Riot

Okay, then. I’ll call the agency, wire them the money. End of story. End of this disastrous evening.

Decision made, I feel slightly better. Nobody else has to suffer for my trauma and my decidedly stupid way of trying to deal with it. It will be fine. I’ll pay, he’ll forget about this, and we’ll both go on our way as if this night never happened.

He’s probably used to dealing with basket cases like me. I bet he has clients lined up to spend a night with him, and that most of them are normal women, happy to please and be pleased, to be fucked into oblivion, without demanding the recreation of a crime scene and then screaming like banshees on acid.

Shit.

I wipe my sweaty hands on my dress and grab my bag and my coat. Time to try and fix what I can, and it’s weird how the thought of having Riot hate me—or not ever seeing him again—stings.

A guy whom I barely know, whom I had tie me up and touch my breast, slap me and then leave. A guy I kicked in the nuts and screamed at to go and leave me alone.

Yeah, I bet he’s dying to see me again, too…

***

The agency guy I have on the phone sounds a bit confused as to why I am calling them to pay instead of paying Riot in person. He asks if I have any complaints.

I assure him that I have none. Then he asks me if I want to book another appointment with Riot, or any other of their escorts.

“You can also do it through our website,” he says. “That way you can go through their pictures and know more about them. You click on the pic, and read the info they have listed about themselves: their physique, their interests, their background.”

I blink and lean back on my sofa. Sounds logical, only I never thought to click on the pictures. I went through them, picked Riot because of his colors that reminded me of the thug who hurt me, and asked for him over the phone.

“It’s okay to take your time to think,” the man goes on blithely. “We have many to choose from. Some specialize in rougher games, too, if you prefer that, but we also have—”

“Can I book Riot again?” I hear myself say, before my brain catches up.

Wait, Pax—what?

“Of course you can,” the man says, and I hear him typing something, even as my mind is still trying to wrap itself around the fact I’m making another appointment.

With Riot.

The guy who probably doesn’t want to see or hear from me ever again.

“He’s free tomorrow night,” the man says. “Would you like me to book him for you? How many hours?”

“Listen...Wait.” I toy with a loose thread on my sweater. “Maybe he doesn’t want to meet me. I could just check the website.”

“Not want to meet you? That’s not possible.” The guy sounds shocked. “Has he made you feel that way? Has he offended you?”

“No, not at all.” Shit. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Good. We never had any trouble with Riot, but with that name, you never know.” He chuckles. “Perfect then. Is eight o’ clock good for you?”

“Ah, yes.”

“Same meeting place?”

“Um, no.” I rattle off the address of my favorite coffee shop, and hang up, too shaken by my own actions.

What the hell am I doing?

It’s guilt, I decide later as I sip my herbal tea standing by my living room window, looking out at the cold winter day. I just want to talk to Riot, tell him it wasn’t his fault, and that I’m sorry we parted ways like that.

Yeah, that’s it. Now it makes perfect sense. Relaxing, I turn back toward the room and stop.

The website. Information.