Irrevocable (Evan Arden 5)

“My boss is in the hospital,” I tell her.

“Oh! I’m sorry to hear that. Is he sick?” Her fingers don’t tense on her thighs, and she slides her head to tilt it in the opposite direction. There’s a slight crinkling around her eyes, and I conclude that her concern is genuine.

She has no idea what’s happened to him.

I loosen my hands from the steering wheel, realizing I had been gripping it tightly as I observed her. I take a breath and center. I’m relieved she doesn’t know, but I can’t allow myself to consider her completely innocent. That would be unwise.

“He was hurt,” I tell her. “I’ve been at the hospital with him for a couple of days.”

“Will he be all right?”

“Should be.” I step out of the car and come around to her side to help her out. Once we’re in my apartment, I head to the kitchen and grab myself a beer.

“Want one?” I ask.

“I’m not much of a beer drinker,” Alina says.

“Other than beer, I’ve got water and whiskey.”

“You are quite the bachelor,” she says with a smile. “Water would be fine. I need to get going on that grocery list for you.”

I smirk at her as I retrieve a bottle of water from the fridge and a pen and paper from the kitchen drawer.

“Have at it,” I say as I push the paper toward her. She laughs and picks up the pen as I twist the cap off the water bottle. “Want a glass?”

“The bottle works for me.”

We take our drinks and sit on the couch. Alina jots down a few grocery items, and I lean over to see what she’s written. Nothing surprises me—it’s all the basics if you happen to cook at home much, which I don’t. The last item she puts on the list is massage oil.

“Really?” I ask.

“You might enjoy it,” Alina says with a shrug. “I’m pretty good, you know.”

“I bet you are.”

I’m tempted to turn on the television, but I don’t. The last time it was on, I ended up losing my shit. Instead, we sit close together, and Alina curls up beside me with one arm around my stomach. I put my arm around her shoulders and lean back against the cushions.

“You must be sleeping better.” I consider her remark and wonder how she came to that conclusion.

“Not really.”

“You don’t seem ready to fall right into bed,” Alina says.

“I’ve got a lot on my mind.”

“Your boss must be very important to you.” She slides her hand up to my shoulder and around my neck, and I feel light pressure on the tendons back there. She rotates her fingertips slightly, and I stretch my neck against the motion. “You’re worried.”

It’s not a question, so I don’t answer. Answering feels like admitting something I’m not prepared to discuss when I’m really considering how much I trust the woman sitting beside me. I’m not even sure why I picked her up. I’m not in the mood for sex, and my mind is racing through too many possibilities to be able to sleep whether she’s here or not.

Who is she, anyway? What led her to turn tricks for a living?

“I don’t really know much about you,” I say.

“You’ve never asked much.”

“I suppose that’s true,” I admit, “though you’ve never asked me anything about myself either.”

“It’s not usually something I’d do,” Alina says. “Most clients want to keep things rather impersonal, protect their true identities and such.”