Simon tilted his head at us. “You two are together?”
“We’re friends,” she said, at the same time I said “Yes.”
The last fake drop of pleasantness leached out of Simon’s rehabbed features. “I get it,” he said. “You’re her customer.”
“He’s not a customer,” said Chere. “I’m not escorting anymore.”
“She graduated from Norton with honors,” I added. “She’s a designer now. She does amazing work with metals and jewelry.”
“I saw your pimp here,” Simon said, ignoring me. “I don’t care if this dude’s your customer, if you’re still into your—” He waved a hand. “Your prostitute shit. Whatever.”
“My prostitute shit?” Chere locked eyes with Simon and took a step in his direction. “My prostitute shit?” she repeated through her teeth. “My prostitute shit paid for your fucking livelihood when no one knew who you were. My prostitute shit kept us in that fucking expensive studio loft and paid for your fucking expensive drugs.”
The sober companion held up a hand. “Let’s stay civilized, shall we?”
“I don’t know if that’s possible,” said Chere. “Simon and I don’t have a very civilized past.”
“I said I was sorry.” Simon threw up his hands. Conversations were going silent. People were staring. “You never seemed that put out by the work. It was kind of your thing.”
“It was my thing because you were putting thousands of dollars up your fucking nose on a weekly basis,” said Chere.
“You never tried very hard to stop me,” he shot back.
“Wait.” I held up a hand. I was so close to beating him. So close. “Are you saying it was her fault you were using drugs? Because she didn’t stop you?”
“She was the reason I started in the first place,” he said nastily. “Ask her. Ask her how things were. It’s hard to be happy when your girlfriend’s a whore.”
I felt Chere stiffen beside me. I saw Andrew and Craig pushing forward, their faces pale with concern. But most of all, I saw Simon’s lips curl and his eyes rake over Chere in condescending judgment. It was all I could fucking take.
I threw a fist and connected with his face. The sober companion gasped and jumped backward. Andrew screamed. People shouted and glass shattered as a waiter dropped a tray of champagne. I made sure Chere was out of the way and then Simon and I locked in grappling combat. Sober or not, Simon Baldwin had a beating coming and I was more than happy to give it to him.
I only got a punch or two in before he went down like a pansy. I dragged him outside and told him to stay the fuck away from Chere forever, while Andrew’s party guests catcalled and shot video. Chere touched my throbbing cheekbone—the one place he’d got me—and cried.
Somewhere along the line, his sober companion called the police. They showed up in a barrage of flashing lights and I got arrested.
It was worth it, one hundred percent.
Chere
Price had a lawyer on retainer, and lots of money, so he only spent an hour in the holding cell. Once his lawyer bailed him out, he strolled into the common area with his tie, belt, and cufflinks in a manila envelope, and a garish bruise on his cheekbone from his throwdown with Simon. I’d had a bruise in the exact same place during our session at the Four Seasons three years ago, a bruise Simon had given me during one of his rages. Price had been so angry when he noticed it. He’d called me a fucking idiot and told me Love lies.
I took in his disarranged hair, his bruised face, and his sullen expression, and I thought, I love you, you messed-up asshole.
He was in a prickly mood, but I hugged him anyway and reached to stroke the discoloration on his face. I didn’t want to hurt him; I just wanted to acknowledge what he’d done for me. He leaned his head back and halted me with a glare.
“Why are you here?”
“I wanted to be sure you were okay.”
“I’m fine.” He grimaced at his attorney, then looked back at me. “For the record, it was worth the amount of money I’ll have to pay to settle this.”
He meant You were worth it. His deep blue eyes raked over me before he turned to speak briefly with his lawyer. I waited for their conversation to end, feeling scared and defensive, and a little overwhelmed by everything that had happened at Andrew’s party. There were so many emotional words I wanted to say, but I knew he wouldn’t accept them. When he turned his attention back to me, I settled for commenting on his appearance.
“You look like a criminal.”
That wasn’t really true. He looked amazing for someone who’d been in a fight and then spent an hour in jail. “Were you locked up with any thugs?”
“I was locked up with a passed-out drunk guy. Let’s go home.”