Nocturnes (11 page)

“You said it yourself. You’re a whore. For enough money,
anybody
can own you.”

She picks up her piping-hot coffee. “That’s where you’re wrong. Whores are like library books. You can check them out for a week or two, but you still have to return them when you’re done.”

“There’s no rule that says I can’t keep checking you out. Over and over and over again.” I lick my lips and totally check out her tits straining under the shirt.

A slow grin spreads over her face like melting butter. “It’s still just borrowing, babe.”

“Semantics. So, back to my original offer. I’ll give you five hundred to be with me. Alone. For one night.”

Unexpected frosty laughter thickens the blood in my veins to the consistency of a Slushie.

“What’s so funny?” I demand.

She returns her coffee cup to the table. Bent over with an apparent giggle fit, she can’t seem to catch her breath. After several more seconds, she straightens, wipes the corners of her eyes, and slams me in the gut with a “bless your heart” smile.

“Five hundred bucks wouldn’t even cover a kiss on your little man’s helmet.” She drops her gaze to my zipper and laughs some more.

I force myself not to squirm. “Then, how much?”

“Ten grand.”

I choke on my swallow. “
Nobody’s
worth that much.”
Way to go, ass face.

“Really?” She hitches a brow. “That’s what I get paid at Nocturnes.” The condescending look she levels on me makes me weak in the knees.

This woman scares the shit out of me. I must have her.

“For one fucking night?”
The pitch of my voice rises.

“Actually, it’s usually just an hour.” She sips from her mug.

Ten. Fucking. Grand. For an hour of hot, messy sex with Lola. Sad thing is, if I had that much money, I wouldn’t bat an eye about giving it to her.

“Call me when you’re sober, and we’ll talk.”

I shake out of my daze. “I need your number to do that.”

“I was speaking metaphorically.”

I fish around my inside jacket pocket for a pen. My fingers brush the little black notebook on the way out, reminding me that my new song lyrics—courtesy of Lola and Mother Nature a few minutes ago—and I have a date with the pages as soon as I’m alone. I bite off the pen’s lid and reach for her hand. Her eyes widen, and she jerks away, cradling her fingers to her sternum as if I hurt her.

“No writing on me.” A trace of desperation splits her voice.

“Okay…” Frowning, I slide out the sugar-covered doily resting in the cup’s saucer, shake it off, and jot my cell number on it.

Apologize for being an asshole, you asshole.

I push the fancy paper toward her. She fumbles through her purse, produces a business card, and exchanges with me. My heart trips over itself. Then I read the information. A fucking taxi company.

Slender white fingers top the back of my hand, and I look at her. Sincerity wipes out all traces of the condescension from before. A small crease of hope furrows her uplifted brow. God, her hand is warm on my cold, clammy one. I twist my wrist so our palms kiss, and I squeeze.

“If you ever find yourself in possession of car keys after having a few too many drinks, call that guy.” She gestures with her chin to the card. “Tell him Lola sent you, and he’ll take care of you.”

She severs our physical connection as she stands. Feels like she cut off my arm at the fucking elbow with no anesthesia.

I scramble for an excuse to keep her here while she tosses on her coat. “Wait. You said you had a couple of things to tell me. What else…did you want to say?”

Lola studies me for a long time. Same way Toombs used to when he wanted to speak his mind but feared upsetting me. She presses her lips into a thin smile and shakes her head. “Nothing else. Just stay away from Nocturnes. I’d hate for something bad to happen.” She turns. Pauses. Turns back. “Thanks for the coffee.”

“Oh, come on, Lola.” I reach toward her as she walks away.

Her black umbrella plumps at the entrance, and she blends into the night.

Side B: “Riders on the Storm”

Trying unsuccessfully to catch my breath, I skirt away from Café du Monde toward Jackson Square. Raindrops patter on the skin of my umbrella, heartbeats pound against my ribs, and rushing blood sears my veins.

Damn, people can be cruel. But the cruelest cuts of all usually bleed from the truth. That’s why they hurt so fucking much.

I was going along just fine until T-Rex stomped into my life and shattered my glass house. I’d been keeping my past in a chokehold, not even sparing a passing thought for my parents most days, moving forward at a happy little clip, pipe dreams at the ready. Then, BAM! Cue obnoxiously candid drunk guy whose presence not only reminds me of the tragedy that probably made me who I am, but also points out that I am, indeed, nothing more than a whore. And not likely to ever be anything else.

And that shit he said about how people perceive him as one thing when underneath he’s really another? The parallels to my own “godhood” were downright chilling. Rex and I are kindred spirits.

And I was certain I was truly alone.

What a fucking illusion I’ve been living. A bald-faced lie wrapped up in pretty white lace. I told myself when I got promoted from the floor at Nocturnes that Hell was just another job—like dancing. That I’d simply bury my emotions and let people use my body as they wish so I could reach my goal of a happily ever after and move on from the shitty hand life dealt me as a kid. Take a few knocks, endure some pain with a side of humiliation, but in the end, it’s worth it.

Now…I’m not so sure.

I cross the street, scanning for somewhere to veg. Can’t go home right now. I need to think. Jackson Square is devoid of human life. There’s no cover. It’s perfect.

Darting through puddles, I traverse the sidewalks toward a patch of trees near St. Ann Street and commandeer a bench. It’s soaking wet, of course, but I don’t care. I look up at the umbrella shielding my head and snap it shut. Sitting here in the rain is the messiest this body’s allowed to get for as long as Nocturnes owns it, but tonight, I
need
messy. It complements my mood.

Fuck Rico and the club’s rules. I drop the umbrella to the ground and draw up my feet, making a tight ball of myself. Arms hug my shins, and I rub the spot on my finger where Mama’s ring used to live. The only real memento of my dear parents—my good luck charm—is gone.

My head rests on top of my knees, and I do something I haven’t allowed myself to do since I was twelve.

I feel.

My supersensitive skin registers dozens of drops every second. My perfectly coiffed hair dissolves into a disheveled mass of tangled keratin. Mascara runs, tackling the slope of my nose, and launching black dots onto my arm.

This
is who I am.

Beautiful Eve Belikov is ugly and hollow inside.

Footsteps disrupt the steady rhythm of the splatters. I lift my head. Shit. Maybe it’s a homeless person looking for a place to sleep. No, not on a night like this. They’d want someplace sheltered.

Could be a cop.

Or a mugger.

Or…worse.

Without my lucky ring…

Squinting through the thickening sheets of rain, I focus on slowing my hasty breaths.
In and out.

Run, Eve. Get the hell out of here.

I grab the umbrella, clutch my purse, and take off—high-heeled boots be damned. A flick of a glance behind reveals a figure rushing toward me. Between the rain and the darkness, I’m almost blind. The valves in my heart explode with energy.

“Lola.”

I hesitate.

Rex skids to a stop two feet before me, huffing and puffing.

“You fucking asshole!” Shaking from top to bottom, I slap his face as hard as I can.

His head rolls with the impact, but he maintains his footing. He shakes off like a wet dog, and when his chin lifts, his eyes beam with fiery determination. The diluted glaze from earlier has boiled away. What’s left is concentrated hunger. Desire. Control.

Shoulders rising and falling with heavy breaths, he targets me in his sights. I’m a deer frozen in the headlights of his stormy eyes. “You’re gonna have to call the cops to get rid of me, Lola. Do what you gotta do, but I ain’t leaving willingly. Not this time.”

My chest heaves too. I’m torn. This guy is no good for me. He’s a creepy, obsessive stalker. And a heartless bastard. And an alcoholic who lost my ring. And—

For some sick reason I can’t fathom…I not only
get
him, but I
want
him.

I yank my new phone out of my coat pocket. “Have it your way.” I type 911 on the keypad. My thumb hovers over the call button. Water drips from my hair onto the screen, blurring the numbers.

Push the button, idiot. Do it now.

Rex inches closer, gaze centered on my shaking fingers. He palms my small hand with his big one. The blazing elixir of fear and desire coursing through me is like a drug. It makes me slow. And apparently stupid.

Rain pours. Our gazes lock. His pierced lips collide with mine, a rocket on an exploratory mission, knocking me back a step. He catches me, pulls me closer. Strong hands. A man’s most important feature.

I should fight, push him off, kick him in the nads, and run like hell. Instead, I drag that eager mouth harder into mine. The pilot light between my legs ignites in full-blown flame, and I channel the resulting fire into our kiss. Teeth clack, tongues twist, my heart hammers. He herds me to the nearest bench without missing a beat or giving me time to catch my breath. The backs of my knees strike wet metal slats, and this time I do fall. With him on top of me.

Seizing the opportunity in the split second of recovery time when our lips bounce apart from the impact, I press my palms to his chest and force him to pause with me. We’re too big for the bench. It’s pouring rain. He’s drunk. And I’m vulnerable. Nothing good will come of this.

“Rex—” My voice barely penetrates the sluicing rain. I hate how desperate I sound.

“It’s
Rax
, goddamn it.”

“Rax—”

His angry expression softens by a shade, and the corner of his lip curls up. “Say it again.” His voice loses some of its kick, but not much. The hint of softness assures me I’m safe. For now.

My senses return long enough to register the weight of his body on mine. I picture him slipping his cock inside me, just like this. Missionary. With lots of kissing. And tenderness. Though the fantasy is utterly foreign to me, it’s appealing as hell. Imagine having sex with a guy you actually connect with.

He thrusts his hips into mine and knees my leg apart. “Say my name.” This time the words are gruff, demanding. My body responds, activating nerve centers I didn’t know I had, placing them on high alert.

I swipe his cheek. Water dribbles from his face onto mine. I lick one of the drops. The next thrust means business. I gasp at the jab. My head spins into a vortex of sensory overload.

“I said say my name, Lola. Fucking scream it.” This time the rock-hard object of my pussy’s desire rubs my exposed clit through his jeans. Skirt must’ve ridden up.

My lip trembles. I bite it, staring into those wicked eyes. “Rax,” I whisper.

“I can’t hear you.” His volume increases. He jams his cock hard again, and the muscles in his shoulder tighten like rope through his shirt. When did my hands get under his open coat? Shit. I haven’t been this flustered since when I was a teenager first exploring my sexuality.

My nipples shrink and harden to eager buds begging to be tasted. Dear God. I’m a mess. A wet, steaming—

Thrust.
His pupils explode with blackness. “Say it.”

“Rax.”

Thrust.
“Louder.”

“Rax.”

Thrust.
If we had a headboard, there’d be a hole in it. “Goddamn it, make me famous. Scream my fucking name, Lola!”

Pelted by pounding rain, yet parched with need, I yell, “Rax! Your name is Rax.”

He pauses. Smiles. “Yeah, Rax fucking Wrathbone. Don’t you fucking forget it.”

Pretty sure I’ve got it now.

And then I score the drink that banishes the insatiable thirst. Another kiss powered by unyielding forward motion knocks the wind out of me. My fingers tangle in his loose, slick curls, stroking, pulling. His nose swipes mine as he jerks his neck, nudging my head aside. Teeth graze the length of my throat. I fight for air, but I must be losing. I’m so dizzy, I can’t think straight.

I should be repulsed by this guy, but instead, my lack of true, relevant intimacy compels me to look more deeply into our two-way mirror. I gotta see what lies on the other side.

Kneading my breasts through the sheer black shirt, he slows the kiss down, somehow thickens the endless swell of emotion fucking up my head. Our chests bob to the same rhythm on this sea of lust, and his hips join in. At least the puddle between my legs will blend in with my soaked clothes.

He backs down and suckles my nipple through the shirt. The combination of cold rain and hot tongue sends shivers through me. I feel everything. Rough scrapes of saturated denim against bare thighs. He tugs my disheveled skirt all the way up. Unlike so many of the clueless guys I’ve fucked, he aims for his target and hits it on the first try. A seductive grin splits his face when his fingers find home. I squeeze my legs together, but the flowing juices betray me, giving him the go-ahead. I brace my head against the unforgiving metal slats, arch my back, and let him in.

“Your naked little pussy likes being finger-banged, doesn’t it, Lola?” His breath caresses my cheek.

And that’s when the alarms sound inside my head. Nope. Can’t do this after all.

I freeze. He freezes.

“Stop.” Struggling to sit, I push him up and off. “Stop. I have to leave.”

His face morphs from that of an experienced sex god to a shamed little boy. He relents, kneels between my legs and holds up his hands. Those five words must’ve triggered something for him. Good. Because they sure as shit triggered something for me.