Page 6 of The Beast Who Bought Me
Telling the truth.
“…and so I wanted to talk to you,” I finish up, having given him a sanitized version of my current nightmare.
Jesse’s manicured fingertips have tightened around his glass. “Me?God, Cal, I’m sorry about everything, and I’d love to help, but…” He spreads his hands in awhat can I possibly do?gesture, diamond bracelets sparkling even in the low lights of the club.
“I just need some cash to get out of the city. Or a place to sleep for a few nights.” Somewhere that isn’t a park bench or under a bridge.
Jesse bites his lip, his eyes darting around the club. “Fuck,” he says softly. “Look, Cal, I really like you, but?—”
“Don’t worry about it,” I say automatically, rising to go. Never show weakness. I should have remembered that. “I’ll figure it out.”
He grabs my wrist and yanks me back onto the sofa. “I really like you,” he repeats firmly, “which is why I’m gonna tell you this. But you can’t tellanyone. Understand? Especially not in here. So can you keep a secret?”
“I can keep a secret,” I confirm, choking back a chuckle of hysteria. Secrecy has been my constant companion since birth—secrecy about my sexuality, about my Family, about the bodies and the blood and the infinite traumas. “But,” I go on cautiously, “I don’t want to know anything that can get me in more trouble than I’m already in.”
Because I know a little something else about Jesse. I know he likes dangerous men. That’s why he imprinted so hard onme, forthe thrill of my last name and the idea that he might meet one of my more infamous cousins. It’s also one of the reasons I knew he’d be here at Kismet tonight, soaking up the intoxicating stink of money and power and violence.
As Jesse settles back, the sleeve of his Versace shirt rides up, revealing a ring of mottled purple bruises around his wrist. He sees me looking and doesn’t try to hide it. In fact, hesmirks, tilting his other wrist to show me a matching set of marks under the diamonds.
A strange jolt hits my stomach—revulsion, but it’s mixed with something hot and dark that slithers down my spine just like that Giuliano’s voice did.
I think about the marks he left on me.
I think about how Ikeepthinking about them.
“It’s not dangerous toknowabout,” Jesse hedges, voice dropping even as the music swells around us. “It’s just—I’d help you if I could, I totally would, but I don’t have any money of my own. I’m, uh. I’m owned.”
“Owed?” I ask, sure I’ve misheard.
“Owned,” he repeats, emphasizing that little “n” that changes the entire meaning of the sentence.
While I take that in, he pours me a fresh glass of champagne. My throat feels dry, so I take a big gulp and then ask, “What do you mean? You have a sugar daddy, or something?”
He gives that nervous look around again. “Or something.”
He doesn’t want to chance the Morellis hearing about this, that much is clear. “But you…you’ve always covered everyone’s costs, so I thought?—”
“He’spaying,” he corrects me quickly, words tumbling out now. “It’s all on his dime. Whatever I want to drink, eat, wear. Anything I want.”
“But—”
“He even lets me buy whatever I want for my friends at a place like this. He just likes to...” He shrugs. “Keep tabs on me.”
The implications are crawling through my mind. “Wait—heownsyou? Like property?”
Jesse grins. “Well, yeah. He’s myowner, Cal. That’s the point.” My blank face must read as an invitation, because he goes on eagerly, “So that’s one way Icouldhelp you. I could set you up in a mutually beneficial relationship?—”
“Whoa.” I hold up my hands. “I’m not looking to sell my ass.” It must be the alcohol talking, because under other circumstances, I would have chosen my wordsmuchmore carefully. Jesse’s expression turns cool. “Wait—sorry, I?—”
“Fuck you.” He dips his fingers into someone’s abandoned martini and flicks them in my face.
Gin and vermouth, right in the eyes. I deserve it.
And then he laughs as I stammer out another apology. “Listen, Cal, it’s reallynotlike you think. It’s just a kink. Ilikehaving him in control. It’s sexy as fuck, knowing I can have anything I want in the whole world—but as soon as he calls, I go running. And he’s hot, Cal.Sohot. I’d suck his dick for free. Getting paid for it, being owned, that just makes it more fun. Plus I get tolive like this.” He gestures at the table, the champagne, the club, everything.
My mouth stays dry no matter how much champagne I swallow down, and my heart is clanging in my ribcage. Sweat beads along my hairline despite the club’s aggressive air conditioning. The idea isrepulsive—being owned, controlled, used. Part of me is screamingno, absolutely not, this is degrading and dangerous and you are a Clemenza and Clemenzas do not kneel.
But another part is imagining what it would feel like to surrender. To stop running, stop fighting, stop performing. To let someone else make the decisions. Someone who can scare off would-be attackers with a glance, someone with big, rough hands and a voice that makes my spine melt…
