Page 33 of Callan

Silently, he extracts cash from his pocket. Three hundred bucks for wasting my time with this.

Not bad.

Despite the negatives, I like this gig, although I see how my income could significantly vary while working for him.

But I’m happy for now.

I take the money and slide it into my pocket.

“Anything else?” he says, pocketing his phone and noticing that I’m not moving away.

I lift my gaze.

“What’s your name?” I ask.

The mask of coldness on his face doesn’t as much as crack.

“My name is not important.”

“You know my name,” I argue.

He ponders an answer before touching my shoulder and slightly patting me on my back.

“You’re better off not knowing who I am.”

His hand moves away from me.

“Should I expect a knock on the door from the cops?”

“Unless you’ve committed something illegal, I see no reason why the police would come looking for you.”

I stand in the middle of the corridor, still waiting for his name.

“Callan. My name is Callan,” he says, holding my eyes while I wonder whether his name is as fake as his phone.

I finally tip my chin toward his pocket.

“Do you always solve your problems with cash?” I try to sound cool and humorous to conceal my nerves.

“Only when fucking someone is not an option,” he retorts, sounding genuine, and my eyebrows move up.

Uh.

What was that supposed to mean?

“Go,” he says quietly. “And thank you for bringing my phone.”

Yeah, right.

He gives me a slow wink and a half-baked smile before turning his back to me and vanishing inside the apartment.

Despite our frosted goodbye, warmth floods my skin, and tension spins in my body.

That’s a weird effect, considering he has just said I’m off-limits when it comes to sex.

Or maybe he is off-limits.

It’s the same thing.

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