Page 78 of The Kingpin's Call Girl

It’s a low blow, but she’s not in Kansas anymore. She needs to see that and that she’s not dealing with some brokenhearted kid, either.

This is not a relationship.

“Do you remember what I pay you for, Edie?”

She narrows her eyes and there it is. The scorn. And I do like it. She’s very fuckable when she’s got that scorn going.

“Do you remember?” I repeat.

“You pay me for my body, but you have no say over my thoughts and emotions.”

“Your thoughts and emotions.” I snort. “Not a fan.”

She glares. The scorn’s really rolling now.

I hold out a hand. “Let’s have that phone.”

She stiffens. She understands what this means—that phone is our only line of communication.

“You were a good lay, but it’s gone on too long.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“Hand it over.”

She hesitates, then she pulls the phone from her bag and throws it onto the couch.

“That works,” I say. “You’re officially free to go to Vegas now.”

“Excellent,” she says.

“Just keep quiet.”

“Unlike some people, I’m good for my word.” She spins on her heel and leaves, shutting the door behind her.

I have the impulse to go after her and demand to know what she means by “unlike some people.” Demand she give one example where I wasn’t good for my word, something I happen to pride myself on.

I have my hand on the knob when I finally stop myself.

Because what the fuck? Why do I care?

This is not a relationship. It’s a transaction, and that transaction is over.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

EDIE

I zigzag my way home, superspy-style—subway to crowded store to different subway line—keeping my head down and my face arranged in a don’t-talk-to-me scowl that masks the trembling chin and burning eyes underneath. The city blurs around me as I focus on just one thing: nobody gets to see me fall apart. Not here. Not yet.

We had a connection—something raw and electric and real. I didn’t imagine it; I couldn’t have. The way he looked at me when he thought I wouldn’t notice, how his voice would soften when we were alone. I know he felt it, too. And yet he cut me off so coldly, like severing a limb without anesthesia. But my pain goes beyond rejection—I’m haunted by what Luka must have endured as a child. Those scars weren’t just physical; they told a story of suffering no kid should ever know.

And then he sends me away forever.

I get it. I went too far with the brokenhearted kid comment. But really, what sort of parents would send a boy to such a place? And then leave him there? He probably was a brokenhearted kid at one time, but he definitelyisn’t one now.

I pass a donut shop, the air thick with the scent of sugar and fried dough, and keep on walking, scowl in place.

Well, this is what I wanted, isn’t it? For him to reject me? The bland-and-boring act didn’t work. No, it turns out all I needed to do was show some genuine understanding and compassion. To actually give a shit about him.