I slipped the remaining three hundred into my wallet, and without another word I drove toward home. “Do you need to go back to work?” Great, now my voice had to quiver? My heart tried to burst through my chest. My palms were slick with sweat. I was a wreck, propelled back into my teenage years by someone who was probably a teenager himself.
“Eventually,” he spat out. He seemed unconcerned about our destination, just sitting and staring at the houses as they went by. He was so hostile. I had no idea what the fuck I was doing.
I was a moderately attractive guy—in the wholesome, frat boy way. Nothing exotic—brown hair, brown eyes, and tanned skin. I was attractive. I got plenty of offers. So why was I paying some kid for— And, Jesus, it wasn’t even to screw him.
Risking career over paying a hustler for not having sex with you. Brilliant, Austin.
You fail at prostitution.
I wove through town, driving as fitfully as my heart beat. It was a miracle I didn’t get pulled over. Bunny Slippers said nothing, no matter how badly I drove. I tried to come up with something to say, anything, to fill the awkward silence.
“What’s your name?”
“What do you want it to be?” he asked acerbically, not bothering to acknowledge me with more than words.
“Bunny Slippers,” I said, trying for a smile that I hoped wasn’t a leer. It probably was a leer, though. I was so hard my cock was aching.
“What the f—” He sighed, eyes rolling in his head. “Peter,” he ground out through clenched teeth. My heart jumped as the corners of his lips twitched. Was that the truth? I hoped it was. Not because the name had any significance, but because I didn’t want him playing a part for me. I wanted to believe he was real. My naïveté was ridiculous. I was only assigned to Vice six months ago, but I’d been on the force for eight years. Boys like Peter were hard-edged and dangerous. If the captain could see me, he would boot me off the force for being an idealistic jackass—and possibly for statutory rape.
Oh yeah, and solicitation, Austin. Don’t forget that career-ending solicitation part, Austin. Penal code 18—7—202: Solicitation for prostitution. Otherwise known as: Your-Fucked-Career.
“How old are you?” I finally asked.
The withering scowl he gave was uplifting. At least it wasn’t inscrutable. “How old do you want me to be?”
I laughed. “I walked into that.”
“Whatever.”
“Does open hostility work well in your profession?” I flashed my most charming grin. He stared back at me, blank.
“You’re not paying me for conversation.” It was hard to tell, while trying to drive and study him, but I thought I saw his lips twitch again.
“I assumed it was part of the package.” I threw another layer of charm into my smile.
“Does naïve and clueless work in your profession?”
Five blocks passed in silence. “Twenty-four,” I said, pulling onto my street. I laughed as his brows curled in confusion. “How old I want you to be.”
“Tough shit. I’m twenty.” Some of my nausea disappeared.
“Home sweet home,” I announced.
My apartment building had been converted from an old Victorian home. I owned it, loved it, treated it with the kindness it deserved. The main house contained six units and there was an old, detached carriage house around back. The flower garden was bisected by a path to the side gate, and a row of bushes lined the stairs that led to the entrance. Peter followed me up the front stairs and along the path behind the main house to the carriage house—my carriage house. I had refurbished it into a two-story apartment. It was my pride and joy.
On Angelica’s recommendation, I had hired the best interior designers and decorators, and it showed in the expensive contemporary brown and cream designs. Of course it was the stupidest idea ever to bring a hustler here, where there were so many pawn-able items.
Jesus H. Christ. I am a fucking idiot.
Once inside, Peter said nothing about how awesome the apartment was, and I was a little perturbed. But, then again, he only seemed to vacillate between hostile and apathetic; I wasn’t sure I wanted his opinion.
Hours of stalking—er, sitting—in my hot car had enhanced the loveliness of my natural scent. Plus I was nervous—like this was a first date. There were sweat marks all around my clothes. “I’m going to take a shower upstairs. There’s one down here, too. In there.” I pointed to the right, where a hallway led to the guest bedroom and bathroom. “Try not to steal anything.” I was joking but, then again, I wasn’t. I didn’t realize that the words might be offensive—were offensive—until they slipped out.