Page 2 of A Mistake of Identity
Donovan rolled his eyes at the gesture. “You aren’t Union. Who’re you going to cry to? You’ve cost me three potential regulars with your attitude.”
“I was sick for two of those guys. Back-to-back appointments—”
“Don’t give me excuses.” Donovan’s breath hit Ellis’ face in hot puffs, his fingers tightening painfully in Ellis’ hair. “This guy has real money, actual connections. He did me a solid last month. That’s why you’re going at half your usual rate.” He released Ellis’ hair only to grab his chin, forcing eye contact. “So you get your shit together, spread your legs, and make him moan, or you’re back on the street. Understand?”
Ellis forced himself to nod despite the grip on his jaw. Two years at Heart Court had taught him when to submit. Four years walking PDC’s streets had taught him when to fight. And the years before... He pushed those memories away. At twenty-three, he’d survived too much to risk losing his spot here over pride. A bruised face was nothing compared to what the streets would do to him. He’d learned that lesson long before he sold himself legally.
“What’s his name?” He kept his voice carefully neutral.
“He doesn’t want you to have it. Call him ‘Sir.’” Donovan’s sneer twisted deeper. “Job nice enough to afford you. Don’t need trash like you trying to blackmail him. Man has a reputation to maintain.”
“I wouldn’t—”
“Eight PM. Lumière lobby. By the chandelier fountain.” Donovan’s eyes raked over Ellis, catching on where the robe had fallen open, revealing the barely-there underwear beneath. With deliberate slowness, he pushed the fabric further aside, his rough palm sliding down Ellis’ torso. A repulsive shiver ran through Ellis as Donovan’s hand cupped his groin, the touch lingering and possessive. When Donovan squeezed painfully,Ellis ground his teeth together, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a response.
“And wear something appropriate,” Donovan sneered, finally removing his hand. “Don’t need you looking like a whore.”
“I am a whore,” Ellis mumbled.
Another backhand answered him. “And you dressing like it is why this place is going to shit. The Lumière is a classy joint.”
His phone buzzed in his pocket, and Donovan glanced at the screen. “Fuck.” He grabbed Ellis’ jaw again, fingers digging into the forming bruise. “Remember, you fuck this up, you’re back on the streets. And trust me, at your age? The streets aren’t kind to used goods.” He shoved Ellis’s face away and stormed out, already barking into his phone about a delivery issue at the back entrance.
Ellis had barely steadied himself when movement caught his eye as Jean burst into the lounge. A whirlwind of blonde curls and green eyes. He collapsed onto the couch beside Ellis. “Please tell me you’ll blow this guy’s mind.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be monitoring the desk?”
“Marie has it handled.” Jean fluttered his fingers in a dismissive wave.
“Her name’s not Marie.” Ellis rolled his eyes. “Marie isn’t the name of every girl who works here.”
“Emma, then.” Jean sprawled deeper into the couch. “Whatever.”
“Rachel. Her name is Rachel.”
Jean’s nose scrunched up like he’d smelled something offensive. “That’s not even French.”
“Neither is mine.” Ellis tugged one of Jean’s curls. “Not everyone born in PDC has to have a French name.”
“But your last name is French.” Jean batted Ellis’ hand away. “And Ellis is lovely. Rachel Miller is just so...” He wavedhis hands as if trying to grab the right word from the air. “Boring.”
Ellis rolled his eyes at Jean’s antics. “So you do know her name?”
“She should go by Marie,” Jean said, finally laying full-out on the couch, head in Jean’s lap.
Three months ago, Jean showed up at Heart Court in clothes that screamed Nouveau Quartier. His perfect Parisian French had marked him as clearly as their expensive tailoring. He’d picked up Paw-Paw surprisingly quickly.
Why someone would flee NQ luxury was a mystery Ellis didn’t care to solve. But Jean’s old-money air made him an instant favorite. Every pervert wanted to pretend they were fucking some rich kid behind Daddy’s back.
In Jean’s case, they probably were.
Ellis was too tall, too muscular for most tastes. Brown hair, brown eyes—nothing to write poems about. Not drop-dead gorgeous like Jean or Caleb or most of the Union escorts. That’s why he’d ended up at Heart Court.
“You’re going to blow this guy’s mind tonight, right?” Jean asked again, peeking up at him. “I don’t want to be here without you.”
Ellis ran his fingers through Jean’s curls, earning a catlike purr. “Just had bad luck. Picky customers.”
“Still can’t believe he made you work while sick.” Jean burrowed into Ellis’ lap like an octopus, ignoring attempts to dislodge him.
