He moved quickly. "I think I’d better leave—"
I caught his wrist as he moved to get up, not roughly, but firmly enough he wasn’t going anywhere. "Be honest, if that’s even possible. Did my father arrange this?" The silence stretched between us, heavy with unspoken truths. Phoenix's pulse raced beneath my fingers, his skin too warm, too fragile.
"Not exactly," he finally said, voice barely above a whisper.
"Not exactly," I repeated. "Meaning?"
Phoenix looked away, shame and defiance warring on his face. "I needed money. Someone suggested you might be a good target, because of him."
"Target." The word tasted bitter. For what, exactly? Blackmail? “Is that what the camera is for?" I nodded toward the lamp without looking at it.
He flinched. "I—"
"Don’t even try it,” I snapped. “What was the plan? Sell the footage to the highest bidder? Leak it to the press? Or just hand it directly to my father so he has one more thing to hold over my head?" I snatched the camera and dropped it on the wooden floor, bringing the heel of my shoe down firmly on it. Then I lunged for his phone before he could stop me and gave it the same treatment. It splintered. I bent down and removed the casing. Another two stomps finished it off.
Phoenix just stared at the ruined phone. I stood up. “Who else was in on this?” Phoenix shook his head, but his nerves were obvious.
“I can’t—”
“The barman.” I answered my own question. I’d thought he was just a heavy pourer, but it had been deliberate. “I hope he isn’t a good friend because he’s going to lose his job.”
“No,” Phoenix stammered in panic. “They have a baby—” He cut himself off a second too late.
I scoffed. “Sure, and a mother with cancer?”
Phoenix looked like he'd been slapped. His mouth opened and closed, no sound coming out. I could read the calculation in his eyes—trying to decide which lie would work best. "I..." he finally managed, voice small. "It's not what you think."
"Isn't it?" I kept my distance now, leaning against the dresser. "Let me guess—you're in some kind of trouble. Debt? Legal issues? Someone suggested an easy mark—the closeted hockey player with the controlling father. Get some compromising footage, then either sell it to the tabloids or blackmail me directly."
His silence confirmed everything. I ran a hand through my hair, exhaustion hitting me harder than any check on the ice ever had. “Get out.”
He scrambled up and practically ran for his clothes.
“Don’t expect to get inside this or any hotel in this group again. You make me sick. Get a decent fucking job,” I sneered. But it was an empty threat. I didn’t dare tell anyone who might have a link to my father.
Phoenix stumbled to a halt, clutching the clothes to his chest. "Get adecentjob?" He spun around, anger flaring through his panic. "That's your answer? Like I haven't tried? Like I haven't applied to every fucking restaurant, store, and warehouse in this city? You think I want to be here? You think I want to act like ahooker?" he spat out.
But I didn’t care. I was sick of being manipulated for money or power. They were all the same. I heard the door slam, but I didn’t go and check. Good fucking riddance.
I sat on the edge of the bed and hung my head. I was just so tired of everything, but just to be certain, I got up and made sure the door was double locked.
A vision of a shy smile and a too-thin body swam into my head, then a look of hurt and enough self-disgust to match mine.“You think I want to act like a hooker?”I shook my head to clear it. I knew it had all been a pack of lies. He was probably lining up his next mark right now.
Probably.
I just wasn’t so sure.
Phoenix
The night air hit me like a slap—cold, sharp, and unforgiving. Denver's streets gleamed with recent rain, reflecting neon signs and streetlights in puddles that splashed against my borrowed shoes as I stumbled away from the Avalon. My hands wouldn't stop shaking. I'd fucked up. Monumentally, catastrophically fucked up.
"Stupid, stupid, stupid," I muttered, clutching Ricky's designer clothes around me. The clothes that had been my costume, my ticket to something better. Now they felt like a joke at my expense.
I couldn't go to Ricky's place. Not after what Armstrong had said. If he followed through, if he got Ricky fired... I couldn't risk making things worse. The baby already had enough problems without adding homelessness to the mix.
The shelters would be full by now. They always were after ten, and it was pushing midnight. The temperature was dropping, and my thin jacket did nothing against the January chill. I had exactly seventeen dollars and thirty-eight cents in my pocket—not enough for even the cheapest motel. I turned down a side street, away from the hotel's security cameras.
My mind raced through options, each worse than the last. Fourth and Kalamath was out—too many predators waiting for fresh meat, and I'd burned bridges there last time. Union Station might have a quiet corner if I kept moving enough to avoid the cops. I was desperate enough to try. Or maybe the abandoned warehouse near the tracks, though the junkies there were unpredictable at best.
