Free Smoke Signals by Catherine Gayle

think you want something, snap fingers make it happen. That’s not how my life works.”
    “How does your life work?”
    I shook my head. I’d never be able to explain, and even if I could, it wasn’t something a man like Razor would understand. No matter what his mother might have done in the past, Razor hadn’t ever been in my shoes. “Doesn’t matter,” I said.
    “It matters to me.” He reached for his wallet and took out some bills as the driver came to a stop in front of the hotel we’d been in last night. He reached for the door handle after paying.
    “You should go back to wedding.”
    “I don’t think so. I think I should be with you.”
    Stubborn man. He was trying too hard at a lost cause. If I wasn’t careful, he might get through all the layers I’d built up, but what he might find when he succeeded... It wasn’t worth thinking about now. There were far more pressing matters I needed to sort through. I tried to climb out the door on my side of the car, but he wouldn’t let go of my hand, easing me across the seat to follow him.
    Every bone in my body wanted to run. I wanted to get back in the taxi and use some of the meager money I had to leave. I could disappear. Papa taught me how to do that, and it had worked once before. I could make it work again. Once I got on a bus, I could go somewhere it was legal to sell my body, and I could earn enough money to get myself back to Russia. Not that I knew what I’d do once I got there, other than find a way to hide. That wasn’t the point for now. If I did that, Razor would never be able to find me. It would be better for him. Safer. There was no reason for him to get tied up in the mess that was my life.
    But something about him compelled me forward, one step at a time. I stayed by his side traversing the hotel lobby, waiting in the elevator, all the way until we got off at his floor and he let me into his room.
    The way he compelled me wasn’t like with other men, the ones I’d filmed scenes with. They forced me to do whatever they wanted, whatever the script called for. There wasn’t any hint of force with Razor. It was more like getting caught in a whirlwind, and he was the only thing solid to hold on to.
    He closed the door behind us, and he led me to the couch. He sat and urged me to sit beside him. When I did, he eased an arm around my shoulders, as if he could protect me.
    I wanted to believe it was possible. A knot of ache filled my belly. I wished there were truly men who were as good and kind as he seemed. But I’d seen too much of the real world to fall for such a trap. I wasn’t so naïve. Not anymore.
    My insides twisted in knots as I waited on the interrogation to begin anew. Razor wanted answers. He wanted to understand why I’d left the wedding. Why I couldn’t sit still while surrounded by Hollywood stars and professional athletes. By families. Children. He wanted to understand me , and there was some small part of me that wanted to try to explain it all.
    But he didn’t demand I explain. He sat with his arm draped across my shoulders, and he lifted his hand to smooth it over my hair.
    It was such a simple thing, his compassion, but profound at the same time. I tried to swallow hard enough to keep my tears at bay. No use. They spilled down my cheeks, hot and fast, turning the pink satin on my breasts a vibrant red everywhere they landed.
    I could feel his eyes burning through me. I could sense the gears turning in his head as he attempted to sort out my secrets. But it was his gentleness that would undo me, a thought that only brought on a fresh torrent of tears.
    Razor would break through all my defenses—that much was clear—but he would do it with a deliberate tenderness and determined care I’d never before experienced.
    That realization further drove home the fact that no matter what, I would never be free. All that Papa had done to get me away from the Tambovs, away from Russia, to keep me safe…it had been in vain.