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“Well, not very bad.” She gives me a faint smile. “Is it?”
I guess not. “A rich boy, huh?”
“I know the agency says you’re the real thing,” she rushes to say, a little breathless. “But I was a little leery of the whole bad boy thing.”
“So I’m not a bad boy.”
“I don’t know what you are.”
So honest. Fearless. She’s coming out of her shell in colors and flashing lights.
“Does it matter what I am?”
She smacks my arm. “Yes, it does.”
“Why?” Why, why? I hold my breath, not even sure what I expect her to say, why my heart is booming in my chest. “Tell me.”
Why is it important to you? Why do you insist on knowing? Why do you act concerned?
“Nothing. I’m just…” She lets her hair fall over her face. Guess she likes hiding, too. “Just curious.”
Strange how my chest constricts with disappointment.
“And if you find out I’m a bad boy for real?” I look down at her hand in my hand, so small and fragile and beautiful. “That I’ve done bad things in my past? That the agency was telling the truth?”
She chews on this, her eyes darting from our joined hands to my face. “No way. What the agency says is just marketing, to attract women. We like the idea of a bad boy. Well, most women do.”
But not her. Because she’s seen the real deal and still hurts from that encounter.
“I thought you said you didn’t believe I was a rich guy with gambling problems.”
“Maybe not that. Maybe you’re saving money for something. A house? A car?” She’s staring at me, expecting an answer, and I chew on the inside of my cheek to keep silent. “Why can’t you tell me?”
“Because maybe you were right after all.” I shrug. “Maybe I spent my rich dad’s money on fast cars and lost it. I’m not a good guy.”
“Yes, you are. I know it.” She sounds so convinced, and hell, it makes me want to grab her, cling to her. Believe her.
Problem is, like she said, she doesn’t know shit, not about me. Better that way.
“Maybe,” I finally say, and it’s a lie, lying bitter on my tongue. I’m not saving anything, not a penny, and I’m not a good guy. I’m a selfish bastard and deserve any welt, any whipping I get.
Any pain life decides to deal me.
***
In the next few days, I don’t hear from Pax. That is, the agency doesn’t call me with any new appointments with her, and although I’ve grilled Johnson as much as I dared, he insisted she didn’t ask for one.
Didn’t call, he said. Swore on his mother’s life.
His mother’s dead, so that means fuck-all, but still. No way I can verify any of this, is there? Johnson is king of the reception desk and string master of all us escorts, controlling our movements and lives.
There was a time I thought I could be a free man. Break free of all the bad, find a decent job somewhere and live a normal life. Even when I worked with the Hellfire Fighters I thought I could one day leave. Gather enough money to reboot my life.
And look what it brought me. Where it led me. Kyle’s medical expenses seem to be growing by the month, and the debt for his surgeries is a black hole, siphoning dollars.
I doubt I’ll ever be free. Not before I’m eighty and use a walking stick to move around. Or before Johnson, out of spite, sends me to a client who’ll break my bones for fun and put me out of business for good.
At least since I told Johnson about the whipping and the welts, he hasn’t made me any more appointments with the two fuckers who tried it. Waiting for the welts to fade, I guess, before he sends me back.
