Page 16 of Dirty (Chicago Underground 5)
“Wasn’t going to. Too easy.”
“I’m just worried that you—” He turned away, the troubled sound of his voice ringing through the chilly night air.
“That I can’t cut it? Oh, come on.” And here I’d been worried about him being able to handle himself in disguise. “I’ve done worse than this. I’ve lived this.”
“No, you haven’t. Not like this, in the slums. Half the time, you look like you belong in a country club. You couch everything you say with sexual innuendo, putting everyone else at a disadvantage. You turn prostitution into a little rich girl’s game so you don’t have to face the reality. I’m not blaming you for any of it. But that’s not what we’re going to do in there.”
“Right, because you’re a goddamned expert on life in the slums.”
“Never mind. If we’re going to do this, let’s go.” He sounded grim but resolved. “We go in, we get out. We keep a low profile. What’s my name tonight? I assume you had a fake ID made.”
I huffed. “You ruin my surprises.”
“You’re reckless and intermittently suicidal, but you’ve got a practical streak that really works for me.”
A laugh escaped me. He saw me clearly enough. It made me wonder what else he saw in me. “If you wanted me to work for you, all you had to do was ask.”
I pulled out the fakes Marguerite had made me and went over our stories. He was a small-time street dealer who liked to pimp out his girlfriend when money was tight. I would be too coked out to care. He would be slimy, I would be skanky, and with any luck, one of us would get the scoop on what had happened the night Ella was here. Ever the Boy Scout, Luke wanted to talk exit plans.
“I’m serious,” he said. “If things start to go south, you get out. We can meet up later.”
And leave him to the wolves? Not likely. He was strong and capable, but this was my turf. “Are you going to split if I’m in trouble?”
“Of course not. That’s different.”
I rolled my eyes in the dark. “How chivalrous.”
“If you ask me, you could do with a little more chivalry from the men in your life. A lot more.”
“And you are volunteering.”
“Actually, I insist. Now come into the light. I need to rough you up a little.”
“What a gentleman,” I said, following him onto the street.
“You look gorgeous,” he said. “Like you stepped off the pages of a magazine. That’s not going to work for us.”
Under the flickering streetlamp, I finally got a good look at him. Gone were the rumpled suits and casually messy hair. In their place was a stereotype of a different sort. He wore a loose blue shirt hanging open to reveal a dirty undershirt and cargo pants, with a mottled gray wool cap covering his hair. The biggest change to his appearance was his face, where a two-day scruff complemented darkly oiled skin.
I wanted him because he was good and I was bad. Because he was worthy and I was not. And yet seeing him like this, like the lowest of men, made me hotter for him. Every excuse I made for wanting him fell away. I wanted him in every incarnation, in any form I could get him.
He pulled out a small round tin. “Your turn.”
I didn’t ask what the black substance was. He smeared it across my cheeks and along my arms. At least it didn’t smell bad.
When he started to work it into the ends of my hair, I protested. “Is this really necessary? I already changed the color.”
His eyebrow rose. “Did I recognize you immediately?”
“Fair point.”
He circled behind me, gently combing the grease through my hair. His hands settled on my shoulders. The heat of his body seared into me from behind, more acute now that I couldn’t see him. My hair swept away from my neck, replaced by the kiss of his breath.
“It wasn’t really fair,” he murmured. “I would recognize you no matter how you looked. I would find you anywhere. I haven’t learned every secret of your body, but I know what’s inside. I know you.”
My eyes fell shut, releasing a tear on both cheeks. They would make tracks in the dirt, I thought inanely. And then realized that would be more authentic. He removed his hands, a loss that felt like a blow.
“When you believe that, then you’ll be ready.”
