Catching Sin, page 2
* * *
I shouldn’t do it. I know I shouldn’t. But that doesn’t stop me. If anything, it pushes me forward. When I arrived at the club, Carla was standing there, waiting at the dressing room door, her features worn with agitation. I knew it wasn’t going to be good news. Magic had called out sick. Again. Her son has asthma and without sufficient health insurance, the poor boy is sick a lot.
I feel for him. I feel for her. It’s not easy being a single mother with no education and no help. And bringing the kid here, where cigarette and cigar smoke permeate the air, isn’t the answer. Most times this happens, Carla pulls a waitress from the floor. But tonight, I volunteered.
“He’s not going to like it, mi hija,” Carla warns me, her sun-weathered hand clasping my shoulder as she stares intently into my eyes. “Are you sure it’s worth it?”
“That’s for me to worry about. Besides, our profits are down.” Things are always a bit slow in the winter, especially after the holidays. “The girls could use the boost in customers and tips.” So can I, truth be told, but that’s not why I’m doing it. I’m doing it because I’m crawling out of my skin with no outlet. I’m doing it so I can breathe again and remember what it feels like to be alive.
I don’t wait for her approval. I don’t really need it. Instead, I walk back to the dressing room to get ready. Finding a vacant spot, I park my ass in the chair and face my reflection in the lighted mirror. I wasn’t going to argue with Carla. It’s my ass on the line, not hers. I understand what she is saying, and I know she’s right, but so am I. It’s been slow. Most of the girls who dance here have families relying on their money to get by. My life is not like theirs and it never will be.
So, screw it.
Consequences be damned.
The club has a routine. One girl does a set on the main stage, performing a choreographed dance to a specific song. Then, there’s a twenty-minute intermission where girls dance on the peripheral stages—mostly just swinging and grinding on the poles—to whatever music our resident DJ feels like playing. At that point, the customers will request lap dances and buy their drinks, and even purchase time in the champagne rooms. Then the process begins again.
Tonight, I’ll be dancing in the middle of the night. Carla will spread the word like it’s the coming of a tornado because I haven’t danced here in over six months. Not since Anthony Conti found me on stage and physically dragged me off of it by my hair in front of everyone. I was his best, most popular dancer—not that he knew it until he caught me. Since then, I’ve strictly been waitressing. I’m not even allowed to give lap dances, which means my tips, my earnings, aren’t good enough. I make ends meet, but barely, and that’s because I refuse Conti’s money.
He may own me, may control my entire fucking life, but I don’t give him that. It’s the one area I feel like I have a modicum of control. So, even though this will likely end badly for me, I can’t help but crave the money I will earn. Five minutes on that stage and I’ll earn a month’s rent, utilities, and food. If Anthony doesn’t hear about me dancing, I could make more with lap dances, and if I am really lucky, the champagne room. Private dances bring in excellent money.
Shaking out my hair, I flick my hands back and forth, my fingers spread, trying to work out my nerves. The makeup I wear to wait tables is not the same as stage makeup. Honestly, I don’t usually try all that hard. Typically, I just put on some mascara, blush, and lipstick and call it a night. No one really cares what the waitresses look like. Flipping open one of the compacts, I attack my eyes first, lining them in thick kohl and adding on dark shadow for a smoky look.
“Thank you,” a voice says behind me. When I peek up in the mirror, I find Ariel’s reflection smiling at me. “Carla said you’re really good on the stage. I heard her talking with a few of the customers, advising them to call their friends to see your show. How come you don’t dance if you’re that good?”
Ariel is new. A pretty blonde thing with curves like a nineteen-fifties pinup. “I used to. But now I just waitress.”
She gives me a knowing smile, like we have something in common. “I get’cha. My boyfriend doesn’t like it either, but the money is too good. Just don’t tell your guy.” She gives me a conspiratorial wink, and I force a smile.
“Right. I’ll see you out there.”
“Sure thing.”
She takes the hint and leaves me to my face. After I paint my lips red, I flip my head upside down and brush out my hair, spraying the hell out of it. Standing up straight, I brush it out again and now it’s full, soft waves. Perfect. I borrow a fur coat from Whisper, slip on some thigh-highs with a lace border and leave on my killer heels. All black, because that’s all I wear.
“You’re next, Star,” Carla calls out to me, and that old familiar jolt of sickly butterflies takes over. I don’t hate dancing. It’s actually the more enjoyable part of this business. It’s everything else that I could live without. The stupid grinding. The pretending to fuck a pole or the floor or whatever prop I’m using. The taking off my clothes and baring myself to lust-drunk men.
That first time is the hardest to get through. That first moment you take your top off and reveal your breasts to the screaming hordes of drunken, horny men feels like the lowest moment of your life. The men make you feel dirty and trashy and cheap. They make you question yourself and who you are. Make your sense of self-worth plummet into the bowels of nothingness. No one spends their childhood striving to be a stripper. It’s the sort of thing that happens mostly from a lack of options. And, as Ariel said, the money is too good, especially at a club like this one. But I was never given the option to work here. Dancing was my act of rebellion and I took it. That didn’t make me impervious to what I was doing. If anything, I was more aware.
That first time . . .
Like I said, it gets easier. Eventually, you don’t notice the men so much. Or you learn how best to ignore them.
The DJ announces that I’m up next. Sucking in a deep breath, I wait until the stage goes dark and then I walk out, forgetting the rank stench of cigarettes, cigars, and dry ice. Finding the stool in the center of the stage, I straddle it backwards.
I close my eyes.
Clear my mind.
And let the music take over.
I dance my heart out the way I was taught. My body twists and grinds, doing what it knows how to do. I flirt and tease the men who line the stage, mentally counting the money they’ve thrown at me. That’s how this game is played. How the dance goes. I coax and tantalize. Smile and conquer. This is the part of the show I hate. Where I’m bare and exposed and so wanting to be done I can hardly force myself to take the next step in the dance. Twisting around, my eyes collide with a strong steely gaze, my heart jumping up in my chest at the unexpectedness of it. I blink. Once. Twice. The guy is hella hot. Even in this strange lighting I can tell that. He’s beyond tall, with what I think is sandy-colored hair, clipped nearly into a buzz cut. His eyes are big and bright against the multicolored strobes. His cheek bones are high, sloping perfectly into the most angled, chiseled jawline I’ve ever seen. Tall and imposing and ruggedly gorgeous. Intimidating. The man makes my hands tremble and my heart rate pick up with just a single look.
And that look . . .
I don’t like it. It’s unnerving.
Turning away from him, I finish the dance and collect all my money. The moment I step off the stage, Conti is waiting for me. His fingers lace themselves around my biceps, a cruel smile turning his lips up as he speaks low and menacing.
“Come with me.”
After he releases my arms, I slide on my faux-fur coat, but it does nothing to make me feel covered.
I’m dragged into the office in the back and he shuts the door behind us with a deafening click.
I don’t bother sitting. I stand, dull and despondent in the center of the room, tacky with sweat from my dance, yet uncomfortably chilled. His voice always makes the hairs on my body stand at attention no matter how many times I hear it.
“What did I tell you about dancing, Isabel?”
I heave in a silent breath through my nose. “That you don’t want me doing it.”
His body slides in behind mine, not touching me. Not yet. He hums, practically in my ear. “And yet, you disobeyed me.”
And yet, you still make me work here. Honestly, I think the man gets off on this. He doesn’t like me working here, but he doesn’t have me fired and doesn’t give me other options. Wait, let me hit the refresh button on that. He doesn’t allow me to have other options.
I twist around and meet his eyes head-on. Daring him. “Yes. I did. I needed the money, and so do the other girls.”
His black gaze narrows infinitesimally, but other than that, there is no visible evidence that my words get to him. His hand wraps around my throat like a blanket. Gentle, warm, and soft. His fingers brush my pulse, toying with the thump, thump, thump, delighting in my body’s reaction to him before he squeezes hard in warning. So hard, I lose my ability to breathe. The press of his fingers constricts the pulse he was thumbing. I choke and gasp involuntarily. Giving him the satisfaction of my weakness angers me.
“You will come and sit beside me. Your shift here is done. You will keep your head down and your mouth shut, and I will consider how best to deal with you later.” The squeeze around my throat intensifies, his face inches from mine. I reach up automatically, gripping his hands, a natural life-saving reaction that I’m trying to tamp down because it will only spur him on. Sparks dance behind my eyes, my lungs burning from starvation. “And if I ever hear of you on that stage again, it won’t just be you that I punish. Understood?”
I hate you. I hate you. I hate you!
He loosens his grip and I gasp in a rush of oxygen. “Yes, sir,” I push out past my constricted vocal chords.
Because that’s all he has to say to get my ultimate, unquestionable capitulation. That is forever the price he holds over my head. He tortures me. Ransacks my privacy. Holds me captive. And yet, that one line is ultimately what holds me prisoner.
He purrs like a lion, pleased that he’s put me back in my place.
“Now go and get dressed.”
He releases me, and I walk out without running. My neck hurts and my throat aches, but it’s not the first time and likely not the last. I change back into my waitressing uniform, and when I exit the back room, I find him sitting across the way. I hesitate. Desperate to make a run for it. But I pull myself together and sit beside him. I ignore the way he immediately begins speaking to his guests—some people from China that Conti is insistent on speaking Chinese to. It’s just as well. I don’t enjoy listening to the things he has to say. Not even when he mentions someone named Maddox Sinclair, asking Cami to make sure his drinks—and whatever else he wants—are on the house. Peeking up, I realize the man speaking to Brian in the far corner is the man I saw from the stage. The one who came off like he was seeking out my soul instead of my tits.
Of course it’s him. Of course he knows Conti personally.
It makes me hate him on principle.
Though, I have to admit, for a fleeting second, I wish this Maddox would request me to sit beside him. To give him a lap dance. To tell Conti to fuck off.
He doesn’t. He’s not stupid, I’d guess. He can read a situation without fucking it up. Maddox doesn’t linger. He finishes off his drink and conversation with Brian and leaves with another blatantly curious glance in my direction. Balls. The man has big balls, I’ll give him that. I bet he even has the dick to match that impressive set.
And he’s even better looking up close.
And bigger. He’s a freaking linebacker. That doesn’t make me hate him any less.
He’s not a button. Conti doesn’t buy drinks for his henchmen. No. This man is something else.
I’ll admit it, I’m insanely jealous. I get the impression he has dealings with Anthony Conti and yet, retains his freedom. A freedom I’ll never know.
Three
ISABEL
* * *
When your life pretty much sucks, you learn how to embrace the suck. It becomes a badge of honor. A competition. And it generally means your hackles are chronically raised to a seven out of ten any time your suck is challenged. Because while you know your life sucks and you wish it didn’t, someone pointing out just how low and ugly your shit is, is unacceptable.
Growing up the daughter of a junkie hooker who eventually overdosed on bad smack, you can imagine my suck was better than most. I like to think it made me cagey. A bitter bitch is another possibility. Regardless, it’s a badge of honor I wear proudly, and it gets me through most days.
Sundays and Mondays are my favorite days. My days to relax. To let my guard down. I don’t have work. They are my free days to do whatever the hell I want. Not even Anthony Conti bothers me—most times. No, I’m a baby bird who likes to pretend she can fly free when she really can’t. But that illusion is everything, right? When you have so little, illusions are what get you through.
Naturally, it pisses me the hell off when people interfere with my two days of freedom.
Typically, I spend my time at the library, reading books I can’t afford to buy and trolling the internet within the safety parameters the public library has set up. After that, I clean for a few elderly neighbors who pay me in cash. I also cook meals for them and run errands. Actually, I do anything they need done.
It’s on one such errand that I encounter Maddox Sinclair, the guy from the club, in the grocery store. Coincidence? I’m not sure. I find it difficult, nearly impossible, to envision a man like him pushing a shopping cart and adding things like cereal, milk, and bread into it. I realize he must eat, but do gods do that sort of thing? It feels like a ruse, like a tactic to appear casual and normal when he’s straddling the line between god and mortal.
It makes me uneasy.
Did he follow me here? Was he sent here for me?
He deals with Conti, and I highly doubt that he lives on this side of town. Plus, I really freaking hate running into people who’ve seen me naked when I’m in the grocery store. Dressed or not, I still feel naked.
I turn right into the cereal aisle and he turns left into it. We face each other head-to-head. That’s how this begins.
He smirks.
I don’t.
He looks me up and down.
My eyes never waver from his.
“Hey,” he says.
I don’t reply.
“I saw you,” he continues, his expression one of delighted surprise. It’s when he doesn’t finish that statement that I finally break character and smile reluctantly. Because what is he going to say? ‘I saw you mostly naked with the exception of a tiny piece of fabric you called panties while you humped a stage?’ Or wait, better yet, ‘I saw you sitting like a lonely and misplaced doll next to the biggest thug Vegas has ever seen?’ Yeah. They both work so well in this scenario, don’t you think?
“And I saw you,” I finish for him. “So, now that we got that out of the way, we can pick our respective cereals and get on with our day.” Yep, my hackles are already up and firing on all cylinders.
But the incorrigible bastard is undeterred.
“What cereal do you like?”
“Ah! And there it is. The window to my soul. Do I like them sweet and childlike, nutty and loaded with fiber, or fruity and colorful? Do you genuinely believe that will help you figure me out?” I know I’m stretching here. It’s those damn hackles. They’re uncontrollable fuckers, especially when I can’t help but question his intentions in talking to me.
“No,” he replies. At least he’s not acting like he doesn’t know what I’m talking about. He pushes his mostly empty cart in my direction. My cart is mostly full, and I really want to get on with my day. I don’t have time for him or his crap. “I’m betting you like Cinnamon Toast Crunch.”
I roll my eyes.
“Everyone likes Cinnamon Toast Crunch.”
He eyes my cart, filled with groceries that are not for me. Full fat Greek yogurt, senior vitamins, canned olives and jarred sauces and packaged pasta fortified with protein. Ensure nutritional shake. And yes, adult diapers. Those are also in there. I don’t care enough about his opinion to blush. He laughs and meets my eyes with boyish amusement dancing in those pale blue depths that make me feel just the slightest bit off balance.
“These groceries aren’t for you.”
I neither confirm nor deny, choosing to remain silent.
“I’m Maddox,” he offers, like he needs to fill our silence with something meaningful. He doesn’t. I already know his name. I googled the hell out of him from the moment I heard his name because curiosity is nefarious. Unfortunately, the library internet search wasn’t all that forthcoming. It would be so much easier if he would just walk away and leave me alone. I don’t like the way he looks at me. Like he’s actually interested. Like he sees beyond what’s beneath my clothes. And I really don’t like the way those looks make me feel—all fluttery and girlish. Like I don’t know what to do with my limbs and movements. Like I’ve never been in the presence of a hot guy I’m attracted to.
“I know.”
His triumphant grin says it all. “And your name is . . .” he trails off, eyebrows raised expectantly.
“Star.”
He frowns, and suddenly I’m hit with an unwelcome pang. He deserves nothing from me, and yet I regret not giving him my real name. I don’t want him calling me Star. I want him calling me Isabel. Or even Izzy or Is. How stupid. How foolhardy and insecure.
“I’m going to call you Starshine.”
I hate that even more than Star.
“You don’t have to bother. I won’t be seeing you again.”
I move to leave, and mercifully, he doesn’t try to stop me. But as I pass him in the narrow aisle, our arms brush. I suck in a rush of air at the sting of his bare skin against mine and inadvertently inhale his woodsy and deliciously masculine cologne. My eyes shut of their own accord for a fleeting second until I remember who this man is. What he’s likely doing here. Mentally shaking my head, I grab a box of Raisin Bran from the shelf and toss it into the cart.
I shouldn’t do it. I know I shouldn’t. But that doesn’t stop me. If anything, it pushes me forward. When I arrived at the club, Carla was standing there, waiting at the dressing room door, her features worn with agitation. I knew it wasn’t going to be good news. Magic had called out sick. Again. Her son has asthma and without sufficient health insurance, the poor boy is sick a lot.
I feel for him. I feel for her. It’s not easy being a single mother with no education and no help. And bringing the kid here, where cigarette and cigar smoke permeate the air, isn’t the answer. Most times this happens, Carla pulls a waitress from the floor. But tonight, I volunteered.
“He’s not going to like it, mi hija,” Carla warns me, her sun-weathered hand clasping my shoulder as she stares intently into my eyes. “Are you sure it’s worth it?”
“That’s for me to worry about. Besides, our profits are down.” Things are always a bit slow in the winter, especially after the holidays. “The girls could use the boost in customers and tips.” So can I, truth be told, but that’s not why I’m doing it. I’m doing it because I’m crawling out of my skin with no outlet. I’m doing it so I can breathe again and remember what it feels like to be alive.
I don’t wait for her approval. I don’t really need it. Instead, I walk back to the dressing room to get ready. Finding a vacant spot, I park my ass in the chair and face my reflection in the lighted mirror. I wasn’t going to argue with Carla. It’s my ass on the line, not hers. I understand what she is saying, and I know she’s right, but so am I. It’s been slow. Most of the girls who dance here have families relying on their money to get by. My life is not like theirs and it never will be.
So, screw it.
Consequences be damned.
The club has a routine. One girl does a set on the main stage, performing a choreographed dance to a specific song. Then, there’s a twenty-minute intermission where girls dance on the peripheral stages—mostly just swinging and grinding on the poles—to whatever music our resident DJ feels like playing. At that point, the customers will request lap dances and buy their drinks, and even purchase time in the champagne rooms. Then the process begins again.
Tonight, I’ll be dancing in the middle of the night. Carla will spread the word like it’s the coming of a tornado because I haven’t danced here in over six months. Not since Anthony Conti found me on stage and physically dragged me off of it by my hair in front of everyone. I was his best, most popular dancer—not that he knew it until he caught me. Since then, I’ve strictly been waitressing. I’m not even allowed to give lap dances, which means my tips, my earnings, aren’t good enough. I make ends meet, but barely, and that’s because I refuse Conti’s money.
He may own me, may control my entire fucking life, but I don’t give him that. It’s the one area I feel like I have a modicum of control. So, even though this will likely end badly for me, I can’t help but crave the money I will earn. Five minutes on that stage and I’ll earn a month’s rent, utilities, and food. If Anthony doesn’t hear about me dancing, I could make more with lap dances, and if I am really lucky, the champagne room. Private dances bring in excellent money.
Shaking out my hair, I flick my hands back and forth, my fingers spread, trying to work out my nerves. The makeup I wear to wait tables is not the same as stage makeup. Honestly, I don’t usually try all that hard. Typically, I just put on some mascara, blush, and lipstick and call it a night. No one really cares what the waitresses look like. Flipping open one of the compacts, I attack my eyes first, lining them in thick kohl and adding on dark shadow for a smoky look.
“Thank you,” a voice says behind me. When I peek up in the mirror, I find Ariel’s reflection smiling at me. “Carla said you’re really good on the stage. I heard her talking with a few of the customers, advising them to call their friends to see your show. How come you don’t dance if you’re that good?”
Ariel is new. A pretty blonde thing with curves like a nineteen-fifties pinup. “I used to. But now I just waitress.”
She gives me a knowing smile, like we have something in common. “I get’cha. My boyfriend doesn’t like it either, but the money is too good. Just don’t tell your guy.” She gives me a conspiratorial wink, and I force a smile.
“Right. I’ll see you out there.”
“Sure thing.”
She takes the hint and leaves me to my face. After I paint my lips red, I flip my head upside down and brush out my hair, spraying the hell out of it. Standing up straight, I brush it out again and now it’s full, soft waves. Perfect. I borrow a fur coat from Whisper, slip on some thigh-highs with a lace border and leave on my killer heels. All black, because that’s all I wear.
“You’re next, Star,” Carla calls out to me, and that old familiar jolt of sickly butterflies takes over. I don’t hate dancing. It’s actually the more enjoyable part of this business. It’s everything else that I could live without. The stupid grinding. The pretending to fuck a pole or the floor or whatever prop I’m using. The taking off my clothes and baring myself to lust-drunk men.
That first time is the hardest to get through. That first moment you take your top off and reveal your breasts to the screaming hordes of drunken, horny men feels like the lowest moment of your life. The men make you feel dirty and trashy and cheap. They make you question yourself and who you are. Make your sense of self-worth plummet into the bowels of nothingness. No one spends their childhood striving to be a stripper. It’s the sort of thing that happens mostly from a lack of options. And, as Ariel said, the money is too good, especially at a club like this one. But I was never given the option to work here. Dancing was my act of rebellion and I took it. That didn’t make me impervious to what I was doing. If anything, I was more aware.
That first time . . .
Like I said, it gets easier. Eventually, you don’t notice the men so much. Or you learn how best to ignore them.
The DJ announces that I’m up next. Sucking in a deep breath, I wait until the stage goes dark and then I walk out, forgetting the rank stench of cigarettes, cigars, and dry ice. Finding the stool in the center of the stage, I straddle it backwards.
I close my eyes.
Clear my mind.
And let the music take over.
I dance my heart out the way I was taught. My body twists and grinds, doing what it knows how to do. I flirt and tease the men who line the stage, mentally counting the money they’ve thrown at me. That’s how this game is played. How the dance goes. I coax and tantalize. Smile and conquer. This is the part of the show I hate. Where I’m bare and exposed and so wanting to be done I can hardly force myself to take the next step in the dance. Twisting around, my eyes collide with a strong steely gaze, my heart jumping up in my chest at the unexpectedness of it. I blink. Once. Twice. The guy is hella hot. Even in this strange lighting I can tell that. He’s beyond tall, with what I think is sandy-colored hair, clipped nearly into a buzz cut. His eyes are big and bright against the multicolored strobes. His cheek bones are high, sloping perfectly into the most angled, chiseled jawline I’ve ever seen. Tall and imposing and ruggedly gorgeous. Intimidating. The man makes my hands tremble and my heart rate pick up with just a single look.
And that look . . .
I don’t like it. It’s unnerving.
Turning away from him, I finish the dance and collect all my money. The moment I step off the stage, Conti is waiting for me. His fingers lace themselves around my biceps, a cruel smile turning his lips up as he speaks low and menacing.
“Come with me.”
After he releases my arms, I slide on my faux-fur coat, but it does nothing to make me feel covered.
I’m dragged into the office in the back and he shuts the door behind us with a deafening click.
I don’t bother sitting. I stand, dull and despondent in the center of the room, tacky with sweat from my dance, yet uncomfortably chilled. His voice always makes the hairs on my body stand at attention no matter how many times I hear it.
“What did I tell you about dancing, Isabel?”
I heave in a silent breath through my nose. “That you don’t want me doing it.”
His body slides in behind mine, not touching me. Not yet. He hums, practically in my ear. “And yet, you disobeyed me.”
And yet, you still make me work here. Honestly, I think the man gets off on this. He doesn’t like me working here, but he doesn’t have me fired and doesn’t give me other options. Wait, let me hit the refresh button on that. He doesn’t allow me to have other options.
I twist around and meet his eyes head-on. Daring him. “Yes. I did. I needed the money, and so do the other girls.”
His black gaze narrows infinitesimally, but other than that, there is no visible evidence that my words get to him. His hand wraps around my throat like a blanket. Gentle, warm, and soft. His fingers brush my pulse, toying with the thump, thump, thump, delighting in my body’s reaction to him before he squeezes hard in warning. So hard, I lose my ability to breathe. The press of his fingers constricts the pulse he was thumbing. I choke and gasp involuntarily. Giving him the satisfaction of my weakness angers me.
“You will come and sit beside me. Your shift here is done. You will keep your head down and your mouth shut, and I will consider how best to deal with you later.” The squeeze around my throat intensifies, his face inches from mine. I reach up automatically, gripping his hands, a natural life-saving reaction that I’m trying to tamp down because it will only spur him on. Sparks dance behind my eyes, my lungs burning from starvation. “And if I ever hear of you on that stage again, it won’t just be you that I punish. Understood?”
I hate you. I hate you. I hate you!
He loosens his grip and I gasp in a rush of oxygen. “Yes, sir,” I push out past my constricted vocal chords.
Because that’s all he has to say to get my ultimate, unquestionable capitulation. That is forever the price he holds over my head. He tortures me. Ransacks my privacy. Holds me captive. And yet, that one line is ultimately what holds me prisoner.
He purrs like a lion, pleased that he’s put me back in my place.
“Now go and get dressed.”
He releases me, and I walk out without running. My neck hurts and my throat aches, but it’s not the first time and likely not the last. I change back into my waitressing uniform, and when I exit the back room, I find him sitting across the way. I hesitate. Desperate to make a run for it. But I pull myself together and sit beside him. I ignore the way he immediately begins speaking to his guests—some people from China that Conti is insistent on speaking Chinese to. It’s just as well. I don’t enjoy listening to the things he has to say. Not even when he mentions someone named Maddox Sinclair, asking Cami to make sure his drinks—and whatever else he wants—are on the house. Peeking up, I realize the man speaking to Brian in the far corner is the man I saw from the stage. The one who came off like he was seeking out my soul instead of my tits.
Of course it’s him. Of course he knows Conti personally.
It makes me hate him on principle.
Though, I have to admit, for a fleeting second, I wish this Maddox would request me to sit beside him. To give him a lap dance. To tell Conti to fuck off.
He doesn’t. He’s not stupid, I’d guess. He can read a situation without fucking it up. Maddox doesn’t linger. He finishes off his drink and conversation with Brian and leaves with another blatantly curious glance in my direction. Balls. The man has big balls, I’ll give him that. I bet he even has the dick to match that impressive set.
And he’s even better looking up close.
And bigger. He’s a freaking linebacker. That doesn’t make me hate him any less.
He’s not a button. Conti doesn’t buy drinks for his henchmen. No. This man is something else.
I’ll admit it, I’m insanely jealous. I get the impression he has dealings with Anthony Conti and yet, retains his freedom. A freedom I’ll never know.
Three
ISABEL
* * *
When your life pretty much sucks, you learn how to embrace the suck. It becomes a badge of honor. A competition. And it generally means your hackles are chronically raised to a seven out of ten any time your suck is challenged. Because while you know your life sucks and you wish it didn’t, someone pointing out just how low and ugly your shit is, is unacceptable.
Growing up the daughter of a junkie hooker who eventually overdosed on bad smack, you can imagine my suck was better than most. I like to think it made me cagey. A bitter bitch is another possibility. Regardless, it’s a badge of honor I wear proudly, and it gets me through most days.
Sundays and Mondays are my favorite days. My days to relax. To let my guard down. I don’t have work. They are my free days to do whatever the hell I want. Not even Anthony Conti bothers me—most times. No, I’m a baby bird who likes to pretend she can fly free when she really can’t. But that illusion is everything, right? When you have so little, illusions are what get you through.
Naturally, it pisses me the hell off when people interfere with my two days of freedom.
Typically, I spend my time at the library, reading books I can’t afford to buy and trolling the internet within the safety parameters the public library has set up. After that, I clean for a few elderly neighbors who pay me in cash. I also cook meals for them and run errands. Actually, I do anything they need done.
It’s on one such errand that I encounter Maddox Sinclair, the guy from the club, in the grocery store. Coincidence? I’m not sure. I find it difficult, nearly impossible, to envision a man like him pushing a shopping cart and adding things like cereal, milk, and bread into it. I realize he must eat, but do gods do that sort of thing? It feels like a ruse, like a tactic to appear casual and normal when he’s straddling the line between god and mortal.
It makes me uneasy.
Did he follow me here? Was he sent here for me?
He deals with Conti, and I highly doubt that he lives on this side of town. Plus, I really freaking hate running into people who’ve seen me naked when I’m in the grocery store. Dressed or not, I still feel naked.
I turn right into the cereal aisle and he turns left into it. We face each other head-to-head. That’s how this begins.
He smirks.
I don’t.
He looks me up and down.
My eyes never waver from his.
“Hey,” he says.
I don’t reply.
“I saw you,” he continues, his expression one of delighted surprise. It’s when he doesn’t finish that statement that I finally break character and smile reluctantly. Because what is he going to say? ‘I saw you mostly naked with the exception of a tiny piece of fabric you called panties while you humped a stage?’ Or wait, better yet, ‘I saw you sitting like a lonely and misplaced doll next to the biggest thug Vegas has ever seen?’ Yeah. They both work so well in this scenario, don’t you think?
“And I saw you,” I finish for him. “So, now that we got that out of the way, we can pick our respective cereals and get on with our day.” Yep, my hackles are already up and firing on all cylinders.
But the incorrigible bastard is undeterred.
“What cereal do you like?”
“Ah! And there it is. The window to my soul. Do I like them sweet and childlike, nutty and loaded with fiber, or fruity and colorful? Do you genuinely believe that will help you figure me out?” I know I’m stretching here. It’s those damn hackles. They’re uncontrollable fuckers, especially when I can’t help but question his intentions in talking to me.
“No,” he replies. At least he’s not acting like he doesn’t know what I’m talking about. He pushes his mostly empty cart in my direction. My cart is mostly full, and I really want to get on with my day. I don’t have time for him or his crap. “I’m betting you like Cinnamon Toast Crunch.”
I roll my eyes.
“Everyone likes Cinnamon Toast Crunch.”
He eyes my cart, filled with groceries that are not for me. Full fat Greek yogurt, senior vitamins, canned olives and jarred sauces and packaged pasta fortified with protein. Ensure nutritional shake. And yes, adult diapers. Those are also in there. I don’t care enough about his opinion to blush. He laughs and meets my eyes with boyish amusement dancing in those pale blue depths that make me feel just the slightest bit off balance.
“These groceries aren’t for you.”
I neither confirm nor deny, choosing to remain silent.
“I’m Maddox,” he offers, like he needs to fill our silence with something meaningful. He doesn’t. I already know his name. I googled the hell out of him from the moment I heard his name because curiosity is nefarious. Unfortunately, the library internet search wasn’t all that forthcoming. It would be so much easier if he would just walk away and leave me alone. I don’t like the way he looks at me. Like he’s actually interested. Like he sees beyond what’s beneath my clothes. And I really don’t like the way those looks make me feel—all fluttery and girlish. Like I don’t know what to do with my limbs and movements. Like I’ve never been in the presence of a hot guy I’m attracted to.
“I know.”
His triumphant grin says it all. “And your name is . . .” he trails off, eyebrows raised expectantly.
“Star.”
He frowns, and suddenly I’m hit with an unwelcome pang. He deserves nothing from me, and yet I regret not giving him my real name. I don’t want him calling me Star. I want him calling me Isabel. Or even Izzy or Is. How stupid. How foolhardy and insecure.
“I’m going to call you Starshine.”
I hate that even more than Star.
“You don’t have to bother. I won’t be seeing you again.”
I move to leave, and mercifully, he doesn’t try to stop me. But as I pass him in the narrow aisle, our arms brush. I suck in a rush of air at the sting of his bare skin against mine and inadvertently inhale his woodsy and deliciously masculine cologne. My eyes shut of their own accord for a fleeting second until I remember who this man is. What he’s likely doing here. Mentally shaking my head, I grab a box of Raisin Bran from the shelf and toss it into the cart.
