet studio, for extra practice time, but the message changes my mind. I can go and see Lorenzo first.
In an hour? I send the message quickly—probably too quickly, but I see no point in leaving him hanging. Whatever other games we might be playing, I don’t want to play them when it comes to the business between us.
That’s fine.
I stand up, grabbing my purse, and hurrying out to the bus stop. The ride to his office will take the better part of an hour, and I try to ignore the urgent flutter of my pulse in my throat as I wait for the bus. The anticipation of seeing him again makes my stomach knot, my lungs feel tight, and I know I’m being ridiculous. But I can’t help it.
The look on his face when I step into his office startles me. Halfway there, I remembered what I put on this morning to go to the studio—a pair of loose black joggers and a black cropped tank top, my hair hastily thrown up in a messy bun that I planned to neaten once I got there. It’s definitely not the effort I’ve put in before coming to his office before.
But the way he looks at me is exactly the same as he did the last time, when I stood here in a pretty floral sundress. The way he looked at me when he was standing in that doorway at the studio—as if I’m the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. As if he’s remembering what I taste like.
As if he wants to taste me again.
It makes my knees feel weak. I walk forward, slowly, sinking into the chair on the other side of his desk. “Lorenzo.” His name comes out breathier than I intend for it to, a hoarse whisper in the back of my throat. I see his jaw tense briefly when I say it, the small muscle there leaping.
“Mila.” The coolness in his tone makes my stomach swoop with disappointment again. It’s difficult to reconcile this man—the one sitting on the other side of the desk and looking at me as if he barely knows me—with the man who was on his knees in front of me barely a week ago, his tongue between my thighs.
“You said you wanted to see me.” I only barely manage to keep the quiver out of my voice. He must have spent a lifetime perfecting his poker face, I think as I look at him, wishing I knew what he’s thinking. I haven’t been able to get him out of my head for a week—the sounds he made, the way he tastes, the look on his face when he came, the way he put me on that desk and repaid the favor twice over. But looking at him now, it’s as if it never happened.
And what did you think would happen? He probably has a girl on her knees for him six out of seven days in the week. What makes you think that was special?
