Page 5 of By Sin To Atone

I cock my head and study the driver. “Why would he do that?” I ask. If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the last couple of years it’s that you can’t trust people.

“Miss, I’m sure Mr. Craven doesn’t want you arriving at work drenched.” He gestures to the car.

Well, that’s a more selfish reason so it makes sense.

I glance at the bus stop across the street just as a car speeds past it, splashing the two people waiting in the shelter. My car, which stands in the far corner of the parking lot, is temperamental at best these days. I’d most likely be standing there with them if it weren’t for this guy, so, with a sigh, I walk down the stairs and peer into the backseat. It’s empty.

“Okay,” I say, and get in. “Thanks, I guess.”

The driver closes the door and climbs casually into his seat as if unbothered by the weather. As soon as he puts the car into drive, the locks engage. The sound weirdly makes me jump. I meet the driver’s eyes in the rear-view mirror and quickly look away, feeling embarrassed. I focus on putting on my seatbelt instead then settle into the comfortable leather chair. In front of me, on the back of the headrest is the IVI emblem engraved into the leather. I wonder if this is Craven’s personal car. No, it wouldn’t be. He wouldn’t get a company car. But maybe he has one at his disposal. He’s not a member of The Society, just staff. Like me. I’m guessing he signed the same NDA I did. But John Craven likes to put on airs and make sure we, the lowly female serving staff, know he’s a rung above us in the food chain. Did I mention he's an asshole? It bears repeating.

I shift my gaze to the road and try to relax even as something about this whole thing feels off. I look at the driver again and for a moment wonder if I’m being kidnapped. If I was stupid enough to walk right into some serial killer’s car. But we’re following the familiar road to the IVI compound. It’s fine. I’m fine.

My phone pings. I startle, then reach into my bag to get it. When I see it’s a notification about a deposit into my account, my stomach lurches. I’m not sure it’s excitement or anxiety, to be honest.

My heart thuds against my chest and I hold my breath as I log into the app to look at the account which up until yesterday had a whopping dollar in it.

Now, it has two.

“What the fuck?” I mutter. I bite my lip and feel the line between my brows deepen as I peer closer. It’s got to be some kind of mistake. But no, I’m right. A deposit of a dollar was made just seconds ago. And the reference accompanying it is a middle finger emoji.

“Asshole.”

Before I can even begin to think about what to do, how to respond to this, my first communication from Ezekiel St. James, the driver is pulling into the IVI compound.

I drop my phone back into my purse as the Rolls Royce comes to a stop. I push the button to unlock the seatbelt as the driver, not wasting any more of his breath on me, opens the door and waits for me to exit. At least we’re under the overhang which I’m grateful they have even at the staff entrance because somehow the rain is even worse now.

I climb out, rush into the building that houses The Cat House and slip into the lady’s locker rooms. A glance at the clock tells me I’m a few minutes late so I hurry to slip off the sweats and shove them into my locker, taking out the stiletto heels and swapping out my ancient sneakers for them. Once I’m in uniform, I dig my phone out again and check that deposit, sure it’s not right. But it’s right there. A whole dollar was deposited into my account.

Was it a mistake?

No. The emoji confirms that.

So, what now? What do I do? Go public? With what exactly? It’s not like I have solid evidence. No smoking gun. What I found on my dad’s laptop would definitely lead people to ask questions but for a man as wealthy as Ezekiel St. James, he could probably cover anything up.

This isn’t how this is supposed to go. He’s meant to think I can damage him, and he’s just supposed to pay.

The locker room door swings open, making me jump.

Ed walks in.

“Jesus, Ed. You almost gave me a heart attack!” I drop the phone back into my purse and close the locker.

Ed is one of the bouncers. Well, they prefer to be referred to as security guards. Eyeroll. The Society is too posh to call them bouncers. But men are men wherever you go, and where there is money, liquor and sex on offer, things inevitably get out of hand, so I get it. It’s just that more often than not, they seem to be on our ass rather than the men who step out of line.

“Blue, let’s go.”

“Coming.” I grab the choker from inside my purse and clasp it around my neck. Part of the ‘uniform’. A collar with a clasp at the front. Just for looks, or so they tell us. The courtesans wear them too, and I’ve seen the men make use of theirs.

I walk over to the mirror to make sure the ring is just above the hollow between my collarbones and remind myself no one can actually touch me. I serve drinks. That’s all.

Ed clears his throat. I ignore him and secure the few hairs that have fallen out of the bun at the nape of my neck. After checking my carefully applied makeup doesn’t need a touch-up, I hurry toward the club. Craven already has an issue with my hair, of which the topmost layer is sapphire blue, and underneath is my natural black. I dyed it when we got to New Orleans. Not sure why I did it, actually. It’s not as though it helps me to blend in. The opposite. But I needed to hold on to some part of myself. Have some control. Being on the run, you can forget who you are. You can give the people you’re running from power over you. Maybe it was just my fuck you to my father, Tommy, or as he likes to be called, Lucky Tommy. Fucking asshole. If he’d just stayed gone, if mom hadn’t taken him back when he came crawling, everything would be different.

As I slip under Ed’s arm, he whistles. I flip him off because I can. I hear the soft classical background noise and a woman’s giggle before I even enter the bar. Craven is standing at the opposite end ogling one of the courtesans who is kneeling at the feet of a member as he attaches a leash to her collar. He then leads her to a private room. She’s on her hands and knees, her ass on display. Craven will most likely jerk off to the sight of it as soon as he has a free moment. He earned the nickname Creepy after all. When he shifts his gaze to me, he narrows his eyes and makes a point of tapping his watch.

Yeah, I know I’m late, asshole. Can I blame his driver?

“Table six,” the bartender tells me, setting two whiskeys on a tray and pushing it toward me before turning to fill the next order.

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