Page 64 of Forbidden Heroes

Amber

The rest of the night is a whirlwind of dealing with costume issues, dance routines and keeping the creep’s grabby hands from trying to feel me up when they know better than to touch.

On a few occasions Sloan has to step in and set a few wild college boys straight, and I was not seeing things when I noticed the dean rise from his seat. To come to my defense? I’d like to think so. I’ve done everything to push that man past his comfort zone, but he has an iron fist around his control. To see any kind of reaction out of him is progress, right? I dunno. I’ve never lusted over a man before the way I have him so it’s all new to me. Maybe I’m not doing something right. Or maybe I should keep my head down, and pay attention to my very real problems.

Wish it were that easy. My heart and head are always warring over that thought.

Tonight like every night, I am alone when I leave the club. I’ve spent most of my life fending for myself. Finding food and clothes where I could. Money came with odd jobs through high school.

A couple of girlfriends back in Los Angeles thought I should auction off my virginity for a handsome sum and then disappear. I guess I could have, but that made me feel dirty, so I never took them up on their offer. Plus, I never was that interested in sex. Not until I laid eyes on Maddox Spencer, that is.

Things might be bad off for me now, but I’m not that desperate. I still have a few options and I’d like to try those before throwing my V-card on the table.

Given there’s a private club for the wealthy that caters to such things nearby, the option is on the table. Just not yet.

By the time I climb the stairs to my apartment I’m barely beating the sun home and am dead on my feet.

Haunting dreams of brooding blue eyes have me tossing and turning long before it’s time for me to wake, so I’m up with a little over three hours of sleep. Glorious, puffy red eyes greet me in the mirror.

Ugh. “Real sexy.”

I check my phone for the time and rush to get dressed while working on a plan of attack for the day. Tips were great last night, but I’m still almost a grand short to pay rent and school tuition. The last week has been slow and well… shit happens. You know the story.

I tighten my ponytail and slip on a pair of wedges that work with my skinny jeans and casual blouse with a dipping cleavage. Not too low, but sexy. It’s a little cool today so I grab my jacket before heading out the door.

“Hey, sweet tits, where you off too in such a rush? You didn’t forget about me, did ya?”

I stop cold, all the energy I had moments ago to tackle all my problems leaches out through the soles of my feet.

I turn on my heel and plaster the biggest, fakest smile I can muster across my face. After a couple of swallows I soften my voice from the harsh tone so I won’t rile the craptastic douche I know my landlord can be.

My landlord doesn’t sound as cheery as his words let on, but he does manage to make my skin crawl when his attention lingers longer than usual.

“Morris. How could I? You blew my phone up all morning. We had a deal, by the way,” I remind him in a deadpan tone I can’t seem to help. “I pay for the heater and stove last week and you discount it from the rent this week.”

The middle-aged, balding, pot-bellied little shit gives me a grin that is as slimy as his dingy wife-beater shirt and I take a full step back when he gets too close.

He sticks out his fat bottom lip like he wants to pout, but it only comes off as creepy as fuck. “Not this time, sweet tits. Plus you shoulda gotten that in writing. Didn’t your daddy teach you nothin’? No proof means no deal. I have bills too, ya know.”

A wash of anger rolls over me. God, I hate this man and that little pet name of his makes me want to throat punch the dirtbag who barely reaches my five-three height when I’m barefoot.

Morris-the-Douche hooks a thumb toward a battered brown door behind him, and I don’t need it spelled out anymore for me. My new neighbor one door down isn’t exactly the kind of guy you want to borrow a cup of sugar from. Or apparently owe money to from the wide-eyed look Morris is giving me. I’ve never seen fear in the guy’s eyes before but there’s no missing it now.

I point a finger down the way. “You owe him?” How stupid can he be, I want to ask, but I glue my lips closed and keep my thoughts to myself. In truth, it’s none of my business. Keep it superficial and nice and move along fast is the name of the game here.

The simple act of stepping out my wafer-thin front door gives me panic attacks and I’m constantly looking over my shoulder. I’d been in a hurry this morning and that mistake might cost me now.

Stupid me.

I might have money problems and ant problems but nothing trumps the drunk, druggie bookie—and let’s not forget sleazy— neighbor problems. As soon as my burly neighbor and his trashy friends found out I danced for a living, the infestations of low-lifes knocking on my door and dropping used condoms for me to find in the evenings hasn’t stopped.

Reason number ten out of a million why I don’t mind working nights. I don’t have to be here when I know it’s most dangerous.

I want to turn and run but looking weak is the eyes of this shady monster isn’t an option.

As if on cue, two deep-set black eyes pop into view as my neighbor sticks his head out before ambling over to join our little pow-wow in the middle of the hallway. I’m on the second floor and to my right is a railing with a straight drop to an empty four-foot pool that hasn’t seen a scrub brush in a decade easily. So jumping is out of the question. I mentally calculate the distance between me and the stairs as my next option if things go sour when my neighbor clamps a callused hand on my shoulder.

He studies me for what feels like a lifetime before his lips peel back in a jagged-toothed grin. Gotta love a meth mouth.

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