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“Raine, fuck… Look, I can’t.” His hand clamps around my arm and jerks me around to face him. “Can’t get hard with johns. This is the hardest I’ve ever been, okay?”
Raw honesty and vulnerability, peeking through the veneer of defiance, shadowing his eyes.
Is he telling the truth?
Or is it just that he just wants the money? How can I ever trust what he says, how he acts, when it’s about business?
“You never get hard?” I ask, trying to figure it out. “Not with anyone?”
He shakes his head. “Only when I’m alone. But Raine—”
“Maybe another time, then,” I hear myself say, “you can show me what you like.”
His brows go up, surprise written in every line of his face, and yeah, what’s the matter with me? What am I doing?
But he just gives a jerky nod, eyes a bit round, and takes the bills from my hand, stuffing them in the pocket of the pants he’s just pulled back up. “Sure.”
Neutral. Back to himself.
Or that was him all along, playing me like an instrument. That’s his job.
And before I can dwell on it longer, he’s gone.
Chapter Twelve
Jason
“Haven’t seen you in days, Jay-Bug.” Mayleen snaps her gum—well, my gum technically since she lifted it from my pocket, so that now her tiny room smells of cinnamon. She runs her hand through my wet hair and snips her scissors so close to my ear I flinch. “You only remember me when you need something, huh?”
I close my eyes, drawing a deep breath. “Sorry, May.”
She nudges my back with her knee where I’m sitting on a small ratty stool, and I manage not to grunt in pain as she nails a nasty bruise. “And concealing cream. Got you a tube, almost new. Threw in some glitter, too.”
“You’re the best, girl.” I blink, disconcerted when I find my eyes wet. Fuck, I can’t even dry them without giving myself away, but I’ll be damned if I let my voice show any of it. “I owe ya.”
Mayleen has dark hair and green eyes, a silver stud in her nose and dark red lipstick. Dressed in one of her favorite dresses, a black number with a polka dot ruffled skirt, she’s a pixie of a girl, so short she’s only towering over me because I’m sitting down, and she’s standing.
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She lifts tufts of my hair between her fingers, snipping away, snapping the gum. In another life, she’d have become a famous hairstylist, perhaps.
Hell, she could still make it. She will, if I have anything to say about it.
“What’s wrong, honey? You’re not this quiet normally.” She brandishes the scissors by my head, and I duck. “You can talk to me, you know that, right? That bastard, Simon, still being a pain in the nuts?”
“Nah, just the usual,” I mutter.
She doesn’t know not even half of it. None of my buddies do. They think I talk with Simon. Negotiate. Pay some money and keep them safe.
I’d do anything to keep them safe—and dammit, I do, every day.
“When the chips are down,” she says, resuming the haircut, “we have each other, right? We have each other’s back. All these years working side by side.”
Not for much longer, though. I’ve arranged for her to go, and damn, I’m so relieved that she’ll be out of harm’s way.
But what will I do without her? Without my gang?
I guess by that time I’ll have bigger worries.
