But it’s not Jasmine who answers. Instead, Iris’s voice comes through the speaker. “I need you to go get Henri. She’s with a client right now and texted me she needs help.”
“Are you sure I should?” I ask, but I’m already on my feet, heading to the door.
“You’re closer than we are. Jas said the address is a block away from your place. And don’t you dare say no. It’s your fault she took this last minute job in the first place.”
Shoving my feet into my shoes, I balance my phone, pressing it between my cheek and shoulder. “Don’t worry, I’m almost out the door. What do you mean it’s my fault?”
Iris sighs. “She doesn’t like talking about money, so she won’t tell me outright. But after the article dropped she keeps getting these calls that I’m pretty sure are cancellations. She told me about her date tonight at the last minute, which she never does. So I’m assuming she’s only doing it because she needs to.”
Shit. Well, at least I know why she’s not talking to me. I hate the idea that I might have pressured her into something that ended up hurting her.
“All right, send me the address.”
8
Henri
Can you stop checking your phone,” Jasper demands as we stand next to the thoroughly picked over remnants of the office party’s buffet that’s been set up in the open reception area of the law firm where he works. A cheap move, but I don’t work here so I don’t exactly have a right to complain about the thrown together affair.
Can you stop trying to touch my ass,I want to say. Instead, I put my phone away, plaster a smile on my face, and tell him, “Sorry, I have a friend who’s been in the hospital a lot lately.” Not exactly a lie, just an omission about why said friend is there.
“You promised me your full attention tonight. Isn’t that what I’m paying you for? You look good and help make me look good.” His hand slides down my waist to my hip, again. “You look great by the way.”
Pinching his hand between my thumb and forefinger I remove it and step away so there’s a foot between us. “Thank you. I’m aprofessional.” I shouldn’t have taken this job. He’s the exact type of guy I’d reject after an initial meeting. Slimy and entitled.Iris,if you could hurry up with the getaway car or emergency call that would be great.
“So you have a lot of experience then?” Suggestion drenches his words.
“If you read your contract, then you’d know if you continue this behavior I’ll leave without processing a refund.”
“C’mon, all that legal shit is just to cover your ass—make what you do seem legit.”
Sex work is work, hard work, but it’s not what I do.
I’m not above kneeing this guy in the balls in front of all his coworkers, but I’d prefer not to. Angry customers are dangerous. Not just physically, but they could also leak my information. It doesn’t matter if they’ve signed an ironclad NDA. Angry men are unpredictable and their unpredictability ruins lives while they get to walk away with a slap on the wrist.
Stupid. I was so stupid.
Wanting and wishing for a dream life made me reckless.
“I’m leaving,” I say, ducking away from him. I take a step and a hand wraps around my wrist. As I tug, his grip tightens, making my eyes water with the shock of pain that radiates from the pressure.
“Bitch,” he hisses. “I want what I paid for.”
No one around us notices. The party has been going for two hours, moving past the point of casual chats and into drunken-mistakes-turned-HR-violation territory.
Bunching the skirt of my dress in my free hand, I stomp firmly on his instep, grinding my foot into his shiny leather loafer. It’s painful, or startling enough, for him to let go. I don’t look back to see the damage as I weave through swaying bodies. Men with their ties undone, dangling loose around their necks. Women dancing with their heels in one hand and drink in the other. My gaze remains fixed on the glow of the exit sign; the only stop I make is to grab my coat.
I shove through the door and slam into what feels like a wall. One that wasn’t there when I came through these exact same doors earlier.
“Fuck,” I yelp and stumble away from the structural anomaly.
Firm hands land on my shoulders, steadying me. “Henri, are you okay?”
I flinch at the sudden contact. “Liam, what are you doing here?” As I register the familiar voice, I tilt my head back to see him looking down at me, his unkempt brown hair hanging over wild, searching eyes. His face is the picture of unbridled concern.
“Iris,” he explains, his voice is thin and breathy as if he ran here. “But it seems like you were just leaving.”
I take his hand at the reminder that I need to get the hell out and start guiding him down the hall toward the elevator bay. “Yes, the princess saves herself in this one. But let’s not wait around and see if I actually need reinforcements.”
