Once upon a time, a young girl dreamed of her very own Prince Charming. He would be handsome and debonair in every way. He would sweep her off her feet, and they’d live happily ever after. As she got older, that same girl—me in fact—had career goals and dreams, but she still believed in love. She still believed her Prince Charming would support her dreams and goals while she supported his. They could have it all. And so, it happened. My prince arrived and life was good, until it wasn’t. Until it was bad. So very bad.
Flash forward to now, and I’m standing in the break room of a bar, waiting for tip money I need just to eat, while Asher talks to the boss about my performance. In other words, did I pass the one-night trial I begged for earlier today? This is my reality, which I would never have believed possible just last year, or even nine months ago when I ran to stay alive. But this is as real as it gets, and that fact punches at me pretty much every moment of every day. I could blame Cinderella for all this. I could analyze the psychological reasons that being raised by a single mother made me take the story too literally. But I’m not a stupid person and I have no excuse for looking at life through Cinderella-colored glasses.
I’m the one who took the fairy tale too far. I’m good at taking things too far. I want to be perfect and I dive in and grab what is in front of me, and sometimes it backfires. Boy, did it backfire this time or I wouldn’t be here now. I wanted to be the perfect everything. I press my hand to my forehead. “Perfectly stupid,” I murmur, tunneling my fingers through my hair.
“I hope you’re not talking about me.”
At the sound of Asher’s voice, I whirl around to find him leaning on the doorway, and the bright lights do nothing to disprove his rock star, bad boy hotness. I fold my arms in front of me. “I would never call anyone stupid.”
“But you just did,” he says, his eyes, which I now know to be a bright grass-green, are fixed on me too intently for comfort. “I heard you say—”
“Why were you listening?” I ask, my fisted hands settling on my hips.
“It’s my experience that when someone speaks, they want to be heard.”
“I was talking to myself. I wanted me to hear.”
“Did you?”
“Yes,” I say, silently adding, too late. I heard the warnings in my head too late.
He arches a brow, those full lips of his, lips that I shouldn’t notice, hinting at a smile. “Do you always talk to yourself?”
“Yes, actually,” I say. “I do. Can we move on?”
“Yes, but for the record, no one is perfect, sweetheart. Take it from the guy who not only made an ass of himself when he met you, but also spent too many years of his life trying to be perfect and failing.”
“Is that why you’re here?” I ask before I can stop myself.
“You think being here makes you a failure?”
He’s here. If say yes, I’ve called him a failure, and I have no idea what his history is any more than he does mine. “No,” I say. “Being without a job is a failure. Do I get to keep this one?”
“Yes. You do.”
Relief washes over me. “Thank you. When do I come back?”
“Tomorrow night.”
“And tonight’s tips? How much did we make?” I manage to sound quite matter-of-fact when I don’t feel matter-of-fact at all.
His eyes narrow ever so slightly, intelligence in their depths, and I have the feeling that he sees my desperation. He doesn’t push though. He simply pushes off the doorframe and, reaching behind him, produces an envelope, the colorful tattoo sleeves covering both of his arms on display, random images creating a collage: a jaguar, a ship anchor, an ace card, just to notice a few. I don’t care for tattoos. I don’t care for this place, and he’s a part of this place but, the art is beautiful, he’s beautiful, and I’m in an ugly mess that—
“You gonna take it or are you just going to stare at it, sweetheart?”
My gaze jerks to his, and he arches a brow. “What?”
“You’re staring at the envelope like you think it will bite.”
We both know he’s not talking about the envelope any more than I was looking at the envelope, but I go with it. “Because you’re holding it like bait for a fish and I’m the fish. I don’t like that and for the record—I might bite.”
He moves to close the distance between us, with this loose-legged swagger that I have no doubt is meant to mask cool calculation. I’ve given him the excuse he wanted to step within a lean of me. Too close, so close that scent of his reminds me of a winter wonderland of spice. It’s an assessment I’d come to hours ago, in one of the many up close and personal moments I’d shared with him tonight. The most personal moments I’ve shared with anyone in nine months.
“It’s all yours,” he says, handing it to me.
I reach for it, careful not to touch him. I already know the jolt that delivers. “How much cash?”
“A grand even.”
My eyes go wide, chin lifting to search his face. “A grand. We made two grand tonight?”
He studies me for several beats, seeming to weigh his reply before he says, “You made a grand.”
It’s an odd way of replying, but I let it go. Maybe he took more than fifty percent, but I’m not going to complain. I need this money. I unzip my purse at my hip and stick the envelope inside, because pulling up my shirt to get to my money belt isn’t exactly opportune right now. “I’ll see you tomorrow night,” I say, stepping around him, and hurrying toward the door.
“This isn’t your kind of place,” he says.
I pause for a moment at the doorway without turning, a million replies fighting for my tongue in my head, but I settle on a simple reply. “It is now.”
With that, I turn into the narrow hallway and walk the short distance to the exit, and push the bar to open the steel door, stepping into a dark alleyway, compliments of a burned-out light. I don’t need to be seen with lights on anyway. I don’t need to be memorable. I hurry forward, and I’ve barely taken two steps when the feeling of being watched washes over me. I speed up to a near-run, thinking of the thieves who might wait for a bartender or waitress to get off work to steal their tips. Thinking of that creep Ju-Ju. Thinking of the death threat I believe to be real or I wouldn’t have run.
I reach into my purse and remove my bottle of mace. I place my finger on the button, and round a corner, but it’s dark and empty except for me, some random trash blowing around, and the footsteps behind me. What if they found me? What if he found me? I can’t die. I don’t want to die. I dart around another corner and flatten myself inside a wide archway to a building entrance. Those footsteps follow, stop in front of me, and a huge man faces me. I spray the mace.
“Holy fuck, Sierra.”
Oh God. I’ve just sprayed Asher.