Page 61 of A Life Chosen

Truman beckoned over a young woman with white-blond hair, who made her way to their table. “This is Sugar. She’ll take good care of you—trust me,” he said, leering. “I speak from experience.”

Mathias cringed inwardly. Not only did he have to fuck her, but he had to do so knowing the man had been there first.

Truman lifted his drink and clinked it against Mathias’s. “Pleasure doing business with you, Beauvais.”

Mathias raised the glass to his lips and knocked back the drink to mask the taste of bile rising in his throat.

After instructing his second to wait by the bar, Mathias followed Sugar upstairs to a series of numbered rooms. She was slight with dark eyes and small rounded breasts. Beneath the sheer slip of a dress, he could see the jut of her hip bones. Her arms hung, pale and limp, at her sides.

Giving him a sultry smile, she opened the door to room 7 and waited as Mathias made his way inside. It was only big enough for a double bed and a pair of side tables. She closed the door behind him and locked it with a click.

Mathias pulled out his cigarettes, lit one and took a drag, delaying the inevitable. The girl took it as a cue to totter over and reach for his belt buckle. He grabbed her wrist, stopping her. For a moment, she appeared confused, attempting to hide it with an impish pout.

“Don’t you want Sugar to make you feel good?” Her accent was thick, Baltic or Eastern European.

Mathias exhaled roughly, letting her go. He didn’t have time for this shit. “Bend over the bed.”

His tone must have registered because, despite her earlier efforts, the woman didn’t protest. She slipped off her heels, stepped out of her dress, and leaned over the bed, presenting herself in his direction. Mathias finished his cigarette, a coldness spreading across his body. His limbs felt heavy, like dead weight.

He stubbed out his smoke in the ashtray on one of the tables, shrugged off his jacket, and threw it down on the bed next to the girl, who was still poised, watching him over her shoulder. His eye fell on a platter of condoms beside the ashtray, and he picked one up and slipped it between his fingers.

Mathias stood behind her, unbuckling his pants. He thought he would have mustered something by now. The woman’s blatant display only served to further his lack of interest. He stared past her, allowing his vision to blur at the edges, and summoned the feel of his fingers in Rayan’s hair, finding the curve of his skull. He thought of how the man would press against him, as though even with their bodies fused together, he couldn’t get close enough.

Mathias unwrapped the condom and slid it along his hardening shaft. The morning of his last visit, he’d found Rayan in the shower. Pushing his slick body up against the tiles, Mathias had held Rayan’s wrists behind his back, preventing him from touching his cock—claiming dominion over him, his pleasure, his release.

He entered the girl in one thrust. Pressing down on her lower back, he moved fast, thankful for the layer of latex between them. She began to gasp and moan.

“Quiet,” he instructed sharply, and she fell silent.

Mathias focused on the contact his hips made with her ass, the friction of his movement inside her. Every time he got close, something about the encounter would jar him, and he’d lose it, having to reach deeper within himself to invoke the necessary response. He wondered if it had always been so much work. Maybe he’d become spoiled, more familiar with the effort of holding himself back than forcing himself through. In the beginning, his separation from Rayan had proven a useful tool, but lately, Mathias found himself less willing to draw him into places likethese—to allow his desire for Rayan, set on a hair trigger, to share the same space as the company he reviled.

They continued in silence until Mathias came perfunctorily, relieved to be done and end their brief interaction. After throwing the used condom in the trash, he buckled his pants and picked up his jacket. The girl sat on the bed, curling her legs beneath her as she watched him.

“What’s next, baby?” Sugar smiled lazily, looking at him with half-lidded eyes. “You got me all worked up.”

Mathias reached into his pocket and pulled out a stack of bills. He peeled off a handful and placed them down on the side table.

“That one’s on the house,” the girl teased, raising her arms and stretching out across the bed. He saw the dilated pupils and the smudge of darkness under her eyes. Around her neck and thighs lingered the shadow of bruising, barely visible in the low lighting.

“My regards to Truman,” Mathias said, turning toward the door. He felt the girl’s eyes on him as he stepped out into the hallway.

At his apartment, Mathias collapsed onto the bed, fully clothed. His skin crawled, his stomach heavy. He needed to wash the woman off him, but he couldn’t bring himself to stand.

He pulled out his phone and stared at the screen. Despite the late hour, his thumb moved on its own, punching in the number from memory. He hovered over the call button but regained enough sense not to dial, dropping the phone onto the bed beside him. Mathias realized he’d only wanted to hear the man’s voice—how he hesitated before speaking, as though juggling multiple threads of thought. He often felt the real Rayan existed far beneath the surface, and what he did let people see was a carefully managed version of what they expected. But recently, the shroud had begun to lift, frustration, possession, and that disarming softness breaking through.

There was a buzz as his phone started to ring. He picked it up, stiffening when he saw the number on the screen.

“Sorry, it’s early.”

“It’s late.”

“Right.” Rayan laughed softly. “Figured there was a chance you were still up.”

“Unfortunately.” Mathias pulled himself up, unable to shake the eeriness of the coincidence.

“I spoke to Hassir, who works for Ahmad. He said the Algerians are pulling out of the port because of competition with Truman.”

Mathias had a feeling that might happen. But the family’s cut with the Algerians paled in comparison to what they were bringing in from the Reapers’ shipments. “I’ll discuss it with De Luca. There might be a way to alternate the timing. What else?”

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