His Read online

  I swallow hard. Damn, this is harder than I thought it would be. Neither sex nor sharing personal information appeals to me at the moment.

  “Fine,” I concede. “Okay. We’ll talk, and I’ll try to choke down some wine.”

  My surly tone makes him smile slightly. “What would you prefer?”

  “Something hot would be good. Coffee or tea.”

  “Are you cold?”

  I shake my head, too proud to tell him a hot drink is a rare treat for me. I mostly drink water from public drinking fountains.

  “Chai tea,” he says, walking over to a high kitchen cabinet and opening it.

  I study his back as he does. He’s exceptionally tall and broad—I dread running into men his size in the tunnels. They hit hard and are usually impossibly strong. I learned quickly it’s best to evade men that big rather than fight them.

  “How tall are you?” I ask, sliding into a chair at his square, wood kitchen table.

  “Six two.”

  “Tall parents?”

  He nods slightly as he pulls a stainless tea kettle from a cabinet. “My dad was six three.”

  “Was? How long has he been gone?”

  “I was thirteen when he died.”

  He’s looking down at the kettle as he fills it at the kitchen sink, but I can hear from the tension in his voice that the wound still feels raw for him. Something in me softens because never would I have imagined that I had anything in common with a man like him, but I do.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “My dad died when I was thirteen.”

  He meets my gaze from across the room. “I’m sorry. What happened?”

  “He had stomach cancer.” I shake my head sadly at the memories. “It was awful. What about your dad?”

  “9/11.”

  “Oh.” My heart goes out to Andrew in a new way. “So you never got to say good-bye?”

  His lips set in a tense line. “No. Not even a real funeral. His remains were never identified.”

  “That’s terrible. I’m so sorry.”

  Andrew shrugs and switches on the gas burner of his wide, stainless range, setting the tea kettle on it. “It’s been fourteen years now. I’m fine.”

  “I’m not,” I admit. “I miss my dad so much it hurts. Every day.”

  “What about your mom? Is she still around?”

  I blow out a breath. “As far as I know.”

  “Not close to your mom, I take it. Where did you live before you found yourself on the streets?”

  “I can’t talk about that.”

  His brow furrows. “You can’t? Or won’t?”

  “Won’t,” I concede.

  “Okay. Well, how about the sibling you mentioned earlier? Brother or sister? Older or younger?”

  I shake my head. “Let’s talk about something else.”

  “Favorite kind of sandwich?”

  I smile at the glimmer in his dark blue eyes. “Grilled cheese. You?”

  “Pastrami on rye.”

  “My turn. How many women have you done this with?”

  “Talked about my favorite sandwich, you mean?” His tone is light as he gets up to retrieve the kettle from the stovetop.

  “Ha-ha. Paid for sex.”

  He’s quiet for a few seconds.

  “Too personal?” I ask.

  He turns to look at me. “No. I’m adding it up. It’s . . . twelve, I think.”

  “Wow. And you don’t worry about knocking someone up or catching something?”

  “Not at all. The blood test, remember?”

  I nod. “Right. And I assume you wear condoms.”

  Andrew clears his throat as he walks to his stainless refrigerator, which is at least eight feet wide. “Ah . . . yes.”

  “What was that?” I ask.

  “What was what?”

  “You’re hiding something. What is it?”

  I see him smiling as he pours splashes of milk into the mugs with tea bags and hot water. He stirs in some sugar and sets the tea bags in an empty mug. I can smell the sweet cinnamon aroma of the drink as he carries it over.

  “I’ll tell you if you really want to know,” he says.

  “I do.” I pick up the mug and take a test sip. The hot, spicy, sweet tea warms me all over as it slides down my throat. “That’s really good.”

  He nods slightly in acknowledgment of the compliment before speaking. “I usually only have . . . particular kinds of sex.”

  I set the mug down, eyes wide with surprise. “Oh . . . I see. So oral and . . . ?”

  He smiles sheepishly. “Yes.”

  “Oh, shit,” I say softly. “That’s . . . never happening with me.”

  Andrew shrugs. “We all have our kinks, Quinn.”

  “Is that yours?” I wrap my hands around the mug and grip it.

  “I like sex in all its forms. And some women like it, too. It also tends to be less emotional for them, which is a plus.”

  “Ugh.” I cringe. “I wouldn’t do that for any amount of money. I’d rather starve.”

  Now he’s the one cringing. I straighten my spine, reminded that he and I are from two different worlds.

  “Have you ever thought about getting help?” he asks. “Why don’t you go to shelters or soup kitchens?”

  I bristle defensively. “I have my reasons. We get by. I don’t need your pity.”

  “Who is we?”

  I meet his eyes and shake my head silently.

  “You and your sibling? Is there anyone else?” His tone is laced with aggravation.

  “It’s none of your business.”

  “Is there a man? A boyfriend? A friend who keeps you warm at night? Anyone?”

  “What do you care?”

  His gaze is steely now. “I’m just curious.”

  “For a man who likes anonymous sex, you ask a lot of personal questions.”

  “Have you ever had oral sex, Quinn?”

  “I blew a guy in the tunnels two years ago for twenty bucks. Does that count?”

  “Sure.”

  “Thinking you overpaid me now?”

  He shakes his head. “I’m just curious about what you’ve done before.”

  I can’t help a slight snort of amusement. “Andrew, you really don’t get it. Having that old guy’s dick in my mouth two years ago is my full sexual resume. I’ve never even kissed a man. My entire life is about finding the next meal and a safe place to sleep. And usually, I don’t look like this. I wear old clothes that don’t fit, and I smell. You think guys want to get between my legs?”

  He doesn’t hesitate. “Yes. I don’t care what you’re wearing or how you smell. You’re still gorgeous.”

  A small smile escapes my lips. “Well, I don’t let them. Sex isn’t on my radar. Survival takes everything I’ve got.”

  “So if you get by, why are you here now? And why’d you do what you did two years ago?”

  “Desperation,” I admit. “We’ve got . . . a situation, and I need the money.”

  Andrew just looks at me for a couple seconds. His eyes are swimming with something I can’t place. It looks like hurt and anger.

  “Is this so you can fund someone else’s drug habits? Or gambling?”

  “No,” I say indignantly. “Fuck you for assuming that.”

  “I’m just trying to figure you out, Quinn.”

  I glare at him, exasperated. “Do I seem like the sort to fund some deadbeat’s habits?”

  “You’ve got a dirty mouth when you’re angry.”

  I shake my head silently. He looks at me for a few more seconds.

  “I’m not taking advantage of a desperate woman,” he says. “You look exhausted and worried. I want you to sleep in my guest room. In the morning, I’ll make you breakfast and take you back to the hotel.”

  “And . . . that’s it?”

  “That’s it.”

  A wave of guilt crashes over me. I took his money and definitely didn’t give him what he expected.

  “I’m sorry,” I say softly.
“It’s not you.”

  “I’ll take you to your room.” He takes my nearly empty mug to the sink, sets it down, and then leads the way across his massive living room. We arrive at an open staircase, its steel steps held in place by thick, stationary cables.

  Andrew ushers me down a short hallway to a room with a queen-size bed outfitted in white down. There are pillows for days and a vase of fresh pink tulips on the nightstand.

  “Okay?” he asks. He’s standing in the doorway, hands in his suit pockets.

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  “There are pajamas in the dresser.” His blue eyes are locked on me, his gaze intense. “Goodnight, Quinn.”

  “Goodnight.”

  He closes the door, and I hear his footsteps retreating down the hallway. My sigh isn’t one of relief, but exhaustion. I didn’t sleep well in the tunnels last night because Bean left after I told him and Bethy what I was doing tonight. He was so pissed he didn’t come back until morning, and even then he wouldn’t speak to me. And all day I’ve been tied in knots over what would happen tonight.

  I throw the pillows to the floor and push the mattress off the box spring. Moving it across the dark wood floor leaves me breathless. I push it up against the closed door so no one can get in.

  Forget pajamas. I haven’t changed clothes for bed since I was sixteen. I curl up on the soft mattress and wrap my hand around the handle of my knife.

  I think about Bethy. Has her fever improved? Is she sleeping? Is Bean being nice to her even though he’s mad at me?

  Questions swirl in my mind, and try as I might, I can’t fall asleep. When I’m not thinking about my sister, I’m thinking about the tall, muscular man with dark blue eyes and short dark hair whose house I’m sleeping in. Is Andrew asleep right now? Was he disappointed in me?

  It doesn’t matter. Tomorrow morning, it’s back to reality for me. And reality packs a cold, hard punch. I pull the down comforter over me, wishing I could bank some of this warmth for the nights ahead in the tunnels.

  Quinn

  I’m so warm. It’s light out and I need to wake up, but it’s hard when I’m surrounded by such warmth and softness.

  But wait—why am I so warm? It’s winter. Panic slams into my chest, and I suck in a breath as I sit up. I’m in Andrew’s guest room. My pounding heart slows slightly before I remember that Bethy is sick.

  How could I sleep like that when my sister is sick? I was so worried about her, but somehow I fell asleep anyway. And slept like a rock.

  I exhale deeply and run my hand over the smooth, cool bed sheet on the mattress. I used to sleep on sheets like this every night, before I ran.

  “You’ll pay for that, you little bitch. Run all you want. There’s no escaping me.”

  But I’ve escaped so far, haven’t I? Still, I want Bethy in my sight. Preferably within my reach. I can’t relax fully unless I know she’s safe.

  I push the warm covers aside and move the mattress back onto the bed frame. I squint slightly, confused, as I look around the beautifully furnished room. The row of windows letting sunlight into the room is up so high that I can’t see outside. Weird. I wonder what this old warehouse was built for.

  There’s an en suite bathroom, and it floods with white light as I flip on the wall switch. It’s elegant but understated, with dark stone floors and light granite counters. I catch a glimpse of myself in the large mirror above the sink and grimace.

  Dark eye makeup is smudged beneath my eyes, and my hair is going in several different directions. I open a tall cabinet beside the sink and find several brand new toothbrushes—still in boxes. There are also unopened boxes of toothpaste, new hairbrushes, razors, shaving cream, and bottles of shampoo and conditioner.

  I think briefly about the women who’ve come before me, all standing here the morning after. But after a second, I move on, remembering my backpack is downstairs. I’ll leave my shoes in here, grab my pack when I get downstairs, and then when I come back for my shoes, I can stuff the backpack with as many supplies as I can fit from the closet.

  After opening a purple toothbrush and a new tube of toothpaste, I spend several minutes reveling in the minty bubbles as I scrub my teeth. Bethy and I always find a place to brush our teeth, but we ration toothpaste, so this is a nice luxury.

  As I wipe the makeup from my face with a wet washcloth, I feel a fresh wave of guilt over not holding up my end of this bargain with Andrew. Should I offer some of the money back? The thought makes my heart hurt. We need that money so much. It’ll buy Bethy a new coat and shoes, medicine if she needs it, and food for weeks . . . maybe even a couple months if I’m careful with it.

  Maybe I’ll offer him a BJ this morning. I’d rather do that than give back the money that’s tucked safely away with Bean and Bethy at the hotel.

  I finger-comb my hair the best I can and head out of the bedroom and down the open staircase. The smell of bacon in the air leads me into the kitchen, where Andrew is sitting at the table, wearing a gray T-shirt and reading something on a laptop.

  “Morning,” he says, picking up a mug of coffee and taking a drink. “There’s bacon and eggs and coffee if you’re hungry.”

  I fill the plate he left on the counter. There’s so much food. I feel a stab of sadness that I’m about to eat this while Bethy and Bean are hungry. At least they have the money now, and maybe they’ll even order room service before they leave the room.

  Reminded of the deal we made, I clear my throat as I sit down at the table.

  “So . . . I was thinking that we still have some time for . . . you know. If you want me to . . .”

  He furrows his brow. Those dark reading glasses really work on him. His vibrant blue eyes stare back at me.

  “No, what?”

  I cock my head and arch my brows with impatience. “Suck your dick. Do you want me to suck your dick?”

  His slight, smug smile tells me he just wanted to make me say it.

  “That’s okay.”

  “Do you not like me?” I ask defensively. “Is it because I’m a virgin?”

  “I like you very much, and no, it’s not.” He glances at my plate. “Eat. I have something to discuss with you.”

  I bite into a piece of bacon, waiting.

  “I’ve been thinking,” he starts.

  “You want the money back. And I get that, because I didn’t—”

  He stops me. “No. Just eat and let me talk, would you?”

  My stomach unclenches. He said no. He doesn’t want the money back.

  “I have a proposal,” he says, closing his computer screen. “I like you, Quinn. You intrigue me far more than most women do. And you could use a hand getting on your feet. I’d like to contract you to live with me for six months. I’ll pay you ten thousand dollars a month.”

  My forkful of eggs falls from my hand, and the utensil clatters against the plate. He wants to pay me how much?

  I clear my throat and pick up my fork. “I’m sorry, I’m not understanding. Contract me? For what?”

  He gestures from himself to me. “For this. Like last night, but longer term.”

  “Oh. So . . . sex?”

  The corners of his eyes crinkle as he smiles. “Hopefully. But I won’t force you.”

  I rub my temples, overwhelmed and confused. “But . . . I was awful. We didn’t do anything. Don’t you want . . . you know, a pro?”

  He shrugs. “Like I said, I like you. You’re genuine. You don’t kiss my ass. And you don’t think I’m going to fall in love and marry you. You’re a pragmatist, like me.”

  I exhale deeply. “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know if you’d rather stay on the streets or live here?” His slightly offended tone rankles me.

  “I’m responsible for someone.”

  “Who? Your sibling?”

  I wrinkle my face in a glare. “None of your business.”

  “Whomever it is, I’d think that sort of money would help. I’ll pay you up front for the first month.”

/>   Ten thousand dollars. That kind of cash could do more than provide a warm place for Bean and Bethy to sleep. I could do a better job of hiding her from the people looking for us. I could afford a safer place than the streets and tunnels. She could eat well. Maybe even take some classes to catch up on what she’s missed in school.

  But we’d be apart. The thought crushes me. Bethy’s been by my side for more than four years. She’s a part of me.

  “I need to talk about it with . . . someone,” I say.

  “Give me your word it’s not a man.” Andrew’s voice holds tension now. “I’m not doing this if the money goes to your boyfriend.”

  “Didn’t we do this last night?” I fire back. “There’s no man. I’m talking about the person I’m responsible for.”

  After a pause, he asks, “How long do you need to decide?”

  “I don’t know . . . Just today, I guess. Can I let you know in the morning?”

  “Sure. Where can I meet you?”

  “Um . . .”

  “I’ll put you up at a hotel for tonight.”

  “The one Dawson got me so I could get ready for last night?”

  “Sure. We’ll extend it for the night, and I’ll meet you in the lobby in the morning. Nine AM.”

  His gaze holds such intensity I feel unnerved. It’s so strange, being looked at this way. Not only as a person, but as a woman. Worthy of attention and caring. I’ve never felt it before.

  I eat my breakfast, trying not to get ahead of myself. Bethy is very attached to me, and she might freak out over this idea. But the thought of taking care of her—really taking care of her—for the first time since we left home more than four years ago has me excited. She could be warm, fed, safe. No more sleeping with one eye open because I’m terrified someone will try to rape or murder my little sister.

  It’s not really possible to put a price on that.

  Andrew

  I’m being kind of an asshole on the drive to the hotel. Instead of trying to put Quinn at ease and sell her on the idea of living with me, I’m just staring out the windshield in silence.

  She’s not sure? Living on the brutal streets of New York City is a close contest with living at my place and being paid well for it? I’ve been more than understanding with her. Hell, I jerked off alone in my bedroom last night when I’d been planning on a night of great sex with her.