Page 21 of Dirty Love

A crash on the far side of the stage makes them all turn away from me, and I take my leave.

If she’s going back to the hotel, so am I.

I pull out my phone as I make my way to my rental car and text a message to the escort service I use out here.Services no longer required tonight.

—eleven—

Tabitha

Frankie gets my pants undone in the limo, but I don’t want his hands on me tonight. We make out for a bit, then I push him aside and turn my attention to Izzie. I want to watch him fuck her.

“You want his cock, Izzie baby?”

She glances back at us over her shoulder and nods. I shove the man-child her way. He’s probably twenty-three, maybe twenty-four—he’s graduated college, which I haven’t—but he still feels so damn young compared to what I’ve survived in my twenty-five years.

“Frankie, you should give the lady what she wants.” I slide my hands inside my jeans and stroke my bare skin as I watch him inch down her black pants and bend her over on the wide leather seat.

The visual makes me wet, and I touch myself deeper. God, I’m sticky all over, and not in a good way. I still need to shower. He can wash my hair. Poor kid will probably love that just as much as screwing my PR girl.

He’s built. Not as built as Wilson.

I close my eyes and see those grey eyes, judging me.

Ahhhh. Dude has to get out of my head. I’ve felt him crawling up my back and against my neck all night. If he’s the reason I’m not fucking Frankie right now…

Maybe he really is a federal agent. Uptight. Repressed.

My eyelids flutter open, just enough to see the erotic tableau on the other side of the limo. WouldWilsonrail me like that? Clothes barely undone?

I should have been more subtle this afternoon. Maybe I could have actually had sex with them instead of scaring them off.

The best part of theatre is finding out how close to the edge of reality you can slide and still be within the realm of fiction. Of telling a story and having a point, instead of just being something to gawk at.

I never fail at that. That I lost sight of that today is terrifying. I pull my hands out of my pants and reach for the vodka in the built-in bar. The limo smells like sex, and now, as I crack the seal on a top-shelf bottle I won’t take a second drink from, it smells of booze, too.

My comfort zone.

And it ends too soon as we pull up in front of the Bel-Air.

Frankie and Izzie take a second to pull themselves together. My driver knows better than to open the door before I roll the window down—our signal—so when we exit the limo, Frankie in front, me in the middle, head down, and Izzie carrying my bag behind me, if there are any paparazzi, they’re not going to get a very interesting shot.

Upstairs the good times continue mostly without me, and after their first round comes to a screaming conclusion—I applaud—Izzie scurries into the bathroom to get the shower going.

Yes. I need to wash off the night. And the day.

I need to wash off Wilson and his piercing gaze. His quiet voice, and unexpected bark.

That surprised him, I could tell.

Stop thinking about him, I demand of myself. I’ve never been good with demands.

I pour myself another drink and stare at the phone. What was the ridiculous name he gave me? Gough. I snort and pick up the handset, immediately connecting with the concierge downstairs.

“Is Wilson Gough still here at the hotel?”

“Yes he is, ma’am.”

“Don’t call me that.”

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