Black Jack (Advantage Play #5) - Kelsie Rae Page 0,59

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?”

“I stopped counting because––”

“Because what? It made you feel dirty?”

I cover my mouth as my body wracks with sobs.

“That’s because it is dirty, Bianca. It’s despicable. And it makes me sick to know that I was just another one of them to you.”

My heart cracks. How can he think that? “You’re not––”

He lifts his hand, making my mouth snap shut as his ice blue eyes pin me in place. “Stop. Just…stop. If it wasn’t clear, we’re through. I could handle you sleeping around with other men to get out from beneath your brother’s thumb, but this is different. It’s worse. It’s…dirtier,” he rasps. “I don’t care what your brother has to offer. You’re used goods, and I wouldn’t touch you with a ten-foot pole. Get out of my apartment.”

Then he turns on his heel and leaves, taking my heart, my pride, and the last ounce of my self-respect with him.

Because he’s right. I really am a dirty whore. And he deserves so much better than me.

25

Bianca

It’s funny. I initially chose this apartment because I wanted to get under Jack’s skin. I wanted to show him that I could do whatever I want without repercussions. I wanted to prove that all I care about is money and that I expect him to provide for me, regardless of my frivolousness.

I really am a bitch.

Yet somehow, this penthouse started to feel like home. Like a place that I might just belong. Now, all it holds is the reminder that I’ll never be good enough for a house like this. I’ll never deserve a real home where I can lounge on the couch in my pajamas after washing the makeup from my face with a handsome husband who loves me despite my flaws.

That’s just a pipe dream now.

Because I’m a dirty whore.

I gave up on holding in my tears about an hour ago. What’s the point of it, anyway? The apartment almost looks untouched even though my things are packed in a handful of large cardboard boxes. They’re sitting next to the door, waiting to be carried away as if they never existed at all. Just like me and the memories Jack and I built together. I drag my fingers along the top of the antique vanity still tucked away in the master bedroom.

I think I’ll miss this most of all. The confidence I gained in front of this mirror––the acceptance of myself––is invaluable. But I can’t take it with me. And even if I could, I’m not sure I deserve it. Hell, I’m not sure I’d even be able to look at it without having a total meltdown.

The top of the vanity is almost bare with the exception of two items. My tattoo cover up and the earrings Jack gave me. I’d managed to pack away the rest of the little knickknacks I’ve collected over the years, including Jack’s red rose and the letters he’d written me. But that’s it.

My gaze shoots to my