Riot

Pulling off my helmet, I stick it under my arm as I make my way to the front door. It’s already open, and I step inside, close it behind me.

Tall ceilings, a chandelier, prisms of light, paintings on the walls. This house makes me feel small despite my six-foot-four frame. Unreal, as if I’ve entered a fairytale.

“Riot, you know the way,” her voice floats to me and I follow it, my biker boots muffled on the thick carpet.

The room opens into a sunroom with ceiling to floor windows. The garden outside is lit, bushes and trees looming like ghosts in the gloom. Inside is a table set for two, and she’s seated, drinking red wine.

“Ellen.” I walk over to her and bend to kiss her wrinkled cheek. “How are you?”

“Better now you’re here.” She smiles brightly at me and lifts her glass. “Sit.”

I shrug off my jacket, drape it on the back of my chair and sit down. Ellen’s a bit bossy but a good heart. She likes to spend some evenings with me, sometimes with food and wine, sometimes stroking my hair like I’m a pet.

Yeah, don’t laugh. It’s a thing. And I don’t mind. It’s kind of soothing, mostly. Kind of weird. But not bad. And she pays for it, so...Better than having sex with someone you don’t like.

Count your fucking blessings, Riot.

Yeah, I’m in a funk tonight, I know. I try to shake it off as I serve both of us. Her family was Hungarian, a story she’s told me over our many meetings, and tonight the main dish is goulash. I like the hearty beef stew, and with the red wine, it’s a fine dinner for me.

“So tell me,” she says, her blue eyes sparkling in their web of fine wrinkles. “How have you been?”

“Oh you know me. Keeping busy.” I give her a smirk and dip my bread into the stew. “Bikes to ride, women to pleasure and keep warm on cold winter nights.”

“You bad boy, you.” She laughs, delighted. It’s the same every time. She loves this shit. “Got into any fights recently?”

“Yeah. A few.”

It’s her fantasy that I’m real bad, that I get into fights. And the weirdest part? She told me the first time she met me that I look like an underground fighter.

If only she knew how close she is to the truth.

“Tell me about it,” she commands, and I launch into an imaginary tale of a bar brawl where I’m pinned to the bar by a bunch of bikers and I have to fight my way out. It sounds real, I know, because I can picture every move and counter move in my mind, just like I did before every single one of my fights.

It’s easy to slip back into that role inside my mind, in the memories. My muscles tense, vibrating with anticipation as I describe how I take the thugs out, one by one.

Kick, punch, turn, uppercut, follow through, high kick, step back.

Fuck.

“And then what happened?” she asks, and I blink, finding myself at her table, my food untouched, my wine glass full. Disoriented. Wondering what I’m doing here.

Who she is.

I take a sip of my wine to buy myself some time. Jesus. I clear my throat. “I walked out. Went home.”

Vanished back into this life where I pretend to be something I’m not. To enjoy something I don’t. Where I’m falling through the cracks and for the first time can’t seem to find the way out.

“What’s wrong, honey?” Ellen is giving me a concerned look. “You look out of sorts today.”

Yeah. “Nothing’s wrong. Long day.” I swallow more wine, finish my glass. “I promise.”

“You know you can always call me if you need help with anything.” Her tone is warm, if scolding, and I nod.

“I know.”

I normally don’t give my phone number to anyone, and I never take my clients’ numbers, either, but for Ellen I’ve made an exception. She’s been my client ever since I signed up for Bad Boy Escorts and she only calls to make appointments, which I confirm later with the agency.

She has a strong dislike for the guy who answers the phone, Johnson, and I can’t blame her one fucking bit.