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“I think,” she puts down her fork, a decisive gleam I know well entering her eyes, “we should move to the living room.”
“As you wish.”
“Come along now.” She stretches out her hand imperiously and I get up and walk around the table to take it and pull her to her feet. Her hand is laden with rings, large stones that flash in the light. Her long dark dress swishes as I lead her across the room to the white sofa by the fireplace where a fire is burning.
She sinks down on the white leather, arranging her long skirt like a queen. It’s hard to guess Ellen’s age. She may be forty-five, or she may be sixty-five. Her body is trim, her hair dyed pale blond and her make-up is carefully appli
ed.
“Sit,” she says. She enjoys ordering me about. I’d punch anyone who thought they could tell me what to do two years ago. Now I just fold down on my knees on the rug and wait. “Here.” She pats her lap.
I let out a controlled breath, tell myself to relax. Then I lean against her and lay my head on her legs.
Good dog, a voice snickers in my head. Sit. Roll over. Good boy.
She pats my hair, pets it, and I close my eyes. Yeah, there are definitely worse things I could be asked to do than this, and I am tired. The meeting with Pax left me reeling like a kick to the chest.
“Why do you like meeting me?” I mutter. “I’m full of shit, and you know it. You have class. Money. You could have dinner with anyone.”
She chuckles. “I like bad boys.”
“Tell me the truth, Ellen.” She has paused her petting, and fuck, what am I doing now? She’s a regular client and I’m pushing her. You don’t push clients.
But before I can snap my sluggish mind awake and figure out a way to smooth things over, she sighs.
“You remind me of someone, that’s all. He was wild, like you. And a good person. Like you, Riot.”
“You don’t know me,” I whisper.
I’m a fucking shadow of myself, and a reflection of someone else.
Fucking awesome.
“I do,” she says. “Though, I sometimes feel, honey, that you don’t know yourself. He was that way, too, you know. But it didn’t matter. I knew.”
“Ellen…” I pull away, sit back on my heels. This used to be easy, simple. It’s getting more complicated by the second, like everything lately.
“Listen,” she says and smiles, her eyes old and young at the same time, full of memory and knowledge. “You only need to find someone who’ll see you for who you truly are, and show you. You need to see yourself through another person’s eyes.”
“If I knew fucking magic tricks,” I mutter, a weight settling on my chest, “everything would be okay.”
Chapter Seven
Paxtyn
“Not going home tonight, Paxtyn?” Josh, one of my classmates calls. “Gonna lock up the library on your way out?”
I wave at him to go and offer a smile to the others. “I’ll stay half an hour more, then I’m off home.”
“Don’t stay too late!” Lisa, a nice redhead from my Statistics class calls out.
Statistics. I’m telling you, psychology is like a hybrid between humanities and sciences, half philosophy and half neuroscience. Not at all how I imagined it to be.
And crap, it’s late…again. Since my last disastrous meeting with Riot, I’ve thrown myself into my studies like a madwoman—a good thing, all things considered, as I’ve neglected my classes and reading for months. I have essays to turn in and projects to work on.
Except my mind is not on my studies. No, it’s stuck on a certain gray-eyed escort with an easy smile and a smoking hot body.
Shit.
