Somehow, she’d gone from having a formal, maybe-this-might-happen conversation with Isaiah to being manhandled in a storeroom and coming at the hands of a guy she’d sworn off for good. A man she’d now agreed to pay.
And frankly, that wasn’t what was freaking her out.
No, what was making that tremble move through her body was something entirely different.
She’d just agreed to give Lane Cannon control.
What the fuck had she been thinking?
Chapter 10
What the fuck had he been thinking?
Lane took a long gulp of beer and flipped through Carlotta’s case notes without seeing them. He was supposed to be concentrating on his clients and making a decision about the school testing his professor had suggested, but all he could think about was the stupid deal he’d made with Elle yesterday at the café. He’d been in a haze of possessive lust, wanting to do whatever it took to make sure it was him in her bed and not someone else.
He’d broken so many personal codes it wasn’t funny. Keeping the drama factor low in his life. Gone. Not poaching another escort’s client. Done. Never ever taking money for non-therapeutic sex again. Fail.
He groaned and ran a hand through his hair. That last one was such a stupid, stupid move. Not only because he’d made a personal vow to himself to never go backward, to never return to that life. But he was putting everything at risk. He’d worked hard for his current position and was busting his ass to get his degree so he could move to the next level. Make something of himself. This could ruin it all. If anyone got even a whiff that he was taking money for recreational sex, he could kiss his job and his license good-bye. It was the stereotype surrogates fought against—that they were just glorified whores—and now he was agreeing to an arrangement that was anything but therapeutic.
Fucking destructive was more like it.
But the alternative wasn’t an option either, anymore. Elle had infected his entire system and he needed to cure that obsession. Hearing her words yesterday had put a knife through him. Life hasn’t killed the good parts of you yet. In that moment, it hadn’t been about how hot she was or the challenge of her. He’d gotten a glimpse of the real woman beneath it all. Heard an echo of something that he’d thought way too often when he’d lain in a woman’s bed, cash stacked on the bedside table. He’d sold his body. He’d sold his compliments. He’d sold his affection and some I-love-you’s. Those kinds of thoughts had stalked him. What if there’s nothing good left to give? What if I’ve sold it all to the highest bidder?
Elle had never been a hooker, but somewhere along the way, she’d given things away, too—or maybe they’d been stolen. He didn’t know, but that was what had kept him from taking back his reckless offer. He’d realized in that moment that she didn’t know how to deal with things in a different way. She wanted him as much as he wanted her. But paying for it was the only way she could feel safe acting on it.
So be it. He’d do it.
But that didn’t mean he was going to let her do things her way. If she wanted to give him some token cash to put a nice clear line in the sand for herself, fine. He’d funnel the cash into the domestic violence shelter The Grove helped fund. But he wasn’t going to be her whore. He wasn’t going to do her bidding. He wasn’t going to act out some role. He wasn’t that guy anymore.
He’d told her as much. But what she didn’t know was that she was going to have to p
ay a much higher price for his services than she ever anticipated.
He didn’t require submission. Or trips to the kink club. Or even blow jobs—though, those were always nice. No, what he was going to require would terrify her more than any of that.
She was going to have to let him in.
Seven days. Elle collapsed onto her couch with a bowlful of banana ice cream that she’d drowned in chocolate sauce. Seven goddamned days since Lane had dragged her into the storeroom. And five since she’d deposited money into his account. She hadn’t heard a word from him. He’d told her he’d be in touch, but that had obviously been a lie. Or he’d been playing a game.
She’d seen him on campus yesterday and had planned to confront him, but then a woman had run up to him and started walking with him. The woman had been young, pretty, and smiling way too eagerly at Lane. The warm smile he gave her was one he’d never given Elle.
Elle had immediately typed out a text, telling him not to bother calling her, but she hadn’t been able to send it. She didn’t want to look as if she’d been hanging by a thread and waiting for him to call. She’d rather let him believe that she’d forgotten about the whole thing entirely. If he called, she wasn’t going to answer. Let him think she’d moved on without a thought.
She shoved a spoonful of ice cream into her mouth, full of righteous indignation, and flipped on the news. She should’ve stuck with Isaiah. The guy had been nothing but gracious when she’d told him she’d changed her mind. He hadn’t tried to persuade her but had instead given her his card and told her he was always open to hearing from her. She needed to dig out that card and go with her original plan.
But she didn’t move from the couch. She just took another big bite of dessert and fumed.
Her phone rang next to her on the couch, and she hated the way she perked up like a Pekingese being offered a treat. But the screen showed it was her mother again. She knew she should answer. She’d avoided two of her mom’s calls already, but she didn’t have it in her. It wouldn’t benefit either of them for her to answer in this mood. She sent it to voicemail, knowing her mother would never leave one, and tossed her phone to the other side of the couch.
Maybe she should’ve picked up the Friday night on-call duty and saved herself this ruminating. Fridays were always busy on-call nights. At least she could be useful up at the hospital. She’d sat for two hours with a new patient this afternoon, listening to a former child actress describe all the things she’d done in exchange for roles so that she could keep money coming for her family. The woman had turned to drugs to blot out all the memories, but they were roaring to the surface post-detox.
It’d made Elle want to personally maim every single adult who had taken advantage of this talented young woman, including the family that hadn’t protected her. The woman had ended up bawling in Elle’s arms. Elle didn’t make it a habit to hug patients because of boundary issues, but sometimes people in pain just needed to be held and told that they were going to make it through whatever it was. When the patient had thanked Elle and even managed a hopeful smile, Elle’s chest had filled with warmth. She’d felt useful. Happy.
Work seemed to be the only place she felt that way.
The doorbell rang. She startled, nearly dropping her bowl of ice cream, and glanced at the clock. Almost ten. Her stomach clenched.
Was her mom at the door? Was that why she was calling?