Page 7 of Resist

With a shake of my head, I turn to his profile and reacquaint myself with it, even though I know every detail by heart, as is my habit. I skim over it. Ryker Lockhart, age thirty-five. One of New York’s high-powered divorce attorneys with a net worth astronomical enough to keep him in luxurious penthouses and lavish cars for more than a lifetime.

Too bad all that money and status can’t buy the man some favor, because anyone I know who’s gotten close enough to even call him an acquaintance says he’s so aloof that you can’t figure out if he’s really an asshole or just playing the part.

I study his image longer than I should.

Definitely a legitimate asshole.

Good thing for me I have enough to keep him in line. Just like all of my clients, Ryker has a skeleton or two in his closet that I’ll keep close to my vest for safekeeping should the need to use it arise.

I flip through his completed profile questionnaire. His likes and dislikes in a woman are pretty typical—nothing one of my girls can’t provide for him. The only difference from my other clients is his stipulation that, in not so many words, requires his chosen girl to jump when he snaps his fingers.

Most men would like to think that’s how women react to them but deep down know otherwise.

Ryker Lockhart actually made me put it in his contract.

One woman. Available to him at all times.

Easy enough in my line of business. Not so easy when his chosen escort is the now-bruised Lola.

But I agreed to the add in the contract because I’ve learned men are simple creatures. Either they want the same woman time and again so they feel like she adores them and wants them, and it builds their ego, or the man wants multiple women. A new date each time to feed their insatiable sexual appetite, while at the same time wanting anyone who sees them out and about to equate numerous gorgeous women with their status as players.

Both reasons are screwed up.

Both reasons are why men and sex and the interconnection of the two are nothing more than something to manipulate to my benefit.

But now I’m the one who’s screwed.

Ryker’s a new client. One I’ve wooed my way after hearing through the grapevine that he was in the market for a service. Funny thing is, I thought he was reaching out to me in the hope of helping his affluent clients. Men who have more money than they know what to do with and are feeling a little reckless now that they’ve gotten rid of the old ball and chain after so many years with it cinched tight. What better way to celebrate your divorce than with some great, no-strings-no-emotion-in-the-way sex?

So I threw the kitchen sink at Ryker. A few extras, a couple of discounts . . . and a lot of promises. Little did I know that the first client he was going to throw my way was himself.

And now I’m backed into a corner. Now I have to make good on all of my promises, and the first one out of the gate—that Lola is going to be his companion for the night—isn’t going to happen.

I look down at my phone and fire off a quick, cowardly text to him and prepare to kiss all of his influence and referrals goodbye. Because making Ryker happy would mean getting more clients. More clients would mean more income. And more income would mean I could pay off this looming debt quicker. Then I’d be able to sell my list of contacts to a rival escort service, allowing me to be free and clear of this realm I’ve unexpectedly found myself immersed in.

Running Wicked Ways was always supposed to be a means to an end. A fast-track means but a means nonetheless. Too much risk can catch up with you, and after everything with the senator last night, it’s now more apparent than ever that I’m threading a needle I don’t want to sew with.

Please don’t screw this up for me. Please be understanding.

I close my eyes for a minute, willing this to be true as the soft New York breeze blows in through my open windows. The kids are out playing their daily game of baseball in the street, their “Hey, batter, batter” hitting my ears every now and again.

When I open my eyes, they find the picture on my desk that takes me back to my own childhood, where we played games on the sidewalks till the streetlights came on. The image is grainy, but I am standing beside my sister, Samantha. Her arm is slung over my shoulder, and our mother is standing behind us, smile wide just above our heads. Happier times. Times when giggles were free, love was constant, and our mom’s hugs were given out no matter the problem.

Back before her accident.

The picture makes me long to see Lucy, her smiling face and bobbing pigtails, again. She’s the only family I have left, and even though it’s only been a few days since I last saw her, I can’t wait to wrap my arms around her.

My love for that little girl is fierce.

But she’s part of my other life. The life I hope to be able to settle into once I put this all behind me.

One day soon . . .

And that’s why I need to focus on work—on my newest client, on getting Lola better—so that I can provide for Lucy and prove that she’s meant to be with me. That she belongs here.

I startle when my work cell rings. Speak of the devil.

“Mr. Lockhart, to what do I owe this pleasure?” I ask in a throaty voice as I slip into the role and act as if the text I sent, telling him to pick another girl to meet his needs tonight, wasn’t something out of the ordinary.