Page 17 of Mating Theory
A faint movement from beside me. Ashleigh becomes still.
“Good morning,” I say, forcing a casual voice.
She gives me a cautious glance. “Hi.”
Does she think I’m going to kick her out as soon as she opens her eyes? I convinced her to come to my bed only after swearing I wouldn’t touch her. And I managed to do that, despite the blue state of my balls. “Sleep well?”
She moves each arm and then each leg, checking that they’re all there, as if I might have ravenously eaten a limb overnight. She treats me like I’m a monster, because that’s exactly what I taught her I am.
“Breakfast?”
The idea of food loosens her up. A sigh that can almost be called content. She stretches like a cat, long and decadent, with a little shiver at the end. “I love breakfast.”
“Perfect. I’ll make migas.”
“Migas? I was thinking like a bagel or something.”
“Migas are better than bagels.”
She looks skeptical, and I have to laugh. “Fresh eggs from my chickens, onions, garlic, jalapeno. Black pepper and salt. Corn tortillas, cheddar cheese. And my homemade salsa.”
“You make your own salsa?”
“It’s easy, and a million times better than from the jar.”
She still looks uncertain. “I don’t think I’ve ever had a spicy breakfast before.”
“I can make it mild. But here’s the deal. If you don’t love it, we’ll find bagels for you.”
A flush colors her cheeks. “I mean, of course I’ll eat it. And love it. I didn’t mean to be demanding. God, I’m so hungry I would eat about anything. I’d eat jalapenos like they were grapes.”
The reminder that she lives hand to mouth makes me cold. It’s one thing to use her for sex when I’m pissed off and heartbroken. Another thing to see her too skinny body in the light of morning. “Is there someone I can call? A sister? A friend? Someone who can help you get on your feet.”
She looks away. Her profile looks stark against the pale light. “No.”
“Maybe there’s a shelter. Or somewhere that helps women who—”
“No.”
“How did you end up doing this?”
“It’s none of your business, Sutton. You didn’t buy that from me. You bought my body and my time. You paid for my mouth, which you love so much, but you didn’t buy my secrets.”
Her agitation fills the air around us, a crackling energy that bites at my skin. I stroke her arm, her cheek, the tender side of her neck. “Hey,” I whisper. “You’re safe with me.”
She meets my eyes then, and she looks haunted—it’s a look that carves into my soul. One of pain and despair. One I’d do anything in that moment to erase. “Am I?”
“Yes. There will be migas and bagels, because why the hell should we choose? And then…”
“And then?” she asks, resigned, already knowing the answer.
And then she’ll go back to the street, to another man to fuck. God. I can’t stand the idea. I don’t care if that makes me hypocritical and jealous. I can’t deal with the idea of someone touching her. And I definitely can’t stand the idea of her being hungry. “Listen, I really need a plus-one for this wedding. I don’t want to sit alone and deal with everyone’s pity.”
She lifts an eyebrow. “So you want me to—? God no.”
“Why not? You enjoy spending time with me. You know I can make you enjoy it.”
“Because I’m a prostitute. Why do I have to spell it out?”
“No one there will know. Even in the off chance they’ve seen you on the street, they won’t put it together. People see what they expect to see.”
“What if I want them to know?”
“Then tell them. What the hell do I care? Do what you want. Just come with me.” I don’t know why it’s so important to me that she comes. So that I can give her more money? Yes. So that she’ll be safe for another night? Yes. There’s something else, though, some ineffable sense that I’d be lost without her.
“I don’t want them to know,” she says on a sigh. “But I don’t have a dress.”
“Then we’ll go shopping.” I glance at the alarm clock. “We have enough time to make migas, raid Nordstrom’s, and show up on time to the wedding.”
“I don’t know—”
She wants to. I can tell that much. And I’m suddenly suffused with the desire to see her in something expensive, something comfortable and luxurious and sexy—the very opposite of her cheap satin halter and black mini skirt that are somewhere on the floor of the living room.
I could probably convince her using only my charm. Maybe tell her she’s starting to mean something to me, even after only one night. Except that would change the terms. This should be about money.
“Two thousand dollars,” I say gently.
She doesn’t meet my eyes this time. “Sold.”
Chapter Nine
Ashleigh
He takes me to a boutique called Steph’s in the Heights, a stylish part of the city. There are no racks of clothing. Only a bevy of gorgeous women, smiling, pensive, and sly. It takes me a minute to understand that they’re like mannequins showing off the clothes in various poses. A woman in all black shows us to the back.
