Nocturnes by Kendall Grey Page A

when it’s so damn easy?”
    Adrenaline-fueled blood giving me renewed audacity, I lean forward on my elbows and cut loose the next barrage of spout-off-at-the-mouth-now, regret-it-all-later. I’m on a roll tonight. “You wanna know why I’m offering to pay? It’s simple. I like to own things. To use them until I get bored, and then I throw them away.”
    There’s that vulnerability again. “Why? And don’t you dare say—”
    I finish her sentence. “Because I can .”
    Concrete-laden resolve settles into her face, and I’m staring at a brick wall. “Hate to break it to you, Rex, but nobody owns me.”
    “You said it yourself. You’re a whore. For enough money, anybody can own you.”
    She picks up her piping-hot coffee. “That’s where you’re wrong. Whores are like library books. You can check them out for a week or two, but you still have to return them when you’re done.”
    “There’s no rule that says I can’t keep checking you out. Over and over and over again.” I lick my lips and totally check out her tits straining under the shirt.
    A slow grin spreads over her face like melting butter. “It’s still just borrowing, babe.”
    “Semantics. So, back to my original offer. I’ll give you five hundred to be with me. Alone. For one night.”
    Unexpected frosty laughter thickens the blood in my veins to the consistency of a Slushie.
    “What’s so funny?” I demand.
    She returns her coffee cup to the table. Bent over with an apparent giggle fit, she can’t seem to catch her breath. After several more seconds, she straightens, wipes the corners of her eyes, and slams me in the gut with a “bless your heart” smile.
    “Five hundred bucks wouldn’t even cover a kiss on your little man’s helmet.” She drops her gaze to my zipper and laughs some more.
    I force myself not to squirm. “Then, how much?”
    “Ten grand.”
    I choke on my swallow. “ Nobody’s worth that much.” Way to go, ass face.
    “Really?” She hitches a brow. “That’s what I get paid at Nocturnes.” The condescending look she levels on me makes me weak in the knees.
    This woman scares the shit out of me. I must have her.
    “For one fucking night?” The pitch of my voice rises.
    “Actually, it’s usually just an hour.” She sips from her mug.
    Ten. Fucking. Grand. For an hour of hot, messy sex with Lola. Sad thing is, if I had that much money, I wouldn’t bat an eye about giving it to her.
    “Call me when you’re sober, and we’ll talk.”
    I shake out of my daze. “I need your number to do that.”
    “I was speaking metaphorically.”
    I fish around my inside jacket pocket for a pen. My fingers brush the little black notebook on the way out, reminding me that my new song lyrics—courtesy of Lola and Mother Nature a few minutes ago—and I have a date with the pages as soon as I’m alone. I bite off the pen’s lid and reach for her hand. Her eyes widen, and she jerks away, cradling her fingers to her sternum as if I hurt her.
    “No writing on me.” A trace of desperation splits her voice.
    “Okay…” Frowning, I slide out the sugar-covered doily resting in the cup’s saucer, shake it off, and jot my cell number on it.
    Apologize for being an asshole, you asshole.

    I push the fancy paper toward her. She fumbles through her purse, produces a business card, and exchanges with me. My heart trips over itself. Then I read the information. A fucking taxi company.
    Slender white fingers top the back of my hand, and I look at her. Sincerity wipes out all traces of the condescension from before. A small crease of hope furrows her uplifted brow. God, her hand is warm on my cold, clammy one. I twist my wrist so our palms kiss, and I squeeze.
    “If you ever find yourself in possession of car keys after having a few too many drinks, call that guy.” She gestures with her chin to the card. “Tell him Lola sent you, and he’ll take care of you.”
    She severs our physical connection as she stands. Feels