Page 77 of Black Jack (Advantage Play 5)

“I never liked having sex with Reed.”

Another scoff, but I ignore it, and pierce him with my stare.

“I didn’t. And I never did coke on my own time.”

His brows pinch as he registers my word choice.

“I don’t like coke. It makes me feel…out of control. But when a client pays for your time, you do whatever they want you to do. Whether it’s drugs, or sucking a dick, or bending over a desk and moaning like it’s the greatest feeling in the world when all you want to do is run away and take a shower, you do it. Because that’s what brings a client back. And that’s what pays the bills.”

As if he’s been sucker punched, Jack rolls back onto the mattress, staring up at me like I’m a ghost. A hideous ghost.

“Tell me you’re lying,” he chokes out.

I shake my head back and forth. “I can’t.”

“Tell me. Tell me that you were fucking Reed before we met, but you didn’t know he was a Fed. Tell me that you used to do coke, but went to rehab and got better.”

“I can’t,” I repeat, my voice cracking. “Jack––”

“You’re a prostitute.”

I cover my mouth and try to push back the sob that threatens to escape me, but it’s no use. The tears run in rivers down my face, but I force myself to nod.

“A hooker.”

Another nod.

“A whore.”

A strangled sob slips out of me, but I don’t deny the truth. I can’t.

“I’m sorry,” I mouth, unable to find my voice.

His jaw tightens before he pushes himself to his feet, pacing the room like a caged beast. “How long? How long have you been selling your body for money?”

I wipe the moisture from my face and search for strength to answer his questions. “Since I was fifteen.”

“How’d you get started?”

“B-Burlone. He approached me during a gathering. Said I was pretty. My brother was drowning in debt after my father died. We were going to lose everything––”

“That’s no excuse,” Jack seethes.

I whimper. “I know.”

“How many men have you fucked?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you have any STDs? Do I need to get checked? It’s funny, I never thought I’d have to wrap up with my own wife.”

“Jack––”

“I want to know. Do you?”

“Of course not.”

He laughs. It’s dark and wounded and hits me harder than a baseball bat. “And I’m supposed to trust you? The girl who’s screwed so many men she doesn’t even have a number?”

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