The memory of Cole's face when he'd realized what I was doing twisted in my gut. Not anger—I could have handled anger. It was the disgust that cut deepest. Like I was something stuck to the bottom of his expensive shoe. "You think I want to act like a hooker?" My own words echoed in my head. The truth was, I didn't know what I was anymore. Just barely surviving. I hadn’t gone there yet, but I was getting desperate enough to.
And it was what I’d been prepared to do with Cole.
I crossed another street, moving farther from downtown's bright lights. The neighborhoods grew rougher, buildings more weathered. My feet carried me automatically toward the river—there were spots under bridges where you could curl up and be relatively safe, if you didn't mind the rats and the smell.
And if you survived the cold.
Something caught my attention—a feeling—and prickles ran down the back of my spine. I glanced behind me nervously but there was no one following me. I tugged at the jacket nervously then swore. I’d automatically headed away from the street cams, used to blending in with the dark, but forgotten my clothes painted a huge fucking target on me.
I swerved and started jogging toward the main road, hearing footsteps behind me, and quickened my pace, adrenaline flooding my system. The expensive clothes that had been my disguise now made me a target—a drunk rich kid wandering into the wrong part of town. I cursed myself for not changing before I left.
"Hey! Nice jacket!" The voice came from my left, and I made the mistake of glancing over.
Three men detached from the shadows of an alley, spreading out to block my path. The tallest one, with a patchy beard and a Denver Broncos cap, grinned at me with nicotine-stained teeth. "You lost, pretty boy?" he asked, circling closer.
I backed up, calculating escape routes. "Just passing through."
"In those threads?" The second man snorted, eyeing Ricky's designer clothes. "What, Daddy cut off your allowance?"
I forced a laugh, trying to sound casual. "These? Knockoffs, man. Not even worth your time."
The third one, short but stocky with scarred knuckles, stepped closer. "Empty your pockets."
"Look, I've got nothing—" I started, but Broncos Cap cut me off.
"Bullshit. Rich boy like you? I bet that watch alone would pay my rent." The watch that was definitely a knockoff, but they wouldn’t believe it.
"It's a fake," I said, subtly angling toward the street. If I could just make it to the main road...
Scarred Knuckles lunged forward, grabbing my arm. "Give it up, or we take it."
I yanked back, desperation making me stupid. "Get off me!" The first punch caught me in the stomach, doubling me over. I gasped, the air rushing from my lungs in a painful whoosh. The second hit connected with my jaw, snapping my head back.
"Not so pretty now, are you?" Broncos Cap laughed, grabbing my collar and slamming me against the brick wall. I fought back, landing a solid kick to someone's knee, but it was three against one. A fist connected with my ribs, then my face. I tasted blood, metallic and warm. The watch was wrenched from my wrist, my pockets turned inside out.
"Seventeen fucking dollars?" Scarred Knuckles spat. "You holding out on us?"
"That's it," I wheezed through the pain. "That's all I have."
Broncos Cap shoved me to the ground. "Waste of our time." A boot connected with my side, then another. I curled into a ball, protecting my head as they kicked and swore. The pain blossomed, sharp and then dull, spreading through my body like hammers, each impact driving deeper into my bones.
"Fucking waste," one of them muttered, giving me a final kick to the kidneys that made stars explode behind my eyelids. Their footsteps faded, leaving me gasping on the wet pavement. I lay there for what felt like hours but was probably only minutes, taking inventory. My lip was split, blood trickling down my chin. My ribs screamed with each breath—bruised, maybe cracked. The side of my face felt swollen, and when I touched my cheek, my fingers came away sticky.
The expensive clothes were torn now, dirt and blood staining the fabric. I'd have to find a way to replace them before returning them to Ricky. If I ever got the chance. Slowly, painfully, I pushed myself up to sitting. The world spun violently, and I had to press my forehead against my knees until it settled. When I finally looked up, the street was empty except for a stray cat picking through garbage.
I struggled to my feet, using the brick wall for support. Every movement sent fresh waves of pain through my body. The main road was only a block away, but it might as well have been miles. I limped forward, one hand pressed to my ribs, tasting blood with every breath. A car drove past without slowing. Then another. To them, I was just another junkie or drunk who'd gotten what was coming to him. In these clothes, beaten and bloody, I looked exactly like what they expected to find in this neighborhood.
I made it to the corner and leaned against a streetlight, breathing hard. The Avalon Hotel's lights were visible in the distance, a glittering reminder of how far I'd fallen in the span of an hour. Cole Armstrong was probably asleep by now, surrounded by Egyptian cotton sheets and climate control, while I bled on a street corner with nowhere to go.
The irony wasn't lost on me. I'd gone there to take advantage of someone else's pain, and ended up drowning in my own.
Chapter four
Blue line – The line that divides the neutral zone from the offensive and defensive zones.
Cole
I managed maybe two hours of sleep before giving up entirely. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Phoenix's face—first the practiced seduction, then the raw panic when he realized I'd caught him, and finally that flash of genuine hurt when I'd told him to get a decent job.
