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Call her? And then what? Ask her for what exactly? Her money? Her influence to put a stop to an underground fight?
Why should she care? Why should she involve herself in something illegal on behalf of an escort, no less, who missed their last appointment because he was beaten up so badly he’d drowned the pain in booze?
But the doubts don’t stop me from going through Riot’s leather jacket and pants until I locate his phone and scroll through his contacts until I hit gold.
There. Ellen Morris.
Can’t call from his phone. And he might overhear me. So I grab for a pen and paper and quickly jot down the number and hide it under a snow globe my parents sent me from one of their trips.
Just in time, too. A shuffling noise, and then Riot is standing at the door, rubbing his face, his dark hair standing up in all directions.
Naked. Perfectly gorgeous.
He shakes his head, blinks and gives me a heart-stopping smile. “Morning, beautiful.”
Shucks. “Morning.”
He comes over, takes me in his arms. “Come here.” He kisses me, deeply and thoroughly until I’m slack in his arms, then sighs as he draws back. “Time for a coffee before you run off to classes?”
“Yeah.” Though the last thing on my mind right now is classes. He drags me off to the kitchen and puts his arms around me as I prepare the coffee. “And you? What are your plans for the day?”
“Feed the boys. Take Batman out for a walk. Train.”
I turn in his arms. “I want to see you fight. I want to be there.”
His expression shutters. “Babe, you can’t. It’s only thugs and mafia there. It’s dangerous.”
“I don’t care. I’m coming with you.”
He opens his mouth, closes it, and for a moment something like panic flashes through his gaze. “Those men, Elliot and Oliver, told me that they’ll hurt you if I fuck up. I don’t want you anywhere near them. Please, Pax. If I see you there, I’ll lose what courage I have. All I’ll be able to fucking think about will be you. Do you understand?”
Crap, yeah, I do. I nod. “Yes.” I put my arms around his waist, pull him closer. “Can I at least see you before you go to fight?”
“You’re seeing me now.”
No, no. “I need to see you—”
“Pax.” His throat works. His eyes are too bright. “Saying goodbye will fucking kill me, don’t you get it? I can’t say goodbye to you.”
“Then don’t say it.”
We stand like that, not speaking, holding on to each other.
“I will come back,” he says in the end.
“I know.” But my eyes burn. “I know.”
He releases me. “Why don’t you make the coffee and I’ll go get dressed.”
“Sure.”
A shadow crosses his features, like a wince of pain, and I wonder if his ribs hurt, but before I ask, he backs away and leaves the room.
Afraid, worried, faintly panicking, I set about finishing the coffee and setting two mugs on the table. I call his name, but I get no reply.
I putter around, putting the sugar and cookies on the table, check the fridge for cheese. Call his name again.
He doesn’t answer.
