Paxtyn

Can't believe I'm doing this. Can't believe I'm waiting in a hotel lobby for a man I don't know, and even less why.

That's it. I've officially gone off the deep end.

Wait a minute. I do know a thing or two about him. For one, I know his name. And his face, from the picture on the website.

Most importantly, I know what he is: an employee of Bad Boy Escorts. A guy for whose company I'll soon be paying good money.

Which brings me to the why and the craziness of it. But I don't want to think about this right now, because I might chicken out and run along home. Corey, my bestie, will never let me live it down. You see, he's already told me many times over that this is crazy, that I am crazy, and that things don't work in the real world the way they do in my messed—up mind.

He's probably right.

Oh God, what am I doing? What the hell am I doing?

Grabbing my purse from the seat next to me, I push to my feet and totter across the lobby in my high—heeled boots. It's raining outside. A cold breeze slithers around me, and I shiver, pulling my coat closed with a shaky hand.

I halt.

Someone has just walked inside, a tall guy in a leather jacket. He shakes himself like a dog, dark hair flying, raining droplets all around. I hiss when one lands on my face.

He looks up, and I freeze on the spot.

It's him. The escort I asked for. I recognize him from his picture on the website.

He's giving me a once—over, his eyes hooded in the dim lights of the lobby, his lashes wet and dark. Silver hoops glint at his earlobes.

"Hey," he says, his voice deep and raspy, "are you Paxtyn Page?"

Do I have my name written on my forehead? How does he know it's me?

Crap.

"Yes, that's me." I clear my throat, and try not to stare at his bright eyes, the scruff on his square jaw. "And you're Riot."

He grins, revealing deep dimples, and cocks his head to the side. "That's right. Nice to meet you, Paxtyn."

I nod, my heart racing. God, he's different from his photos. More...present. Taller, wider. So handsome. Even from this distance, he gives off heat. His energy fills the space between us.

A bad boy. One hundred percent bad—tattooed, pierced, muscular and rough. The agency claims that he's the real deal.

Load of bullshit. Escorts make lots of money. The bad boy image sells. I bet they slap some tats on them and pass them off as genuine—like a horse with painted zebra stripes to look exotic at a circus.

The real deal...I know that kind well. Always ready for a fistfight. Aggressive. Handsome, but arrogant and dangerous.

The only difference is that this one is fake. He's some upper class boy who wants to make money to pay for his vices and his expensive drugs. His nice lifestyle.

Doesn't matter. The main thing is, he has to do what I say. To get my money, he has to dance to my tune. The agency ensures that. Training the escorts, placing restrictions on everything they do with the clients.

Still...I know other women pay these bad boys for the thrill of doing something exciting; to pretend they're risking something. They have no idea.

I've risked it all, and lost. Thought I could handle a real bad boy, and now I know better. Now I'm paying one of those bastards to try and heal my wounds. Like someone with a snake phobia touching snakes in a zoo. Like someone who almost drowned returning to the water.

"Is everything all right?" He's moved infinitesimally closer. His eyes glint, some pale shade of gray. "You haven't changed your mind?"

"Not at all," I say, glad he hasn't asked why I was about to step out into the rain when we said we'd meet inside the hotel. That would have been awkward. "Let's go."

***

The Atrium Hotel is a new discovery of mine. Located in downtown Chicago, it's a boutique hotel—small but sophisticated, with antique furniture and a dimly lit bar with mahogany tables and ornate mirrors on the walls.

I glance at Riot as I lead the way to the bar and perch on one of the stools. He has a swagger in his step, a way of rolling his hips like a cowboy as he struts his stuff.

Confident. In control.

A shudder goes through me. For a moment I see another face superimposed on his, a bearded one with a cross tattooed on one cheek.

No. That was in the past. Not now.

He takes off his jacket, drapes it over the stool next to mine and sits on it, rolling up the sleeves of his blue shirt. "Are you okay?"

"Yes." I try not to look when he folds his muscular arms on the bar. "Perfectly fine."

He lifts a dark brow at this, but says nothing.

I wonder if he feels out of his element here. If he was real—if he was a biker, or a racer, or a gambler used to dark dives—then he'd feel like a fish out of water.

He shows no sign of it, though, glancing around him and lifting a disdainful brow. He's used to places like this. It reinforces my certainty that these boys aren't what the agency paints them to be. It's just marketing. They aren't street bad. They're only greedy for easy money.

And we're not here for his comfort. I'm paying him money. He accommodates me. That's how business is conducted.

My cell buzzes with another text from Corey. He's been texting and calling me all day, begging me to reconsider, to talk to him first.

No way. I've made up my mind. I'm doing this. I'm going to fix myself and move on with my life.

"So…" Riot waves a hand at our surroundings and turns his sleet—gray gaze on me. He grins lopsidedly, a dimple flashing, and although my brain is caught up in doubts and memories, my body tightens, recognizing the sexiness of it. "I'm here. You're here. Shall we lay our cards on the table? Or rather the bar."

He taps his large hand on the polished bar, and that earns him an annoyed look from the bartender who's serving a martini to another customer at the other end.

I shouldn't be amused. I should be annoyed, too. Turning away from him, I hide the twitching of my lips.

Jesus.

"I told the agency what I want," I say, turning back toward him, my face composed once more. "I know your price."

"Right." He clears his throat, and a flush rises to his cheekbones. "My price."

"You know what I mean," I whisper, realizing how it sounded.

"Yeah, of course." The flush lingers, though, and a strong emotion glitters in his eyes. "I hope they told you that specific details are worked out between me and the client."

"Details?"

"Conditions. Restrictions. Extras."

Ah. I knew there would be a catch. After all, they aren't as costly as some of the other escort agencies out there.

"Will you give me a price list?" I ask.

That hotness in his eyes flares for a second, before he looks away.

"Yeah, I'll do that," he drawls quietly. "So you can make up your mind on what comes next. What you want to do with me, and what you want me to do with you."

Sounds a little dangerous. A little exciting.

Which is bullshit. He's just spinning his tale, trying to sell me more, get more money. He offers services. I'll pay for the ones I want.

Simple as that. End of story.

"I'm waiting." I nod at the bartender who arrives to take our order. I ask for a Strawberry Daiquiri because I can't pass up anything with strawberries in it, and he asks for a fruit juice. "You don't drink? Watching your weight?"

It'd make sense, in his line of work.

He blinks at me, brows drawing together. Then he relaxes. "No, it's not that. I don't drink when I work."

"Part of the code?"

"My code, yeah."

We sit in silence as our drinks are prepared, then placed in front of us. I wait until the bartender moves on to the next customer, then I take a sip from my cocktail.

"You do get paid for sex, right?" I want this out of the way as quickly as possible. "The agency said this is something I need to negotiate with you in person."

He puts his glass down hard, and liquid sloshes over the top. "Damn." He ducks his head, then smirks. He looks at me sideways with a twinkle in his eye and very deliberately licks the juice off his fingers. "That's right. Let's negotiate."

My breath goes out in a whoosh. That's...sexy. It should be gross and off—putting. I mean he's being lewd on purpose, but damn, those gray eyes, and the dimples, and the smirk...not to mention his scent that's filling my senses, spice and salt, it all shoots straight to my core, bypassing my rational mind.

And that's his job, right? He's playing his gigolo part, and I'm falling for it like an idiot.

Which is...Fine, right? After all, I'm asking for it. Asking to hire him for sex. Even if it's to cure myself of my affliction, something he doesn't know. Something he doesn't need to know about, not if it all goes according to my plan.

And it will. I feel it deep in my gut that this is the only way. Swim or drown. Jump or get eaten by the wolves of the past.

"Hey. Paxtyn." He's waving a hand in front of my face. "You with me?"

"Yeah."

"You sort of spaced out on me. Anything I should know about?"

I shake my head. "Sorry. I just remembered something I need to do later." There. Smooth. "You were saying?"

He watches my face as if trying to read it. As if suspecting I'm lying.

"I don't do guys," he says finally. "Or children. Or animals."

I gape at him. "Sure," I manage. "I wasn't going to—"