Micah shook his head. “I’m an only child,” he admitted easily enough.

Damon frowned. “And your parents?” he pushed.

The man’s attempt to wheedle answers out of Micah was hardly subtle – especially to someone trained in interrogation techniques. Still, Micah found himself reluctantly impressed with how Damon managed to keep the conversation focused on Micah instead of himself.

He decided to indulge him. After all, it wasn’t like he was really a prostitute named Peregrine Davis. Damon would never be able to connect any of the information he gave him back to Micah Hart – first year criminal detective of New York City’s 105th precinct.

“My mom died when I was young,” he revealed, words practically tripping over each other in their haste to escape his mouth. “Brain aneurysm.” He’d discovered quickly after her untimely death that the faster he said it, the less painful the memories that assaulted him were. Sort of like pulling off a Band-Aid. “One day she was here, and the next, she was gone.”

Micah braced himself for the onslaught of awkward apologies he usually received after revealing this particular tidbit about himself, but he was pleasantly surprised when the man only tensed, and then after a handful of seconds, offered a “that’s terrible” in a deep, rumbly voice.

Micah cleared his throat, oddly appreciative. “Yeah,” he agreed. “Anyway, my grandparents died before I was born, so it’s just my dad and me.”

Damon nodded, opening his mouth before abruptly closing it and pausing, almost like he was gearing himself up to say something, or debating whether he should say it at all. “And… does your dad know?”

Micah stiffened. “Does he know what?” he asked loftily, playing dumb, though he suspected he knew exactly what Damon meant by the question.

Damon sighed. “Does your dad know what you do for money?”

“What, you mean, that I sell myself on the side of the street like a cheap pretzel?” he sniped.

“No,” the man snapped right back, “that his only child is putting himself in direct danger from the dregs of society who would like nothing more than to hurt him.”

“Do you want to hurt me?” Micah pushed back.

Damon jerked backward, like Micah had physically retaliated against him. “What? I- of course not!”

“Then why are you doing this? You think I buy this Good Samaritan act? No one is this nice.”

“Like I said, I’m just trying to help you.”

“And how do I know you’re not going to demand compensation for your so-called generosity? I mean, you didn’t give me much choice but to accept it, dragging me in here, trapping me in this booth, and forcing your company on me.” It was a low blow, but Micah wasn’t finished. “Does it make your cock hard?” he demanded. “Making people feel indebted to you? Forcing them to be at your mercy?”

Damon didn’t visibly react to the lurid accusation. In fact, for a long moment, he just stared. “I don’t know what sort of lowlifes you’ve spent time with before,” he finally said, words slow and sure, “but I would never force myself on you – or anyone for that matter. I’m not trying to scare you. I just want to help.”