I narrow my eyes at her nerve. “I told you to go. There’s no shower, there’s no goodbye, there’s no Thanks for the f**k. Just get out.”
Her whole face changes with these words. It goes from soft and satisfied to chiseled hardness instantly. “I’m not sure who the hell you think you are or why you feel you’re so special you can treat people like shit. But you know what? You’re one disturbed, messed-up freak.” She whirls around to leave but I catch her by the upper arm. My reaction surprises me but it positively scares the shit out of her. “Let me go,” she growls. But I know her bravery is fake, I can feel her pulse quicken in her brachial artery.
My voice is calm when the words drip out. “I’m the freak? You’re the one who shows up here, removes your clothes in my hallway, presents your pu**y to me by lying on a mat in front of my door, and then allows yourself to be treated like shit just so you can what? Why the f**k would you ever agree to my conditions? Why? Other than you’re a much more disturbed individual than I am. At least I’m the one who maintains some f**king dignity during our encounters. You—you just open your legs to a complete stranger. The same stranger you think is one disturbed messed-up freak. What you see in me is what you see in you. You’re looking in the mirror, honey.” I give her a shove towards the door and let go of her arm. “Now get out.”
She lifts her chin up and smiles. I figure this is her pathetic attempt to save face, but there’s a small gleam in her eye that says she really does feel superior. “Well, all that might be true. But if you really want to know why I do this, I’ll tell you.” She walks to the bedroom door to put some distance between us and then turns, still smiling as she drums her fingertips along the side of the door. “I do it because I need the money.” And then she walks out.
What?
I pull my jeans back on and follow. She’s already in the hallway half-dressed when I catch up with her. She buttons her jeans and slips her feet into her snow boots as she tugs the shirt over her head.
I stare at her. Hard. “I do not pay for sex.”
“Right,” she says pulling her hair out of her shirt and shrugging on her coat. “That may be true, but I certainly have been getting paid to show up here on command for the past two months.” She huffs out a laugh. “What? You think you’re so f**king special you can get nice girls like me to come be your sex slave just for the orgasms?”
I glare at her.
“I mean, sure, I had a few good ones. But come on? Get real, Aston. Pam pays me to come here, you dumbass. She pays all of us to service you and your f**ked-up fetishes.”
She punches the button on the elevator and shoves her hands in her pockets. Then her gaze goes back to the pet mat. I follow that gaze because her expression becomes livid. “And you know what? I baked those f**king cookies for my kid. And you took one bite and threw that bag down on the ground like they were trash. Well, f**k you. I only do this job to pay for my babysitter while I go to school during the day, you self-absorbed, emotionless, pathetic excuse of a man. And my naive kid was the one who said I should bring my boss cookies on Christmas Eve to make him happy.”
The elevator opens and she tugs her purse over her shoulder and enters. She doesn’t look at me again, just hides in the corner where the buttons are, and allows the doors to close without another word.
Chapter Eight
I seethe.
Positively seethe.
I want to call Pam up and fire her ass. I want to chase that little pet bitch down and f**k with her head, fill it with insults and half-truths so filled with venom, she’ll need therapy for years to get over it.
I want to throw things through the f**king living room window.
I take a deep breath instead.
Because nobody. Nobody—especially not that skanky little cunt who sold her body for money—nobody can make me lose my temper.
It’s just not possible. If there’s one thing I control in my life, it’s my reactions. I have complete control over my reactions and this bitch will not take that away. I take a deep breath and remember my shower is still running. I go back to the bathroom and strip, then douse myself in hot water to wash away the smell of slut.
When I’m done I wrap the towel around me and call Pam. She answers on the first ring. “I already heard. I’m so sorry, Ford.”
That little tramp will not ruin my only real relationship I have in this world since my father died. Pam keeps my whole life from unraveling—she picks up all the slack. This woman holds me together professionally, and even if I’m not quite all there personally, no one ever knows because Pam is my cover. She’s family to me and I would never throw away our five year working relationship over a whore. “Forget it, Pam. Forget it, OK? No more pets. Cancel all of them. I’m done.” I end the connection and the home screen flashes a missed call at me.
“Great.” My f**king mother. I huff out a laugh. That’s just what I need. To think about my mother and her new piano playing boyfriend. The ass**le’s probably after her money. Prick. I press the voice mail icon and it begins to play. “Ford, I’m sorry. I don’t want you to be upset. I’ve told Gary it won’t work. I’m sorry.” She pauses here to sigh.
It’s a very sad sigh.
“I have to get ready for church. Maybe you will find time to come by tomorrow? Have dinner?”
I press end. Fuck. This day has gone to shit. I pick up the remote and flip on the TV to break the suffocating silence. This TV came with the apartment. Biker Channel pays for this place, and this condo is one of the few luxury perks written into my contract. The local news comes on and I sit back to think.