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She undressed me, touched me, kissed me and now time’s up.
Fuck my life.
And what did you expect? I sit up and grab my pants, dragging them on. Not her fault your dick got over-excited. It’s a miracle she went that far.
That kiss, though…
“I’ll let you get back to work,” she says, already closing off, not looking at me. She pats her hair, and fuck, I think I’ll jerk off to the memory of it trailing over my skin
today. “Thank you for tonight.”
“Pax, just…” Just what? Dammit. Can’t you wait? Where are you going? Will I see you again? “Take care.”
She shoots me a quick smile, and then she’s hurrying away. The door opens and closes with a soft click.
I throw my legs over the edge, bend them and clutch the back of my neck with both hands.
What in the fucking hell? She left, and there’s a weight on my chest, a pressure behind my eyes I don’t understand.
She’s just a client. That’s all.
Then why the fuck do I feel like the world crashed down on me the moment she walked out?
***
Just season blues, I tell myself as I pull on my boots and T-shirt, as I shrug on my jacket and head out. The woman at the reception desk is trying to catch my eye, but I ignore her and step outside.
Which isn’t like me. She’s a potential client, and I should be friendly and flirty. What the fuck’s wrong with me these days?
I straddle my bike, kick off the stand, rev the engine. Need to work some stress out at the gym—and pass by the agency.
Should start with that. Johnson wants to talk to me. I wonder what the hell for. The agency isn’t very far from the hotel Pax chose.
Pax. Jesus. That girl is driving me up the wall, I swear to God. I want to think she’s getting better, getting used to me, to my body. That she’s overcoming her fear. But what do I know? I’m not a therapist. I’m just a fucking escort with problems of my own.
Besides, with the way she keeps running out of our meetings, I don’t know what to think. Can never tell if she’ll call to make another appointment or not. If that was it, and I’ll never see her again.
The thought really fucking hurts, and that’s a bad sign. Need to set my head straight.
Yeah, the gym is a good idea. Work up some sweat, get rid of some frustration and anger. Do a few rounds with the punching bag. Or with anyone willing to meet my fists on the training mat.
The agency is located on the first floor of an old building. The small brass side outside simply says “Bad Boys Inc.”, leaving the rest to the imagination. I park my bike, lock it and take the steps two at a time.
Yeah, too much excess energy. Too much going on inside my head. Need to burn it out.
Johnson looks up from his place behind the desk. He runs this company in all but name. He nods at me, frowns and types something on his computer.
“Johnson.” I lean against the desk, and it reminds me of the hotel where I meet with Pax.
Dammit.
“Your blood tests came back,” he says without looking up.
“And?” I try not to tense up more. I’m always careful with clients, but you never know.
He finishes typing whatever the fuck it is he’s typing, takes his time while my heart booms in my chest.
“You’re clean,” he says.
