The Biker's Paid Obsession

The Confession

Elizabeth

I smear a deep purple lipstick across my lips and study the woman staring back at me in the mirror. Purple looks good, too good. It softens me, and replaces feisty with innocence, but innocence is a liability tonight. I don't need gentle or sweet, not tonight.

I tug a wipe from the packet and scrub the color off until my lips sting. Then I pick a bright red lipstick and apply it carefully. Unlike purple, red doesn't apologize or pretend. Red tells the truth before I even open my mouth.

Satisfied, I wait a few minutes, letting the look settle in place before throwing a trench coat over my lingerie and slipping into a pair of stilettos.

I drive slowly to the designated hotel. When I walk into the lobby, I do it like I belong to this luxury. Like I've always belonged.

I do right now, anyway.

The elevator ride to room 102 is short and silent. Outside the door, I draw in a deep breath, then knock.

A man in his thirties opens it.

“Elizabeth,” I say smoothly, offering the name he ordered. Without saying a word, he steps aside and lets me in. As per ritual, I scan him as discreetly as possible, cataloging everything while pretending to not notice at all. Like most of my clients, he's wearing an expensive suit, his shirt buttons loosened at the top.

Then I notice the wedding band snug on his finger.

Something tightens in my chest. No sane man pays to cheat on his wife with proof of her clinging onto him like that. That alone should stop him but it doesn't.

“She just gave birth,” he says when he notices my eyes lingering. I don't need him to explain what he means because I lived this. When I gave birth to Mia, her father couldn't wait for me to be cleared to engage in s*x with him. He found alternatives. By the time I was cleared, he said I was too big, too tired, too different. He started bringing petite whores into our home. I slept to the sound of women moaning down the hall and woke up to the echo of it still ringing in my ears.

“Sorry about that,” I say when my client clears his throat. I force an apologetic smile, and shove the memories back where they belong.

I explain the rules and make small talk, easing him into the moment before slipping out of my trench coat. Time passes the way it always does in rooms like this.

When the hour is finally over, he's sprawled on the bed, chest rising and falling, utterly spent. The way he looks at the ceiling tells me I delivered just what he paid for.

I fix myself quickly, grabbing my purse, and leaving without looking back.

That's how every one of my appointments go. I deliver the service, get the money, and forget it ever happened. That's how it should have been with Logan too, but he crosses my mind even as I drive away from the hotel.

The club is quieter when I arrive, the early hours of the night still stretching ahead. The bass hums low, lights dimmed.

“Look who's here,” Nancy says when she spots me.

“You're supposed to be in the dressing room, getting ready for one of your shows,” I say, sliding into the chair across from her.

“Not today,” she shakes her head. “Thanks to Cole.”

I roll my eyes, not trusting myself to respond.

She leans in, smiling coyly. “He paid Mr. Smith a ridiculous amount and told me to enjoy the night off. Isn't that sweet?”

"I guess."

I grab a shot from the tray on the table and down it, the burn loosening something tight in me.

“Let's catch up,” she says. “ What's new in your life?”

I sigh. “Michael's hosting Mia's birthday party this year.”

“Does that make you sad?”

I shake my head. “It's not the party. It's how close she's getting to her stepmother. Lately, she's more excited to go to her dad's than to stay with me.”

“If I were you,” Nancy chuckles. “I'd call that an opportunity.”

“An opportunity to do what?” I ask, confused.

“To do something crazy,” she shrugs. “Like f*****g that hot man over there.”

"Come on, I f**k people for a living."

I follow her finger and meet Anthony's gaze. He offers a soft smile, and I lift my hand and wave. He says something to the men at his table, then stands and walks toward us.

“Elizabeth,” he says, taking the stool beside me. “Lovely to see you again.”

“Nice to see you,” I say, reaching for another shot.

“Care for a smoke outside?” He asks and I nod without thinking twice about it.

Outside, the air is cooler and quieter. He leads me to a small seating area, pulls a cigarette case from his pocket and hands me one, lighting it himself.

“Let me guess,” he says casually. “You’ve got nothing underneath that coat.”

I exhale a cloud of smoke. “How do you know?”

“I can tell. You're from an appointment.”

I sniff my armpits dramatically. “Do I smell like transactional s*x?”

He laughs. “Not at all.”

“Then how do you know, seriously?”

“I watch your every move,” he says easily.

I frown, the cigarette pausing halfway to my mouth. “Why?”

“Logan asked me to,” he replies. “While he's away.”

Away.

It finally clicks why he never came to collect his half-burnt jacket. I'd already set it on fire when I changed my mind.

“Shouldn’t that be classified information,” I ask, curiousity threading my voice. “Why are you telling me?”

He studies the ground, nudging a stone with his boot before meeting my gaze. “I want to open your eyes,” he says, voice low. “I don't want you close enough to him to get burned”