Jagged Edge

“Honey, I got no money on me.” She points at the door where a fresh round of banging has started. “He got the money.”

Fuck. Me.

The guy’s now kicking at the door. That flimsy lock won’t hold. Things are getting hairy, but that’s par for the course in my line of work.

Not that I know a way out. But I’m used to life playing nasty tricks on me.

For some reason that makes me think of the one guy I’ve been trying to forget.

Raine Storm.

And the next second the door crashes open, throwing me back into the stall wall. The husband’s a bear of a man, shaggy and tall, looking pissed. He grabs me by the front of my tank top and drags me out of the stall, leaving his wife sitting on top of the toilet, looking dazed, her panties on the floor.

I hate my fucking life.

Bear-man slams me against the door of another stall, then drags me out of the bathrooms before I have the chance to get my feet under me, my head spinning.

He’s probably planning to drag me out to the alley and punch the shit out of me. But that’s a good thing. Better outside than trapped inside the bathrooms. I let him shove me through the bar, through the crowd drinking and dancing and yelling.

The moment I feel cold, fresh air on my face, I twist in his hold and elbow him in the gut, then kick at his shin and slam my foot down on his foot.

Not a stellar move, but he’s shocked enough that it works. He lets go of me, and I start running before his fingers have slipped completely off my arms.

Holy shit, that was close.

I run and run, skidding on frozen puddles and tasting ice on the air. The stitch in my side turns into a twisting blade, my lungs struggling to draw oxygen as I race down street after street in a blind panic.

Slow down, I tell myself. It’s over. You’re okay.

Am I, though?

I come to a halt in a back alley, slam a hand into the brick wall and bend over, feeling sick. I mean… you fucking kidding me? I screwed a woman and for what? Didn’t even get paid, and…

Bile rises in my throat, and I retch on the filthy ground. If it’s from running like a possessed man or from the memory of fucking her, I couldn’t tell you. Both. I dunno why tonight has hit me so hard.

Christ.

Raine. God, I miss Raine. I’m slipping to my knees in the vomit and muck, and I don’t fucking care. I avoided him and told myself this was for the best.

He hasn’t come looking for me again this past week. I may be plying my trade in clubs, but I still sleep in the same spot. Raine knows where to find me.

I know what this means. He doesn’t want to.

Why would he want to? I told him not to try and save me. I told him not to come after me. He was good to me.

Too good.

I slowly get back to my feet, zip up my jacket. He’s broken me, as I feared he would. And it’s not about eating dodgy burgers from the street after the lasagna his sister-in-law prepared, or sleeping in the cold after the warmth of his arms. No, it’s everything. It’s having sex with strangers. Guys other than him.

How can I touch anyone who isn’t Raine? Any guy or woman who pays to use me, who doesn’t give a damn about what I want, what I need. I can’t do this anymore. It’s killing me inside.

In fact, I dunno how much longer I can keep hustling. And this doubt ain’t new. It’s just that before I’d never even considered an alternative, good or bad. An ending, a stop to the pain.

Simon.

I stop in my tracks. If I push Simon enough, he could end the pain permanently. The thought scares me, but it’s also a relief. A solution.

Yeah, that would end it.