Page 68 of The Kingpin's Call Girl

“I’m in 802 down the hall,” Orton says, pushing the door open for me. “Knock if you need something, but it better be life or death.”

“Wait. How long will he be delayed?”

“He’ll get here when he gets here.” With that, Orton leaves.

“Thanks, jackass,” I whisper, closing the door behind him.

I wander around the huge, luxurious suite, marveling at what looks like very expensive art on the walls, and there’s an amazing view of Manhattan. I run my hand over the velvet couch back, making streaks of deep indigo in the royal blue fabric.

I’m trying to focus on anything but what’s ahead. Anything but the feel of his hands on me. The brutal way he takes me over and makes me feel things I’ve never felt. The way he makes me lose myself.

I’m hyperaware of the kiss of my linen dress against my body. Of the coolness of the air as I suck in nervous breaths. And, of course, the Brazilian wax.

What if he is delayed for hours? I force myself to make the best of it, pulling out my phone and doing some reading about how everyday medieval households worked—cooking, cleaning, expenses.

At first I can’t focus, jumping at every hallway sound, but I eventually lose myself in this obscure text I was lucky to find digitized.

Direct source material from the late 11th centuryis rare, especially when it’s about common people. Anastasia Laskarina, the Byzantine princess and first teen historian, mostly recorded politics and rulers, though she did document village fears from her maids’ stories—crop failures, plagues, and especially the Pecheneg invaders.

These nomadic fighters terrified both peasants and royalty alike. They’d burn olive trees and grapevines that had stood for centuries and consumed stored food before moving on to destroy neighboring farms. Pure waste. They could have sustained themselves for years if they’d left them intact.

I grab a bag of chips from the minibar, not caring if Luka’s hospitality extends to snacks. I eat the whole bag of Fritos, my own little rebellion for making me wait for him in the middle of the night.

I burn through the Sun Chips and the mini-Pringles after that, staring out at the light on the other side of the Hudson River. There are small clusters of people down below, going home after a night out, probably, and not appreciating their free choice.

I’d be asleep in bed by now. That would be my choice.

I nearly jump out of my skin when I hear the door unlock.

Orton opens the door and steps aside to make way for Luka.

I gasp at the sight of him, all beaten up and bloody. His clothes are ripped, and his eye is so puffy it’s nearly closed. “Oh my God, what happened?”

Orton shuts the door and points in the direction of the bedroom. “Leave us. Close the door.”

I walk into the bedroom and shut the door. I sit on the bed and wait some more, clutching my phone. I can hear them arguing in low tones.

I hear the sound of water running. Are they cleaning him up out there? Angry voices. Arguing? Talking about somebody they mutually hate?

A door slams. The bedroom door bangs open a few minutes later, and there he is.

He stops at the foot of the bed, swaying like some sort of brute, bruised and battered and wild. A savage invader looking over his meal.

I’m more keenly aware of the Brazilian wax than ever. My heart pounds. Waiting.

His face is red and puffy in places, though the blood is washed off, thankfully, and he’s changed from his bloody designer suit into a new dark shirt, buttoned up and tucked into gray slacks.

The bottom part of him is a fashion plate, but his face is pure beast mode.

With shaking hands, I turn off my phone and put it aside. “Are you okay?”

He seems to be processing the question. For all that he’s beaten up, he looks beautiful, angelic eyes shining through his monstrously battered face.

“Luka?”

He points at a spot on the bed in front of him. “Need you to....”

“What happened?”