Page 4 of Dangerous Devotion

I’m not sure why I offer it. We don’t do financing plans for eligible losers. We just take the money or the merch we can sell to get the money. It’s simple really, until somebody walks in with long legs like that and makes me damn near forget my name.

Even though I should go back in the office to look over the delivery invoices, I stay out front. I’m watching her work. Red dress, red lips, the coltish tremble of her ankles as she rushes on those silly high heeled shoes. She may have tried to dress up like she belongs in this crowd, but she stands out way too much.

For one thing, she’s all business. I can see her briskly striding from hospital room to hospital room, doing whatever needed to be done, efficient and precise. For another, she’s not at home here. She tries to lean on the bar waiting to pick up an order, but she’s in nonstop motion. Picking at her nails, stealing a look at the exit. Everything about her telegraphs how uncomfortable she is and also how brave.

It never ceases to amaze me how many girls throw themselves away on misplaced loyalty. Any man who can live with himself knowing his wife or girlfriend or daughter had to make a deal with the devil to save his ass doesn’t deserve the oxygen he uses as far as I’m concerned.

I know what the barmaids earn at this joint. At the current wage, it’ll take her over two hundred shifts to earn back what he owes before interest. Not to mention that we don’t make a habit of waiting ten months for payment. It stops people taking us seriously with respect to terms of collection.

The question I ask myself as she offers to refill my glass is this: Would I rather extend a special payment arrangement to that garbage just to keep her around for months hustling drinks in this hell hole?

When I look up to tell her I don’t want another drink, our eyes meet and there is pure steel in her gaze. Nothing vulnerable, no trace of a woman who’s willing to walk away or let this go. Serena Mayfield has a stubborn look to her, and that unbending determination hits me in the gut.

“How long you think you’ll have to sling drinks to pay off his debt? And what’s to stop him from running up a tab somewhere else while you do?” I ask, laconic and challenging.

“It takes as long as it takes,” she answers me, lifting her chin. She doesn’t sound resigned, she sounds like she could plug two bullets in my forehead and then fix her ponytail and walk away. I smirk despite myself.

“Don’t they talk about saving people from the consequences of their actions? Enabling or something?” I say.

“I don’t have time for Instagram psychology,” she snaps, and the little rise I get out of her feels like wine going to my head. I lean back in my chair a little, hands behind my head.

“Ten months,” I say, “and that’s if every penny from this job goes to your old man’s debt. Not counting interest.”

“Interest?” she says, indignantly, “what kind of deal is this?”

“It’s standard practice. His signature’s on the marker in my files. He agreed to the terms. Interest goes to thirty-five percent after the first thirty days of nonpayment. It’s legally binding, you can check.”

“You’re telling me that a piece of paper my dad signed agreeing to the terms of an illegal gambling operation is actionable? You’d be an idiot to take that to court and deliver yourself to the cops for racketeering in the process,” she spits, stone cold but with a glint of mischief in those eyes.

“All right, you got me on that one. Legal recourse isn’t our motivator of choice.”

“How much do I need to put down to keep him from being hurt again?”

“Your father’s activities ran afoul of the agreement he made with one of my associates. He didn’t honor his marker and owes a lot of money, more than you or he can hope to pay back in a timely fashion.”

“Why lend it to him?”

“Why not?” I ask. “He’s of legal age and then some. He knows the stakes if he loses. I’m not running a nursery school here. There’s no way he accidentally got into this mess. It was arrogance plain and simple.”

“He doesn’t deserve the beatings,” she says, the grimness around her mouth daring me to disagree with her. I’m not a man who takes the bait, but something about her has shaken off my boredom, so I follow through.

“You don’t deserve it. Everything I know about him points to the fact that he’s dodged this bullet—metaphorically of course—longer than anyone would’ve thought possible. I take it this isn’t the first time he’s found himself in trouble,” I lift my eyebrows.

“If I want to look out for my dad, what’s it got to do with you?”

“What it’s got to do with me,” I counter, leaning in closer till I can smell what has to be strawberry lip gloss, “is he got mixed up with my business, and you insist on getting involved.”

“Yes, I do,” she says.

I want to get closer, to see if the lip gloss tastes like berries. She’s taken all the air from my lungs, and the only thing that will keep me alive would be brushing my lips against the soft curve of her cheek.

“That leaves me with a problem,” I tell her. Maybe it’s because our voices are so low in a crowded place, like we’re apart from everyone else. Maybe her eyes on me are like truth serum, some snake-charmer magic she possesses.

“What’s the problem? That you’re obligated to break his kneecaps because I can’t earn tips fast enough to stop you? Or is this the part of the Lifetime movie where the bad guy tells me that now I have to dance in his strip club to make money starting tonight?” she says, all sass even at close range.

Being five inches from my mouth doesn’t slow her down even though I feel like I’m swimming in molasses right now, everything going sweet and slow and my brain can’t quite take it all in properly.

“Problem is it makes the most sense, business-wise, to eliminate your dad. He’s a liability. The fact he’s walking around breathing and hasn’t made good on his marker makes my organization look like a bunch of pussies and undermines the whole operation. If I give that order, since the guy who manages this crap is out this week it’s my call—then you never forgive me.”

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