Married to the Bad Boy(20)

The loud, buzzing sound of my phone vibrates in my ears as if it’s inside my head. On silent, the phone rattles against the sink and finally falls to the floor. I have the strangest impulse to smash it—to kill it.

I can’t spend the night here. That’s an easy enough problem to fix, isn’t it? I could find a hotel or something easily.

But if he finds you there, you’re just as fucked as you are here.

I slowly deflate, thinking hard. It shames me to admit it, but I need someone to protect me. For tonight, that’ll be easy enough, right? Just find someone at the bar—and—

You’re that fucking desperate?

The pale shadow of a bruise stretches down my white face.

Yeah, I am.

* * *

It takes me three minutes to remove my boots and put my heels on until I realize I’m trying to put them on the wrong foot. Rafael is coming for me. It’s only a matter of time before he finds out exactly where I am. I need to be in another place, but more than that, I need to be protected.

Basically, I need to go home with a guy.

My face burns as I stare at myself in the mirror, imagining my sister’s voice.

Typical Elena. Always relying on someone else to fix your problems.

This plan is so fucking pathetic. One night isn’t enough.

The horrible, clenching feeling inside me trembles and almost breaks. A sob rises in my throat and I stamp it down.

No. Do not do this. Do not give up yet.

I want to give up.

You can do this.

But that voice sounds weak.

I’m wearing a lovely blouse I picked up with a diving neckline and leggings tight enough so that they won’t miss a curve. High heels. Hair teased into a dark, messy mane.

It’s a funny thing. When your life is in danger, you really stop giving a shit about everything else. Pride. Ego. Decency. Whatever. All you care about is making it through the next day.

The panic pulses inside me, fighting to claw its way out of the clenched muscles around my stomach. I shouldn’t be here. I should be miles away, running for my life.

Fuck’s sake—just go to work.

With a shaky sigh, I turn the knob and leave the bathroom, passing by the office on the way to the bar. Tommy does a double take from his desk and gives me a friendly smile. It warms me for a moment and then I feel a swooping, guilty sensation.

“You’ll get nice tips tonight.”

“Tommy,” I say in a heavy voice. “We might have trouble.”

He frowns and sits up straighter. Before he can say anything else, I head out into the bar, limbs shaking.

It isn’t packed, but it’s getting there. Men in business suits hang out near the counter, talking in rapid French. Young guys dressed in casual clothes leer at me as I walk by.

A different sort of fear makes me grin a little too widely. Growing up, I never had this kind of attention from men. It’s intimidating and flattering at the same time.

“Ey, Pitoune! Viens ici’t!”

A voice calls out from my left, and I’ve learned enough French to realize that this probably means: Hey, baby. C’mere!

Or something like that.

I turn toward the obnoxious voice. He leans against the wall and shakes his Molson beer.

“Un autre.” Another one.

A sweet smile spreads across my face as I slowly size him up. He might be connected—he’s not wearing a suit, but he looks too young anyway.

I gaze at the men, completely alien to the way men are when no one knows who I am or who my father was. It’s strange to feel so many eyes on me like this. I keep scanning the crowd, but deep down there’s really only one guy who made an impression on me. My heart pounds, thinking about how confident Tony was when he kissed me. He knew I had an ex-boyfriend in the mob, and he didn’t care.

He wanted me anyway.

The energy in the bar is warm and rowdy. I scan the crowd as I give out drink orders, stumbling through French and English to find out what they want. The hours fly by, and the bar slows down. I remember why I’m here and I peek at my phone, seeing another barrage of text messages from Rafael. My throat closes up as Tommy peers into the bar, looking surprised to see me.

“Elena, your shift ended an hour ago.”

I grit my teeth and look into his unconcerned eyes. “Please—I don’t want to go home. Just let me work.”

The edges of his lips lift slightly and he nods. “All right.” He gives me another long look and disappears into the back. I know that if I’m here when Tommy’s around, I’ll be safe.

What the fuck am I going to do when the bar closes?

Genevieve, the bartender, flies around me with drink orders as I scan the men sitting there. In sheer desperation, I study them. Some of them don’t even glance at me. They’re too busy texting on their phones. Then my gaze almost skips over him.