Page 23 of Choke

That statement gets my full attention.

“What did you just say?”

He laughs loudly, that laugh he got from his mother’s father, theItalian, as we call him.

“Oh yeah, she was all over me and, after the fight, begged me to get her out of there. I took her back to my room, and just as shit is getting good - and I mean, really good - she tells me that her rate is $500/hour.” He is still chuckling, shaking his head as if he can’t believe himself.

“She’s a whore?” I ask.

“Please. Liberty. Whore is so 90s. It’s offensive. She’s a sex worker and a high-end one at that.”

I stare at him. I can’t believe this fucking guy.

Then it hits me in the gut: the dress, her all over Nate, her friend the sex worker.

No, no way. Not her.

The idea alone makes my stomach twist and my jaw tighten. I try to shake the thought off.

“You think she’s… like her friend?”

He laughs, “I knew that was where your head would go, man. One, who cares if she is? She’s. Not. Your. Chick.” He enunciates each word. “Two, no. She is a sales executive or whatever. Rosie said they met a few years ago when Lex moved here. She just told her last night about her lucrative career in fucking.”

My head’s a mess. I’m working through how I should navigate things. We are silent for a couple of minutes when finally Ronan looks at his watch and says, “Shit, man, we gotta check out. The bus leaves in 20 minutes.”

He spins and heads out the door, looking over his shoulder to say, “Good luck with Alice. I mean it. She’s out for blood. She was calling her mom when I saw her earlier.”

Perfect. Bringing in the big guns.

The door closes behind Ronan, leaving me alone with the mess I’ve made—Alice, Lex, and my team. The weight of it all settles in, twisting my stomach. I glance at my phone again, Alice’s face staring back at me.

My thumb hovers, but I don’t answer. I don’t care to.

I click to ignore the call.

One of the Temps

Lex

The alarm on my phone jars me out of a deep sleep. I reach for it, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. I crack one eye open—am I still hungover? The light in the room stabs at my temples. Apparently, yes. Groaning, I check my phone and suddenly sit up when I register the time.

8:45 am?!

Fuck!

I must have hit snooze.

I must have hit it about ten damn times.

I shove off the covers, skipping the shower and twisting my hair into a messy braid, loose strands framing my face. Putting toothpaste on my toothbrush and hurriedly scrubbing my teeth, I text Kendall. I let her know I’m running late and ask her to cover for me if anyone asks.

I throw a pop tart into the toaster and rush to get dressed. I’ve never been late for work… maybe ever. Not at this job, anyway. My brain is still foggy when I exit my room, dressed, grabbing my nutritious breakfast from the toaster. Pulling on my shoes and grabbing my purse, keys, and cell, I head out the door. Once inside the elevator, I lean against the wall and check my phone. 9:02 am. That might be a personal record.

I’m enjoying the sweetness of my snack, the sugar breathing a little life into my exhausted, hungover body, when I see Kendall reply to my text. I open it, expecting her to confirm she has my back. Instead, I am so shocked that I drop the rest of my pop tart on the elevator floor.

“Fuck.” I mutter as the doors open, and my neighbor from a few floors down enters with her son. Shit. “Sorry. Good morning.” I say, trying to sound more alive than I feel.

My gaze returns to my phone. Going over the message once more.

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