Caught Between Two Billionaires by Skye Warren

I pull back, moving careful so I don’t tip over. “What are you talking about?”

A cool breeze skates over us, and she shivers. I want to comfort her, but that’s not what this is about. A fast fuck on an abandoned rooftop while the sounds of a massive block party bounce off the buildings around us. And a hundred dollars, apparently. Jesus. I was about to fuck a prostitute.

What’s worse is that I still want to do it. More, because I know she’ll let me do anything.

For a price.

I fumble for my wallet, and she tenses. Maybe it’s her first time selling that sweet little body? Except that worldliness in her eyes… it’s not the first time. My cock is rock hard in my slacks. I pull out the wad of cash that’s inside and press it into her hand without saying a word. A few hundred, I think. “Take it.”

I want to use this girl, but I’m not going to use her like this.

She scoots herself back, only an inch. There’s shame on her face. And hurt, like maybe this rejection matters even though I gave her money.

“I should go,” she says, not quite meeting my eyes.

“This roof’s taken,” I remind her, gently this time.

I don’t tell her to fuck off again, but she gets the message. She scrambles to the edge of the roof and throws her leg over without looking back, taking the money with her. I watch the shadow of her ass in the moonlight, the same way a predator might watch its prey scamper off on a hot Sahara day. Sometimes it’s too much trouble to catch something to eat, sometimes survival is more trouble than it’s worth. I could have had her for a hundred dollars.

A faint scratch of metal against concrete, and then she’s gone.

Back into the seething mass of partygoers, the ocean of joy that I can’t join. I’m stuck on this island, and for maybe the first time, I’m glad of it. What I wanted with her wasn’t good or clean. It wasn’t kind.

The scaffolding where Harper and Christopher had stood is empty. The people around it still do their ritual dance, but the gods are no longer listening. Having sex, that’s what the gods are doing now. I can’t see them, but I know it as surely as I feel the bass reverberate through the old building holding me up. I can imagine Harper’s red lips and Christopher’s dark eyes. There is no girl to use. Ashleigh. Ash. Leigh. I pick up the empty bottle of Jim Beam, the proof that I’m no better than my daddy, and throw it against the ledge of the roof, watch it shatter into a million sharp glittering pieces.

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