Page 18 of Risk
One date. One fuck. That’s it.
But seeing my name on a tag attached to that vase of my most favorite flower in the world stunned me. I picked them up to move them to a safer space, and that’s when I saw the tag. The bouquet and vase were so heavy, it slipped out of my clammy hands and smashed on the floor.
This is definitely not nothing.
Now I’m in his bathroom and I have no clue how to get out of this situation.
Mason carefully inspects my cut. With a steady hand, he plucks the small shard out and blood wells. “I don’t think it needs stitches.” Mason pulls his phone out and starts dialing. “I want it looked at by a professional, to be sure.”
“No, it’s fine.” I’m not about to pay an astronomical medical bill just for a couple stitches. “Let me just—” I make the mistake of looking at the cut. Blood covers my palm. My legs give out and I see stars. My ears start ringing. My vision closes in.
“Oh shit,” I hear him say before it’s lights out.
•••
My stomach rolls as I focus on the bright white ceiling. I’m no longer in the bathroom.
“There she is,” Mason says, sounding relieved.
My gaze drifts until it latches onto his grey eyes. “What happened?”
“You fainted.”
Mason looks like he’s going to be sick, which alarms me. “Are you okay?”
“Me? You’re the one who got hurt. I’m so sorry, Leah.” Mason holds my hand to keep pressure on the cut. “If I hadn’t tried to play games, this never would have happened. I should have just told you I was X.”
His admission makes me feel a lot of things at once—relief, guilt, annoyance, confusion.
Lust.
Pulling the hem of my jersey, I admit, “I wore this knowing you were a Red Sox fan. I wanted to rile you up with it.”
“Well, that’s a relief. I was going to have to find a new house cleaner if you said you were a true Yankees fan.”
His joke falls flat, and we both know it.
And though my hand stings, my pride hurts more. “How did you know I was Daisy Ren?” It’s been a while since someone recognized me.
“I heard the servers at the restaurant talk about how you looked like Daisy Ren. So, I looked you up.”
Shame digs its claws into my pride but doesn’t last. Mason might know what I do for extra cash now, but he also just outed himself as the man who got off seeing me orgasm.
He’s famous. I’m a nobody.
Which one of us would be in bigger trouble if our secret got out?
Mason rubs the back of his neck. “Did you know I was X the whole time?”
I shake my head. “I saw the framed jersey when you dropped the phone after you… came. I knew it had to be you.”
He’s as still as a statue next to me on the bed.
There’s terror in his eyes. His face drains of color. He’s probably reliving our session, remembering all the dirty things he said, how he jerked off in front of a camera, how he came so hard it splattered all over his crisp black pants and abs.
How he paid me for it.
The sex industry is a mighty large grey area. Where’s the line separating flirt and a sex worker? How does a gracious tip become an actual payment? When does fake become real?