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Her laugh was muffled due to her face being buried in my shirt. She pushed me away. “Go to work, you idiot. I need to try and find the kitchen floor under all this water.”

* * * *

The restaurant was heaving. At least being run off my feet kept my brain from cycling round in endless spirals with no resolution. I’d only had one obnoxious customer, which was substantially down on the usual average I encountered in an evening’s work. I’d done better than Kate, who was currently in the break room in absolute floods of tears bemoaning the asshole who’d demanded all his food be sent back to the kitchen—twice. I put an arm round her in an effort to console her. “Don’t let the dick get to you. He was just after a free meal.”

She wiped ineffectually at her face with a tissue, her mascara already smeared halfway down her face. “I know. But the chef thought it was my fault. He shouted at me. Told me it was my job to explain the menu properly to the customers.”

“Fuck the chef!”

She laughed, which caused her to hiccup and then cry all the harder. “You wish.”

I winked. “Maybe. He’d have to keep his mouth shut though. He spoils that good-looking façade as soon as he starts spouting rubbish.”

Kate blew her nose loudly. “I need to go and clear my tables.” She made a move to stand.

I shoved her gently back down. “I’ll do it. You go home and check on your daughter. I’ve got my own to clear anyway. It won’t take me too much longer to do both sets.”

“Are you sure?”

I nodded. She jumped up and kissed my cheek. “You’re a real sweetie, Dean. I have no idea why the hell you’re single. When’s your handsome prince going to arrive and sweep you off your feet?”

I picked up a cloth, ignoring the nagging feeling of fatigue and managed a smile. “Any day now, I’m sure. Think he’s gotten lost somewhere on the way.”

It was gone two before I managed to leave the restaurant. Taking on clean-up of Kate’s tables hadn’t been the best idea I’d ever had, given I had an audition the next morning which meant I had to be up by seven. Some great actor I was going to be on four hours’ sleep. Maybe, if I was lucky, the role would require someone to look extremely tired. Then I’d be the perfect candidate.

Chapter Four

The red door hadn’t become any less foreboding for knowing what lay behind it. It was still a faceless man who could be anybody. All I knew was I’d escaped unscathed once, so it was pretty unlikely that any horrible fate would befall me a second time. At least, I hoped not.

That time, I was quicker to get to the top of the stairs with my hand resting on the bedroom door handle. Pausing, I took a deep breath before pushing it open. It was no surprise to find the same suffocating darkness as the previous time, but it still didn’t make it any easier. I stood with my back plastered against the door, my eyes still fighting to try and make shapes out of the darkness, even though the rational part of my brain knew it was useless. “Hi, it’s me. Danny.”

The silence seemed to stretch on forever. I was just beginning to consider the possibility of the room being empty, when the husky whisper sounded from the same place as last time. “Clothes off. On the bed.” Great! The mystery voice has even less to say today.

Georgia had a great many theories on why the man spoke in a whisper, and had insisted on sharing them, whether I wanted to hear them or not. She’d used her first theory: a belief the man might be suffering from a disease like emphysema to back up her earlier assumption that the man might be really old. She’d eventually talked herself out of that one, surmising that if he was that old, he wouldn’t have been able to get it up. I’d decided against pointing out the wonders of Viagra. Her next theory had centered around the possibility of the man being someone famous. She’d really gone to town on that one, detailing how I could go to the newspapers and make some serious money when I found out his true identity. She hadn’t seemed to consider the fact that even if it were true, I’d hardly want the whole world to know that I had sex for money, even if it was with a celebrity. There had been other theories, but to be honest, I’d stopped listening by then. She didn’t seem to understand that while she found that an amusing flight of fantasy from her real-life stresses, it was my real life, and at the end of the day, I still had to go and have sex with him. Whoever he was. Her last instruction had been to pay more attention, look for clues, so we could work something out.

I let my jeans drop to the floor, my fingers brushing the envelope full of money in the pocket: the reminder of why I was there. The new washing machine was due to arrive the following day, I just needed to earn the money to pay for it. I’d overthought this imminent visit over the past couple of days; unable to decide what would be worse, the possibility that I might enjoy it just as much as the last time or the fear I wouldn’t.

Naked, I took the few cautious steps forward that would bring me into contact with the bed. I bit back a curse as, yet again, I managed to walk into it. Automatically assuming the same position as last time, I lay, listening to the sound of my own breathing. It was the only sound in the room. Since speaking those few words, the voice had remained completely silent. “Jay?” No response. I tried again. “I’m on the bed.” Still no response. It was seriously weirding me out. I tried another tack. “Getting kind of lonely now. Are you going to come over here?”

“Sorry.”

I frowned into the darkness. Sorry, what? Sorry, no, I’m going to stay over here. Sorry, but I want you to leave. Sorry, you have to have sex for money. Sorry, my Viagra hasn’t kicked in yet, I need to wait a bit longer before I can perform. There was no further explanation. “Do you want me to go?”

The bed dipped beside me. I let out the breath I hadn’t even realized I’d been holding.

I felt the heat of the hand, a few seconds before it finally made contact with my back. “No. Do you remember the rules?”

“No touching.”

“That’s right. Keep your hands on the bed. Faceup.”

I don’t know why it came as a surprise that he wanted me to roll over. I did as he’d requested, staring sightlessly at a ceiling I couldn’t even see. I guess I’d expected it to follow the exact same pattern as last time. The change made me nervous. Correction, even more nervous. Lying on my back, it was hard to know what to do with my hands. The temptation to reach out and grasp onto something, anything, was much greater. I curled my fingers into my palms and waited.

Hands landed on my chest, subjecting it to the same thorough exploration as my back on the previous visit. I bit my lip when the fingers moved to my nipples, unwilling to give away to a complete stranger how sensitive they were. But somehow, he seemed to sense it. And the fingers kept returning, kept circling, rubbing and pinching, until I was finally unable to hold back a gasp. That seemed to give him the green light and he spent a long time teasing them, my moans of appreciation now coming at regular intervals.

When his hands moved away, I wasn’t sure whether it was a blessing or a curse. I fought to regain composure as the talented fingers moved to my stomach. So much for worrying I might not find it as enjoyable as last time. He’d barely touched anything, apart from my nipples, and I was already ready to go up in flames. I was beginning to feel like I should be paying him.

The fingers continued mapping my body, moving from feet to neck. I’d never considered my feet as an erogenous zone before, but as his fingers traced over the arch of my foot, I was forced to reconsider. A sudden thought sprung to mind. Was he blind? Could that explain the darkness? Explain why he was spending so long learning my whole body.