Escort (A Standalone Romance Novel) (New York City Bad Boy Romance) (50 page)

“The
currency thing,” I tell her. “You know, when you went on for five minutes about
how to tell a Canadian dollar from an Australian dollar.”

“What
about it?” she asks.

Danger!
Danger!

“Never
mind,” I tell her. “It was nothing.”

“Tell
me,” she says.

“Well,
do you accept foreign currency?” I ask.

“Not
as a general rule, no,” she answers.

“Couldn’t
you have just told her that?” I ask.

She
sighs. “I know. As soon as I started going into that, I realized it was a
mistake, but I felt like I had to keep going with it until I reached a
believable stopping place. I just get so nervous with this sort of thing. I
really have no experience training managers.”

“I
know,” I tell her, “and I really am proud of you for what you’re doing. It’s
not easy to start doing things differently than you’re used to. I’d just say
try to relax a bit and it’ll come.”

She
starts the car and glances over at me.

“You
do
have a nice dick, by the way,” she
says, smiling.

I
chuckle, saying, “Why thank you, it’s always nice to be appreciated.”

“Do
you still want to go to lunch?” she asks.

“Yeah,
I could eat,” I tell her. “What are you in the mood for?”

“I
don’t know,” she says and starts to pull out of the parking spot.

Her
phone rings.

“Would
you mind answering that for me?” she asks. “I really don’t like to talk and
drive if it’s at all avoidable.”

“Sure
thing,” I tell her and pull the phone from her purse. I answer the phone with a
“hello?”

“Who’s
this?” a woman asks.

“This
is Eric,” I answer. “Jessica asked me to answer the phone.”

“Oh,”
the woman says, “this is Kristin, Jessica’s sister. Can you just tell her that Mom’s
in the hospital and she needs to get up there?”

I
cover the phone and tell Jessica to park the car.

“What’s
going on?” she asks.

I
hand her the phone and answer, “I think I should drive.”

When
we get to the hospital we walk through the doors and Jessica finds a nurse,
asking her where to find room 235. She points us in the right direction, and we
just go.

Kristin
didn’t have a lot of details for Jessica, but she said that there mom had
fallen and that the doctors were concerned that her cancer had spread farther
than they had thought.

I
hold her hand as we get on the elevator, but when the doors open, she runs out
ahead of me.

Kristin’s
coming down the hall, a look of terror on her eyes. As I approach, she says,
“They took her in for surgery. They’re going to try to remove all of the
cancer, but Jessica,
it’s
spread.”

“What
are they saying? Is she going to be all right?” I hear Jessica ask.

“I
don’t know,” Kristin says, tears forming and falling from her eyes. “It’s
really bad, Jessica. She’s had it for a long time, and they don’t know if
they’re going to be able to get it all or if they’re going to be able to treat
it. The doctor says he’s still…”

Jessica
hugs Kristin close, allowing both of them the security to break down. I want to
help, but I don’t want to be in their way, either.

I
don’t know what to do here.

“Where’s
Dad?” Jessica asks.

“He’s
in Mom’s room watching a World War II documentary,” Kristin laughs, breaking
some of the tension. “I think they’re up to the Battle of the Bulge.”

There’s
no sign from Jessica that she wants me to follow them, so, not wanting to
invade a very solemn family moment, I let Jessica know that I’ll be right out
here in the waiting room if she needs anything.

She
turns her head and says, “Thank you,” before walking off with her sister.

After
about an hour, I walk up to the room and ask if I can get anything for anyone.

The
father, startled by my presence, stands up and walks over to me, saying, “I’m Harold,
Jessica and Kristin’s father. You must be Eric.”

“I
am,” I answer and shake his hand. “I’m sorry to meet you under such difficult
circumstances.”

“Well,
we don’t pick the situations, the situations pick us,” he says. “It’s nice to
meet you.”

“I
didn’t know if anyone was hungry or thirsty or if you guys needed anything,” I
start.

Jessica
shakes her head and Kristin ignores me entirely. Harold thanks me for the
offer, but tells me that none of them are likely to eat anything until the
surgery’s completed.

“All
right,” I say. “Just let me know if you need anything. I’ll be right out here.”

“Can
I talk to you for a minute?” Jessica asks.

“Sure,”
I answer and we walk outside.

“I
appreciate what you’re doing,” she says when we’re clear of the doorway, “but you
really don’t have to stick around here. It’s probably going to be a while
before we hear anything, and I think it might be best if you head home and get
some sleep. I know I got you up really early and it’s already been a pretty
long day for you.”

“I
really don’t mind staying,” I tell her, “but if you’d feel more comfortable if
I were to go, then I’ll do that. Whatever you need.”

“Thanks,”
she says. “I’ll call you later, all right?”

“All
right,” I tell her. “Please do let me know if you need anything or if you want
to talk—”

“No,
that’s fine,” she snaps, then softens her tone. “I’ll let you know if we need
anything. You can take my car if you need,” she adds.

“I
couldn’t do that,” I start, but she doesn’t let me finish.

“Kristin
drove,” she says, “so she can drop me off on her way home.”

“All
right,” I tell her again. “Just call if you need anything.”

“I
will,” she says and smiles. “I’m sorry.”

“You
have nothing to be sorry about,” I tell her. “Let me know if you need to talk—”

“That’s
all right,” she says interrupting me. “I’d better get back in there.”

It’s
not until I’m down the hall, down the elevator, out the door of the hospital,
across the parking lot and starting up her car that I realize why she reacted
the way she did when I told her we could talk: My mother
died
of cancer.

*
                   
*
                   
*

I’m
home for a few hours before I convince myself that it’s all right to get some
sleep. I don’t dream, or if I do, I don’t remember any of it.

When
I wake, it’s to the sound of my phone chiming.

With
blurry eyes, I look at the screen.

It’s
a message from Jessica.

The
message reads, “If I were to stop by, is there any way that we could not talk
about my mother or your mother or anything to do with the word cancer?”

I
call her number, but she quickly rejects it.

A
message comes in a few seconds later, saying,
“
Is that
a yes or a no?”

“What
happened?” I write back. “Is everything okay?”

My
eyes are dry, so I close them, but I’m wide awake now.

The
phone chimes again and I read, “Never mind.”

I
quickly write back, “Yeah, we don’t have to talk about any of that.”

Wearing
nothing but an old pair of sweatpants, I get out of bed and head to the kitchen
to pour myself a glass of water.

My
phone chimes.

The
message reads, “Open your door.”

The
drink of water can wait.

I
head over to my door and look out the peephole. Sure enough, Jessica’s standing
just outside, her hands on her hips.

I
open the door and she walks in without a word.

“Hey,”
I tell her. “I didn’t know you had my address.”

“I
got it from Irene,” she says. “That’s the problem with having mutual friends:
it’s harder to escape one another.”

“Ah,
got
ya
,” I answer. “What’s up?”

“Can
we maybe just not talk about anything?” she asks.

“That
might be a little difficult,” I start, but as she turns to walk back out the
door, I add, “but I’m willing to try.”

“Good
enough,” she says. “Got anything to drink?”

“No,”
I tell her. “I don’t usually keep alcohol in the house. I don’t really drink
that often unless I’m out playing pool with…”

The
impatience coming from Jessica is pervasive.

“What
do you want to do?” I ask.

“This,”
she says, and in two long, but quick steps, she’s right in front of me, pulling
my head down toward her and pressing her lips into mine.

I
kiss her back and put my arms around her, the desire inside me going from zero
to a hundred miles per hour in nothing flat.

I
pull back after a few seconds and start, “Are you sure you’re—”

“Shut
the fuck up or I’m out the door,” she says.

If
those are my options, the choice is simple enough.

Despite
her seeming penchant for drinking when she’s stressed, I don’t taste any
alcohol as our lips meet and part and rejoin time and again.

She’s
pulling her shirt off and our mouths are hardly apart for a second as she lifts
the fabric over her head, unhooking and dropping her bra as a simple flourish
at the end of the motion.

“Tonight,”
she says, “I don’t want for us to have sex, I don’t want for you to make love
to me. Tonight, I want to fuck. Do you think you can handle that?”

A
lot inside of me is saying that this is wrong, but I remember what it was like
seeing my mom go in for treatment after treatment, surgery after surgery. If
our roles were reversed, I’d probably be looking for the exact same thing.

“Yeah,”
I tell her. “I can handle that.”

“Good,”
she says and pulls my pants down, my cock already hard.

She
slips her long skirt up and around her hips and she takes my hand, leading me
over to my own kitchen counter. Leaning forward, Jessica rests her arms on the
counter and her head on her arms.

I
position myself behind her and run my fingers over her slit.

She’s
already wet, so I slide myself inside.

The
next fifteen to twenty minutes—I don’t watch the clock—feel great physically,
but in every other way, it’s just detached, almost lonely.

Every
time I start to kiss her skin, she repositions herself and the only word she
ever says to me is, “Harder.”

When
I get close, I ask her where she wants me to come.

“Anywhere
but inside of me,” she says. “I’m not on birth control.”

When
I’m done, I grab a towel and go to clean her up, but she grabs the towel from
me and cleans herself. She turns around to face me, and she’s crying.

I
take her into my arms and her fingers curling into the skin of my back as she
sobs against my chest.

What
I want is to ask her what happened, but I don’t want her to up and leave, not
when she’s feeling like this.

At
this moment, I don’t know anything more than the fact that she’s still crying.

I
hook one strap of her shirt with my big toe, the shirt falls out of my grasp
and I grab it again.

“What
are you doing?” she asks.

“I
don’t want you to get cold,” I tell her and bring the shirt up to my hand and
give it to her.

“Thanks,”
she sniffs. “Do you have any tissues? I’m sorry I’m like this right now.”

“Don’t
worry about it,” I respond, still nervous to push for more information. “There
are tissues on the counter in the bathroom.”

“Would
you mind if I sleep here tonight?” she asks.

“Not
at all,” I tell her. “I’ll tell you what,” I smile, “you can even have the
bed.”

“You
mean it?” she asks. “I mean, it’s your bed. I’m not just going to kick you out
of it.”

“Whatever
would make you most comfortable,” I tell her.

Regardless
of anything else, I know what this feels like. Maybe what I felt isn’t exactly
what she’s feeling now, maybe it is. Either way, I know that gutted feeling.

“Thanks,”
she says and walks to the bathroom to grab a tissue for her nose and another
for her eyes.

I
give her some space while remaining close enough that she doesn’t even feel a
hint of alone right now.

She
comes back out of the bathroom with a blank expression on her face and she
doesn’t say anything as she walks past me toward the bedroom and shuts the door
behind her.

So,
this will be two nights on the couch. I could be irritated, but tonight’s not
the night for that.