Page 85 of The Kingpin's Call Girl

It’s strange to realize that.

Also strange that I actually miss him. Luka is like nobody I’ve ever known, even though, yes, he’s a killer by his own admission. A very bad man who scares other very bad men, a guy who hires prostitutes, a man who killed his own brother in some unspeakable way.

Even so, I miss him. It’s more than the sex, though that is shockingly good.

I inhale the cookies, replaying the night.

The way that the scars lined up suggested he was whipped by somebody who really enjoyed it. Luka grew up under the control of complete monsters until something happened and the tables turned, and he killed them. He wanted me to be horrified by what he’d done, but I wasn’t. How could I be?

Luka said he was quite the good little boy at one time but that it turned out to be a farce. Is that what that place did to him? Made it so the only emotion he responds to is scorn? Well, he certainly doesn’t like compassion. Show him one ounce of compassion, and he pretty much freaks out. Takes the phone away.

I shouldn’t have pushed him. I don’t generally push people, but everything with Luka is different. We vibe together—deeply. Wildly.

This makes no sense because he’s a mafia don or whatever you call it in Albanian, and I’m an aspiring schoolteacher who has a thing against criminals. But Luka feels like my people in a way I’ve never experienced.

Our outsides don’t match, but our insides resonate.

At least on my side.

I loved being with him. Whether we’re fucking or just sittingthere, it feels right. I can’t stop being endlessly fascinated by him and caring about him and wanting good things for him.

But he’s done with me. And technically, it’s for the best.

The absolute best-case scenario would be for me to show up at the restaurant, he sees me standing there, and he makes one of his guys throw me out before I even get a chance to talk with him.

That would absolutely be the best-case scenario.

It’s a hundred percent what I should want.

A million percent.

Maybe that’s how it’ll happen. Maybe things will be okay in the end—it’s not impossible.

I wave at Odetta, who’s commandeered a window table, feet up and earbuds in.

She’s in a faux fur vest with brown yoga pants and pink platform sneakers, one of her go-to awesome outfits. When she sees me, she sits up and pops out the earbuds. “Finally!”

“I had to stop at a drugstore.” I hold up my arm.

“Oh my God! What happened?”

“Don’t text while walking, kids.” I sit down and pull out my art history textbook one-handed. “It’s just a sprain, though.”

“Did you ice it?”

“Right before I got here.”

“Fuck.”

“It’s fine,” I lie.

“You sure?”

“Of course.” A sprained wrist is barely on my radar as a problem at this point.

“Chad did an ice-heat-ice-heat thingy for that sprain he got in dodgeball. I think Jenna down the hall has a heating pad.”

“Maybe I’ll try it.” I pull more stuff out of my bagand plop it down. “Is Chad working this weekend? Because I could really use an eighties rom-com night.”

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