His Page 2

  But he’d surprised me and helped us. I’ll never forget it. Now we’re a threesome. Me, my kid sister, and a thirty-six-year-old Mexican man with a wicked scar across his cheek and only one hand.

  But Bean can take care of business with the hand he has left. I trust him with Bethy. Without him, I don’t know if we’d still be here. Even with his help, in dark moments I’ve considered surrendering to the people who are looking for Bethy and me.

  No.

  Every time that thought creeps in, I dig deep and find the strength to keep going. We’ve been living this life for four and a half years. What’s two more?

  Bethy coughs and I stiffen. That hacking sound is one of the reasons I decided to come back down to the tunnels at night. Bethy’s sick, and we can’t keep sleeping outside in this weather.

  The glow of a lantern ahead illuminates the forms of around a dozen people. My hand instinctively lowers to the knife strapped to my thigh.

  “Me first,” Bean says when we’re close enough that people start turning to look at us. He pushes his way through the group and into the darkened alcove where we’ll sleep tonight.

  It smells like pot smoke and vomit. But the icy wind isn’t cutting into my skin like it does outside. I’ll make that trade.

  Bethy shrugs off the sleeping bag strapped to her back, and I help her spread it out. Her eyes meet mine as she crawls inside, and even in the dim light of the nearby lantern I see the question there.

  Are we eating tonight?

  She won’t ask me out loud. She learned a long time ago that asking just reminds us how hungry we are. I kind of wish she would ask me, though. I wish she’d give me a dirty look and say she hates me for taking away her warm bed and full stomach at home in exchange for this.

  The guilt eats me up. I wish she’d confront me about this miserable existence. I wouldn’t even try to defend myself at this point.

  But she won’t. She trusts me completely. She keeps me up when I get down. And that makes it so much worse when I fail her.

  “I’ll go up for food,” I say. Her eyes light hopefully.

  “I got it,” Bean says, zipping up his worn canvas coat.

  “You sure?”

  He takes a small handgun from his pocket and passes it to me.

  “Take my gun,” he says loudly. “It’s loaded.”

  Several heads swivel in our direction. Bean just protected us with his words. I take the weapon and nod.

  His boots crunch against the shards of gravel on the ground as he heads away from the tunnel. I sit with my back to Bethy, the gun in my lap. Its presence will scare off most people who’d consider jumping us, but others are crazy and desperate enough to jump me in an attempt to steal the gun.

  I hope Bean comes through with food. Between a decent meal and some rest, Bethy might be feeling better tomorrow.

  A man with a long beard and wild eyes studies me from twenty feet away. I cock the gun and point it at him. He turns away, and I lower it back to my lap, sighing.

  Sometimes surviving is exhausting.

  Bethy is coughing so hard she has to stop walking. She bends over and takes a few deep breaths, but she immediately starts coughing again right after.

  Bean locks eyes with me for an instant. He’s worried. I am, too. I’m about out of my mind with worry. It’s been three days since we started sleeping in the tunnel, and Bethy’s cough has only gotten worse.

  “It’s okay,” I say, placing a hand on her back.

  But it’s not. She needs rest and food, and maybe medicine, too. We have to clear out of the tunnels at sunrise every morning. That’s an unwritten rule of sleeping down there. If we get busted, we’ll all lose out, so we only stay there when it’s dark.

  “I hear there’s a free clinic downtown,” Bean says.

  “No.”

  His eyes narrow slightly, but he doesn’t press me. Bean doesn’t know why I refuse to go anywhere that requires ID, but he knows I’m adamant about it.

  Bethy stands back up, squares her shoulders and gives us a weak smile. Her eyes are red-rimmed, and her collarbone has become more prominent. A knot of tension forms in my stomach.

  “She can give ’em a fake name,” Bean mumbles.

  “No,” I say sharply. “I have another plan.”

  His brows shoot up in question. The doubt in his expression forces my gaze to Bethy, who is still smiling at me. Unlike Bean, she trusts that I’ve got this situation covered. I can’t take either thing—his doubt or her certainty. My chest is tight with the pressure of it.

  “Give me an hour,” I say to Bean. “You guys meet me back here then.”

  He gives me a slight nod and turns to my sister. “You okay to walk over to the subway entrance? We can warm up in there.”

  “Sure.” She coughs again and then takes the arm he’s holding out to support her.

  Bean is pissed at me, and I can’t even blame him. Bethy is suffering out here. Not only is she sick, cold, and hungry, she’s missed the last four-and-a-half years of school. She’ll be eighteen in two years, and I’ll be twenty-three. I was sixteen when we came here, and I just recently turned twenty-one. But what options will either of us have without even a high school diploma?

  The tightness in my chest is getting painful. It’s too much, worrying about this right now. I have to focus on getting Bethy better. And with nothing but the clothes on my back and forty-four cents in my backpack pocket, I have no idea how to do that.

  A pain shoots through my stomach, distinctive from the one in my chest. It’s a hunger pang. Hunger is such a constant I don’t think about it much anymore, but sometimes my body forces me to.

  People are walking around me as I stand motionless on the sidewalk. I’m used to the contemptuous glares and dismissive head shakes. It’s obvious I’m homeless. I smell and I’m wearing rags. But still, I want to scream at these people that I’m still a person. I used to be like them—concerned about whether I’d be able to find a shirt to match a new skirt or completely absorbed in a text conversation about nothing at all.

  There’s a small niche carved out of a tall building, and I head for it, needing to escape the crowd. I just lean against the wall for a minute, taking a few deep breaths. Then I let my back slide down the brick wall, its surface scratching my skin through the thin fabric of my coat. When I’m sitting on the ground, I pull my legs up to my chest and wrap my arms around them, resting my chin atop my knees. For just a minute, I can sit here and admit to myself that things are bad. Worse than they’ve been since we got here. Since I’m alone and there’s no one to be strong for, I can give in to the drowning helplessness.

  A woman tosses a half-eaten sandwich into a metal trash can near the curb, and I cringe. Why? Why the hell do some people have enough to mindlessly toss food in the trash while others physically ache from hunger?

  I’m haunted by the food I threw away when I was younger. If our cook put peppers in the spaghetti sauce, I’d refused to eat it. If she accidentally put mayo on my sandwich, it went straight into the trash can in the school cafeteria.

  What I wouldn’t give for some of Lydia’s spaghetti with peppers in the sauce right now. I’d eat until my stomach was about to burst and force Bethy to do the same. There’s an insecurity to this life that makes me hold on tightly to what little I do have. And all I have is my sister. That’s why her cough scares me so much.

  I press my forehead to my knees, willing myself to keep calm. There’s always a way. Sometimes I have to do things I never imagined doing, but we’re still standing, so it’s worth it.

  I’ll have to steal. The streets have taught me to be stealthy, and I can lift a wallet without being noticed as long as I have time to wait for the right mark.

  Time isn’t on my side today, though. I have forty-five minutes until Bethy and Bean will be back. I’ll have to work fast.

  “Excuse me.”

  I look up at the source of the warm male voice that pulled me from my thoughts. He’s a little taller than average,
with a lean physique and short black hair styled in a neat faux-hawk. His cashmere scarf and expensive-looking wool coat make me wish he wouldn’t have noticed me, because this guy would have made a great mark.

  “What?” I ask, my voice flat and lifeless. “I’m not trespassing. This is public property.”

  His lips curve into a slight smile. “I just wanted to ask if you’d like to get a cup of coffee. Maybe some breakfast? You look like you could use a break.”

  My brow furrows as I stare up at him. “And why would you give me a break?”

  He shrugs. “Someone gave me a break once.”

  My stomach begs me to say yes. I stand up and meet the man’s brown eyes. “I’ve got no money. You’re offering to buy?”

  “I am.”

  “And what do I have to give you for it?”

  “Nothing. We’ll talk and eat and then go our separate ways if you’d like. No hard feelings.”

  “I’m not blowing you or letting you bend me over a Dumpster somewhere,” I say in an even, no-nonsense tone.

  He cringes. Cringes. Do I smell that bad?

  “Ah . . . I’m not interested in that,” he says with a shake of his head.

  I shrug a shoulder and nod at a diner across the street. “Over there?”

  “Sure.” He pulls a dark glove from a well-manicured hand and offers it to me. “I’m Dawson Wright, by the way.”

  I give him a perfunctory handshake. “So let’s go, Dawson.”

  He’s still looking at me. “And your name is . . . ?”

  I scoff. “Does it matter?”

  “Why wouldn’t it?” His brow wrinkles in confusion.

  “Most people don’t even see me, let alone care what my name is. I’m about as important as the dirt on the bottom of their shoes.”

  “I’m not most people. What’s your name?”

  I’m taken aback, but I don’t show it. “Quinn.”

  He nods, satisfied, and leads the way across the street and into a packed diner. As soon as I step inside, the smells of bacon, toasting bread, and cinnamon hit me hard. My stomach rumbles painfully. It’s been a long time since I set foot in a place like this.

  A passing waitress gives me the evil eye as we walk to a tiny booth next to the windows facing the street. I bristle, preparing myself to get kicked out of the place. She returns to our table and sees Dawson. Her expression morphs into a smile.

  “What can I get you two?” she asks.

  I glance at a menu while Dawson orders coffee. The waitress looks at me expectantly.

  “Coffee and a house omelet with two side orders of bacon and two side orders of toast. And some oatmeal in a takeout container.”

  Dawson doesn’t blink at my large order. The waitress disappears, and he leans his forearms on the table and studies me.

  “So what’s your story, Quinn?”

  I arch a brow. “It’s a little early in the day for life stories, isn’t it?”

  “I suppose,” he says, smiling. “I know you seem to have the weight of the world on your shoulders. And you really like bacon.”

  Our waitress reappears and fills the empty white mugs in front of us with steaming coffee. I sip it gratefully. I haven’t had hot coffee in a while. There’s something soothing about it. I savor another swallow as the waitress walks away.

  “So,” Dawson says, clearing his throat. “I know this seems sudden, but I have a proposition. I’d like to buy an evening with you.”

  I sip my coffee and try to decide how to play this. I can’t risk pissing him off and not getting that food. I decide to buy some time with the tell me more approach.

  “An evening?”

  He nods. “You’d need to submit to a quick blood draw from a nurse first. It’s a standard screen. And then you’d spend a mutually enjoyable evening having consensual sex with a man I think you’d like.”

  I set my mug down, curiosity piqued. “Not you?”

  “No, not me. My boss.”

  “Oh.”

  His wry smile is back. “If I liked spending evenings with women, I’m sure I’d love one with you. But I’ve got a boyfriend.”

  I nod. “I see. Well, I appreciate the offer, but I’ll need to—”

  “The pay is five hundred dollars up front.”

  His words stop me cold.

  Five.

  Hundred.

  Dollars.

  That’s more than I can steal. Enough to take Bethy to a doctor and buy food for the next month or more.

  And money up front? I could climb out a bathroom window before the guy even got my pants off.

  “And you think your boss would like me? Is he into homeless women? Or . . . wait. Do you think I’m a prostitute?”

  The thought sends a wave of unease through me. Why, I’m not sure, because it’s not like I have much pride left.

  “No. My employer specifically doesn’t like that kind of thing.”

  “What kinds of things does he like?”

  The waitress delivers the food to our table, arranging five plates in front of me. I dive into the omelet as Dawson responds.

  “He’d like you. I know that. I’d put you up in a hotel for an afternoon so you could get ready, and I’d provide clothes for you.”

  The wheels in my mind are spinning as I try to stop and actually taste the hot, cheesy eggs melting in my mouth. The food is so good, but I’m devouring it.

  “I’d get the room for the whole night?”

  “Well, you’d be at his place that night.”

  “I know, but . . . for my friend. She could sleep there while I was . . . you know.”

  “Sure, that wouldn’t be a problem.”

  This is too good to pass up. I pull napkins from a dispenser and wrap the bacon and toast in them as I mull the idea of Bethy and Bean warm in a hotel for a night. And fed for the next few weeks.

  It’s unexpected, but this is the break I’ve been waiting for. Taking money to have sex with a strange man in his home makes me more than uneasy, but I’ll have to work around it.

  “I’m not very experienced,” I confess to Dawson. “And I wouldn’t give back any of the money just because he wasn’t happy with me.”

  “He’ll like you. I’m certain of it.”

  I nod slightly. “I’ll need the money in cash. And I want some sort of ID from this nurse you mentioned. No one’s sticking a needle in me if I’m not sure they’re a nurse.”

  “Understandable.”

  I meet his eyes across the table. “And I get to keep my knife on me.”

  Dawson’s lips part slightly. “Well . . . weapons might kill the mood, don’t you think?”

  “I keep my knife. That’s nonnegotiable. And you can let your boss know I’m damned good with it.”

  He hesitates for a second. “Okay. If that makes you more comfortable.”

  I pack the bacon and toast into my backpack and wrap my hands around the cardboard bowl of oatmeal I’m taking.

  “One guy,” I say adamantly. “No gang bang. No one watching. No creepy videotaping.”

  “Of course not. My employer wants this to be a mutually enjoyable night.”

  “He does this all the time, then?”

  A smile plays on Dawson’s lips. “I wouldn’t say that, but you aren’t the first.”

  “How ugly is he, between you and me? Are we talking open sores or anything? Just so I know.”

  “No.” Dawson laughs but quickly regains his composure. “He’s actually very attractive.”

  “Hmm,” I grunt skeptically.

  Must have a small dick, then.

  A glance at the clock tells me I need to go. “I’ll expect protection. Condoms, I mean.”

  “Of course.”

  “Okay, then. I guess I’m in. But I can change my mind and refund the money if I get there and see a sex dungeon or something.”

  “Excellent. There’s no dungeon.”

  Dawson pulls out a small notebook and writes down the name and address of a hotel. “Tomorrow. C
ome by at noon. That gives us time to get the blood work done and have you ready for the evening.”

  I nod and slide out of my side of the booth. “See you then. Thanks for the food.”

  “See you tomorrow, Quinn.”

  As I make my way to the door of the densely packed diner, I realize it’s been a while since anyone but Bethy or Bean used my name. To most people, I don’t even have a name. I’m just a statistic.

  I never foresaw this being my life. Homelessness wasn’t even on my radar before I took Bethy and ran. And now I’ve sunk a little lower yet, selling my body.

  Well, promising to sell it, anyway. But that’s one promise I’m planning to wiggle out of. I’m hoping this mystery guy will settle for a blow job. The last thing I want him finding out is that his paid companion is actually a virgin.

  Andrew

  A cloud of breath forms in front of my face as I step out of my car in my underground garage. Winter is setting in fast, and in typical New York style, it refuses to be ignored.

  I press my thumb to the keypad beside the elevator in my garage and step on, arriving at the main level of my warehouse home and hearing the thunk of the automated deadbolt opening. When I step inside, I take in the scent of roasting beef. Damn, that smells good. It’s a little after six thirty, and I’m ready for dinner.

  But not because of the food. I’m sure I’ll enjoy whatever delicacy my chef and housekeeper, Turner, has cooking right now, but mostly I’m eager to spend an evening with Dawson’s latest find. For a gay man, he really does have incredible taste in women.

  I can’t be seen trying to pick up women I intend to pay for sex. And I don’t have time to screw with it, anyway. That’s why I have Dawson. He earns every penny of the six figures I pay him to be my personal assistant. I trust him implicitly, which is no small thing for me.

  Last weekend he brought me Olivia, who nearly swallowed my cock as she worked to prove how deep she could take it. She screamed my name like a porn star when she came, and I knew her performance was an effort to get a return invitation.