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"I can't be an escort anymore. I have real-life issues."
Elena snorted. "Honey, you don't have to tell me that—everybody who works for me has real-life issues! It's almost a professional requirement."
"I mean, I have real-life issues at the moment. I have things going on. It's no longer possible for me to fulfill the requirements of my job."
"Kyle." She was silent as, I assumed, she got her anger in check. "You can't quit on me. If you walk out on that girl right now, it'll ruin everything. For her and for my company."
"You can keep all the money Lowell's given you. I don't want it. Then we'll be even, right? If you don't have to pay me, it'll be as if you got paid in full. Even if I quit right now."
"Why are you going to do that to this poor girl?"
"I'm not doing it to her. I'm doing it for her."
Elena sighed. "I'm not giving you a dime of this money."
"Good," I said. "Then maybe it'll be like this never happened."
Lowell
The traffic to LAX was insane, as usual. Wishing I'd brought coffee with me, I watched the throng of vehicles from the back of our hired Town Car.
"Do you think we're going to miss our flight?" Kyle asked.
I checked the GPS; even with the traffic we'd make it to the airport in an hour. "We should be okay. I'm worried that there'll be a ton of reporters we have to get through, though." Our regulars knew where we were heading, and there was usually a group that camped out at LAX, waiting to snap pictures of disheveled or perfectly composed celebrities departing and landing.
I was probably looking more on the disheveled end of the spectrum, although I'd dressed carefully. My nerves were frayed, and I was running on nervous adrenaline; the dance I'd shared with Kyle last night, followed by the conversation we had, had unnerved me. If we actually wanted to be together, we could, you know. His words rang in my ears, leaving me a jangling mess.
Maybe it was a good thing I'd left my coffee at home.
On top of that, we were headed to Boston for Kyle's mandatory meeting with Pierce. I was happy to go and support Kyle, as he'd been supporting me, but I was petrified of his dad. The last time I'd seen Pierce Richards, he'd been white with anger, shaking at the sight of my mother e
xiting the courtroom with buckets of his money. Ugh.
I pulled out my compact and looked at my traitorous reflection. I looked as though I hadn't skipped a meal in weeks. Because I hadn't. Lucas was going to kill me. "Ugh."
"Don't say ugh when you look at yourself—that's sacrilege." Kyle squeezed my hand. "And don't worry about the photographers. We'll get through them, and this time, we won't tell them where we're going."
He squeezed my hand again, making my stomach lurch with excitement.
I pulled away from him. "You don't have to do that right now."
He sat back and grimaced. "You don't always have to pull away from me. Maybe you could, like, relax. For once in your life." He stared at me, forcing me to confront those green eyes and that square, luscious jaw.
Luscious? WTF's up with the word choice, Lo? Like you don't have enough problems already?
Kyle narrowed his eyes at me. "I enjoy being with you, Lo. I've had fun with you. I can't remember the last time I had fun that didn't involve getting so drunk I couldn't see straight."
"Disneyland was great. It was fun," I agreed quickly. I wanted to keep my distance from him for a variety of reasons, but I didn't want to hurt his feelings. "You're doing a great job. Thank you for everything. Really. You've turned a bad situation into a redeeming success, and you even managed to keep me from looking like a total klutz on the dance floor. You're like a miracle worker."
His face relaxed into a smile. "Yes. Yes, I am."
He threw his arm around me. I looked at him pleadingly, not wanting to hurt his feelings, as I scooted out from under it.
"I'm not used to people touching me," I explained lamely. "Can we just save that for the cameras? Is that okay? It's just… easier for me that way."
Easier for me to keep from hopping onto your lap and straddling you when your arms aren't around me.
I grimaced, digging my nails into my palms, desperate to get a grip. Mental slap, Lo. Mental. Fucking. Slap.
