Page 130 of Pretty Mess

“Where I come from, when someone says, ‘I’ll handle this,’ they mean violence.”

“Do you come from a Guy Ritchie film?”

Incredibly, I hear myself laugh and wince when my ribs protest. “What will you do?”

“I’m kicking him out of the club and then I’m going to ruin him financially and socially,” he says with relish. “That’s worse than death to him.”

“Can you do that?”

“Oh yes.” His serene certainty is disturbing and comforting at the same time. I shelve that thought for another time.

“Maybe don’t do too much.”

“Wes, he tried to rape you.”

“Yeah.” I consider my feelings. “Do what you think,” I finally say. “Maybe I should be the better person, but I’m too tired and jumbled up tonight.”

He nods and touches my shoulder gently before leaving and shutting the door behind him.

“I hate that,” Mac mutters, crossing to the huge bed and pulling the duvet back neatly.

“Hate what?”

“The word whore. That’s not you.”

“To be honest, it is. I mean, escort is better, but that just sounds like I’m helping you find the way to Buckingham Palace.”

“You entered this arrangement because of your brother’s troubles. Everything I paid you went to debts that were his fault. If I had known, I’d have…”

“You’d have what?” I ask almost idly as I start to take off my clothes. I grimace when my side spasms.

He darts to my side to help me then pauses, his hand midair.

I frown. “Are you okay?”

“I don’t want to presume it’s okay to touch you.”

“Well, you can definitely presume. I’ll accept help gratefully. I’m starting to feel every bruise and scrape now.”

Together, we strip off the last of my clothes. His touch is very gentle, but his eyes are turbulent as he looks at the marks that are stark on my skin.

Finally, he speaks. “I’d have given you the money.”

It takes a second to register he’s finishing his earlier sentence. “You’re not a registered charity, Mac. Would you have not slept with me if you’d known what I needed the money for?”

He doesn’t say anything, and when I glance up, he looks almost stunned. Like he’s had a revelation.

“I wouldalwayshave slept with you,” he says.

I’m too tired to analyse the strange tone of his voice. The bed is big and looks so inviting I could cry. I collapse into it, feeling the mattress sink under me. Gentle hands I would recognise anywhere lift my legs onto the mattress.

“Thank you,” I mumble.

“What about a shower?”

“Not now.” Sleep is waiting to tug me under. “Just want to sleep.”

He hesitates. “Okay, but I’m going to be making sure you’re okay through the night, so don’t get grumpy.”