Riot

How am I supposed to focus on child psychology class like this? I throb so badly between my legs it’s uncomfortable. Can’t wait to see Riot again, try more.

Let him touch me, like he says, pleasure me. Beg him to. Feel his arms around me as he kisses me. I’m terrified that I’ll freeze or panic, but our last sessions have given me hope. He’s right. I’m not so afraid of him anymore. I’m used to his face, his body, his voice.

Insanely attracted to them¸ in fact, but that’s also fine, right?

As the class ends and I gather my things and get up, my cell dings with a text from Corey. He wants to get a tattoo and he’s been pestering me to go with him. Man, I really hope it’s not anything he’ll regret later on. He’s still hung up on the guy who dumped him, even though Corey himself has dumped two more men since then.

Jeez.

I text to let him know I’ll go with him—can’t let him do this unsupervised, God knows what he’ll do—and scroll down to the agency’s number.

Why not, right? It’s not like I have a crush on Riot or anything. He’s only helping me work through my fear.

My finger wavers over the number. I know that if I meet him again, it will happen. I’ll let him undress me, take me. It will be the last test. If I fail it, I may as well go away and become a hermit, or a nun.

Oh what the heck. I won’t know until I try, right? That’s what I used to be like, before fear crippled me. Adventurous.

Well, I’m not dead. I survived, and now I’ll do more than that. I’ll find myself. Rediscover sex with a man.

With Riot.

“Bad Boy Escorts, how may I—?”

“Hi, I would like an appointment with Riot.”

“Riot Gallagher?”

“Yes.”

“Your name, please?”

“Paxtyn Page.”

“Oh, Ms. Page. Apologies, I didn’t recognize your voice.”

I shift from foot to foot. Why should he recognize my voice? We’re not friends and we’ve only spoken a couple of times. This guy is weirding me out. “Right.”

“When would you like the appointment? The weekend or—?”

“Today.”

A silence greets my words. Word. Whatever. Why, I wonder. It’s not the first time I called and asked for an appointment on the same day.

“Riot is available at nine,” says the guy, his tone clipped.

Okay, what in the world is his problem? “That’s fine.”

“I’ll let him know. Thank you, Ms. Page. Same place?”

I hesitate. “No. I’ll give you another address.” He hums an affirmation, and I rattle off the address of my apartment.

After another thank you, he hangs up and I put my cell away.

Just weird. The agency guy sounded like he wasn’t happy with me.

Or Riot.

Huh.