“Okay, okay.” I put my hands up. “I can behave. You know, GFE. The Girlfriend Experience.”
He grimaced. “If you actually were my girlfriend, then we wouldn’t have to pretend.”
Girlfriend? That sounded so high school. Which was easier to focus on than the flutter of happiness in my belly. “I’m sorry, did you ask me to be your girlfriend? Because I feel sure I would have remembered that.”
“What are the chances of you not mocking me for this?”
“Are you going to ask me to prom too? I don’t think I have a dress, but maybe we can go shopping together. That’s probably best. What color is your tux?”
“And this is why I didn’t ask.”
“Pass me a note in homeroom, and we’ll see.”
He snorted, but I detected humor dancing in his eyes.
We rode the rest of the way to the hotel in silence.
Inside, the elevator doors opened to a narrow hallway with light-beige vinyl walls. An older couple left their room and began walking toward us. The woman stared at my boobs, her face puckered in disgust.
I rolled my eyes. Typical closet lesbian.
“Behave,” Luke murmured.
I scooted over to make room for them to pass, but the woman’s hips bumped into me. I stumbled and would have fallen straight on her cleavage if Luke hadn’t caught me. He firmly pulled me forward, his hand on my elbow.
Rather than resist him, I draped myself over him in dramatic relief. “I can’t wait to get to our room.”
He shot me a quelling look.
I lowered my voice. “I’ve been thinking about this the whole drive.” Glancing back, I saw the woman shoot me one last murderous glare before rounding the corner. I shrugged at Luke’s raised brow. “What? She practically felt me up.”
He just shook his head.
We reached the room, and I was disappointed that there seemed to be no special knock or secret code for entry. He just knocked and said, “It’s me,” and we were let inside. A flutter of nerves upset my stomach, which surprised me. Since when did I get nervous about meeting new people? Most guys were nervous to meet me, not the other way around. But these were Luke’s friends.
And wow. I had expected other cops, ones who cared more about doing what was right than following the rules, like Luke. But these guys were faux military and street thugs.
Luke introduced me to Jeff, who sported green-brown fatigues, a buzz cut, and a gold hoop through his ear. He smiled shyly.
“Nice to meet you,” I said. “I like your earring.”
Jeff blushed a deep rose. “Nice to meet you too, ma’am.”
“Oh, and a southern accent. I bet the ladies line up to hear you speak.”
“Naw.” He practically scuffed his thick black boots on the glass-tile floor.
Luke drew me over to meet the next man, muttering under his breath, “No flirting.”
The next guy was a local gang member, judging by both the tats down his neck and the red bandanna hanging from his pocket.
“You can call me Rico,” he said. “Because that’s my name.”
I met his fist bump with a smile. “It’s a pleasure.”
“And that’s Major.” Luke nodded toward a guy in the corner.
Major was dressed all in black, his square-set face impassive. He gave a brief wave, more like a salute.
I wondered if Luke had given them some kind of warning about me. None of them let their gazes linger below my neck. At least Rico would know who I was—what I was. Probably all of them did, considering they were helping Luke with the situation, but there was no judgment in their gazes. Judgment usually came from the ladies, but there was none of the speculation, none of the wink-wink-nudge-nudge guys tended to do when they knew, as if they turned into adolescent virgins at the thought of paying for it. There were exceptions to this rule, but rarely zero out of three like this.
The four men gathered around the glass coffee table. Even Major gave up his post in the corner, although he still drew a chair from the kitchenette, turning it backward and straddling it, distancing himself.
They had confirmed the location and were discussing the best way to get there while avoiding detection. I stood aside, not pointedly excluded but clearly unhelpful to any tactical discussions. The unique cultural norms of Henri and the prostitution community at large—color me an anthropological expert. Breaking through a state-of-the-art security system, not so much.
From my perch against the window, I considered the assembly. Were they from Luke’s past as a homeless kid? Or his present as a cop, maybe other informants? The two sides of Luke had seemed disparate when he first told me the story, as if he had been reborn as a different person. Slowly I had come to merge them in my mind, to see glimmers of his boyhood in the man. He was fiercely determined, unafraid—like a gutter dog. He was unflinchingly loyal, in a way inherent to street life. On the streets, you either ran pack or died. Luke was a survivor all the way.