For a second, it looks like he wants to defend it, or say something else to make me feel better. But then he visibly gives up. “Fine, whatever. But you can’t say I’m wrong about it being distracting for you. And that youshouldtake the next two months off while you’re training for this fight.”
Damnit.He’s right. Dating is only making me disappointed and depressed lately.
“Yeah, okay,” I relent with a huff. “No more dating.”
He nods. “Good.” And maybe in an attempt to make me feel better, he adds, “But hey, feel free to keep the occasional booty call. You know they’ve debunked the ‘no sex before a fight’ thing. It’s just the emotional shit you’ve got to stay away from.”
At this rate, that’s all I’ll have. I’m going to die a spinster with a roster.
I try for an amused smile. “You know, you really take modern coaching to a whole new level.”
He grins. “Most guys would be grateful. Have sex but don’t catch feelings.”
Most guys probablywouldbe grateful.
Leave it to me to be the only one who reaches the opposite of a mid-life crisis at thirty years old.
TWO
SCARLETT
The lipstick slides over my lips, smooth as silk.
Most escorts wouldn’t wear lipstick to an appointment, but I have a no-kissing rule that makes it a non-issue for me.
The fact that it acts as armor that hardens me against the world is just a bonus.
I lean back, taking in my reflection in the mirror of my vanity. I have a very specific routine before my appointments, a routine that takes me exactly two and a half hours to attain the perfect look.
My blonde hair has been expertly blown out, the volume offering the ideal grip for chubby, greedy hands. My makeup is flawless; there’s not a pore in sight, and my eye look is simple but perfect.
I’m wearing a modest black dress today, because even though my red lingerie beneath it screamswhore, I still need to be conscious of my appearance in public, given that my profession isn’t necessarily legal. I need to be strategic about how I look and when. It’s the reason I’m such a perfectionist.
Well, one of the reasons.
It’s a woman’s job to always look presentable, Scarlett.
My spine stiffens, my darkened eyelashes fluttering quickly as I try to blink away the memory of my mother’s voice.
When I was a teenager, her voice was the thing that drove my actions—both consciously and unconsciously. Every time I looked in the mirror, every time I thought about food…any time a man was nearby.
When I left home, somehow, the voice got louder. To the point that I had to actively work on shutting it out.
Taking a deep breath, I shake my head, loosening some of my curls. I hurriedly reach for the hairspray, hands shaky from my trip down memory lane, and accidentally knock over another spray bottle.
God, what is with me tonight?
Her voice used to consume me. It took me months,years, to get to the point where I could shut her out—save for a few tiny moments when she slips back in.
Like tonight.
Directing all my focus to my hair, I spray and smooth the strands until there isn’t a single one out of place. Unfortunately, the easiest way to erase her voice has always been to achieve perfection. God knows that woman was only quiet when she ran out of critiques.
Sure enough, when I confirm in the mirror that my appearance is perfect, the sounds of the city filter back in and the room fills with air again. I can breathe.
Glancing down at my phone, I realize I’m out of time. Gathering the purse with all my essentials—lipstick, condoms, wipes, and pepper spray—I quickly slip on my heels before walking out the door.
Once I get to the hotel where my client’s waiting, I’ll add a little curve to my spine and shorten my strides to avoid any attention, but for now, I settle into the confident façade that comes so easily to me.
