Reveal (Wicked Ways #2)(12)

“Madam?”

My feet falter in response to the voice at my back. The dark stretch of the hallway, uncharacteristically empty, puts me on edge, as does the lone word the male behind me speaks.

Not here at my work.

Please don’t let the senator have ruined that for me too.

I force a swallow down my throat and turn around, expecting to be propositioned for some reason. The man before me is tall, dark, and handsome with a lopsided smirk and an expensive suit.

Handsome? Yes. Am I interested? Not in the least.

“Yes?”

“Can we get more drinks?” he asks, holding up his empty glass. “We’re in the Two Pod.”

Not a man propositioning me for my services as a madam.

“Sure. Yes. I’ll get your server over there right away,” I say, suddenly embarrassed at my assumption.

Just a man being polite.

You need to get a grip, Vaughn.

Stop being so paranoid and get a damn grip.

With a sigh, I go about the rest of my night and try not to mess up any more orders like I’d already done several times up until that point. And I do better. I don’t snap at any more customers. I decline the request for my phone number several times, because all I can hear is Ryker saying he’s fallen in love with me. All I can focus on is him using those words like a weapon to try to win me back.

“You done for the night?” Ahmed asks as I pull my purse from the locker. I glance his way, and he’s tying a clean black apron around his waist.

“Let me guess . . . a drunk woman spilled her drink on you in the hopes that she could pat off the liquid.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” he says and flashes a disarming smile. But it’s when he takes a step closer that his eyes narrow and his voice lowers. “You okay, Vaughny?”

I force a smile he won’t believe. The same one I’ve been pretending to feel all night long. “I’m good. Just men is all.”

“We’re sons of bitches, aren’t we?” His attempt at humor doesn’t win me over. “Seriously, though . . . same guy as before?”

“Mmm.”

“A fight?” He reaches out and runs a hand down my arm in sympathy.

“Something like that.”

“It sucks to finally allow yourself to need someone and then not have them.”

“It does,” I murmur.

“Maybe the sun hasn’t set yet.”

I hate that I smile at his gentle reminder of what he said to me last time he saw me upset over Ryker. How he found me sitting in a Starbucks more than worse for the wear and then gave me his romanticized advice. Most people look for love in the sunrise, when they don’t realize for them it can be found in the sunset. But I smile at him anyway, knowing it’s solely to thank him for being so sweet. Not because I have any desire to be part of Ryker’s sunset.

“It’ll get better. He’ll come to his senses, or else I’ll kick his ass to the curb.” He presses a brotherly kiss to my cheek. “I’ve gotta get back to the masses.”

“Have fun.”

But as I collect my things and start to head home, I find myself thinking about what Ahmed said about needing someone.

My thoughts drift to Samantha and Brian, my sister and Lucy’s father. To their codependency that seemed cute at first and then grew to unhealthy proportions. His need for drugs and her need to please him. Then it grew to their dependency on the drugs and each other to help score some. Samantha knew Brian was bad for her but kept going back.

Is that what I’ve done with Ryker? Allowed myself to fall for a man, to need a man, who probably isn’t the best fit for me? A man who hasn’t been in a relationship before. One who coerced me into ours with ultimatums and threats and then used me like he did? A person who I have grown to need despite telling myself after Samantha’s suicide that I’d never allow myself to need someone like she did?

“Lot of good that promise did you,” I mutter to myself, because hell if I don’t need Ryker right now despite everything he did and said.

No.

Not need.

Want.

And this feeling—this needing, wanting, missing Ryker—scares the shit out of me, especially when fate keeps proving time and again that he’s bad for me.

The ringing of my cell phone startles me from thoughts I shouldn’t be having, because deep down I can already hear myself shutting them out.

“Hello?” Flustered, I answer the phone without thinking.

“Is this Vee?”

The deep tenor of a male voice startles me for the second time tonight, and I realize it’s my Wicked Ways cell that I answered.

Heartbreak seems to have messed with all aspects of my life.

“Yes. Sorry. You caught me off guard.” I signal a left turn with my blinker and slip into the role I know so well but that now feels like so much more than a lie. “This is Wicked Ways, and I’m Vee. How may I help you?”

The man clears his throat, his discomfort over how to continue the conversation evident. “I—uh . . . I was given your number.”

“That’s always good to hear. May I ask by who?”

“By a client of yours. Does it matter who?”

“I’m sorry, it does matter. We only take new clients through referral.”