His mother’s dead, so that means fuck-all, but still. No way I can verify any of this, is there? Johnson is king of the reception desk and string master of all us escorts, controlling our movements and lives.
There was a time I thought I could be a free man. Break free of all the bad, find a decent job somewhere and live a normal life. Even when I worked with the Hellfire Fighters I thought I could one day leave. Gather enough money to reboot my life.
And look what it brought me. Where it led me. Kyle’s medical expenses seem to be growing by the month, and the debt for his surgeries is a black hole, siphoning dollars.
I doubt I’ll ever be free. Not before I’m eighty and use a walking stick to move around. Or before Johnson, out of spite, sends me to a client who’ll break my bones for fun and put me out of business for good.
At least since I told Johnson about the whipping and the welts, he hasn’t made me any more appointments with the two fuckers who tried it. Waiting for the welts to fade, I guess, before he sends me back.
Which is another way to end my career as escort, because I might just snap and punch the man until he can’t get up, and tie the woman, leave her tied up for the cleaning maid to find.
I shiver as I finish up my treadmill at the gym and grab my towel to wipe at my face. Gale is not here today, but Zeke is using the punching bag like it fucked his puppy, snarling and cursing, sweat streaming down his face and back.
Whoa.
Mopping up the back of my neck, I head over to him, careful not to step in the way of his punches.
“Hey, man. What’s up?”
He cuts me a sharp glance, curls his lip and goes back to beating the shit out of the bag. “Riot.”
I prop my hip against the wall and fold my arms over my chest. “The bag insult your mom or what?”
“Shut the fuck up.”
I snort. “Leave something for me, will ya? I need to beat something up, too, and I wouldn’t want that to be you.”
“Yeah?” He tsks, delivers a roundhouse kick to the bag. It groans, its chain rattling. “That right? Suck my dick, asshole.”
“Just spill, Zeke. What the hell happened?”
“What, you Dr. Freud now or something?”
“Why, because I’m fucking asking why you look ready to murder the damn bag?”
“Fuck you.” He punches the bag one last time, making it swing back and forth, and turns away. “Piss off.”
Yeah, no way. “Zeke. Come on.”
He rubs his gloved hands through his short hair. “It’s nothing.”
That makes my hackles rise. It’s exactly what I’d have said if things were going to hell. Come to think of it, it’s exactly what I did say to Pax the other day.
“Spill. Don’t make me beat the truth out of you.”
“In your dreams. Bastard.” But it’s half-hearted.
“Let me buy you a beer. I know a nice place.”
He finally nods and together we head toward the locker room to shower and change. He’s quiet, which isn’t strange for Zeke, but he’s quieter than usual.
Like, stone silent.
Snow has been falling all afternoon and we tread through it, leaving deep imprints on the sideway heading to the bar—not the student-packed one, although I itch to check if Pax is there—but another, smaller one around the corner. Shaking the snowflakes off our jackets, we settle on our stools and I order us two beers.
It takes quite a lot of prodding, still, until Zeke finally opens up enough to tell me what’s going on. It turns out he just found out his mom died.
Fuck. And me cracking jokes about her.