Page 8 of Wild Angel

Surprisingly, I did. At that stage, I was too weary to argue. To fight. To be a bitch and tell him I didn’t need his help or anyone else’s.

But I’m still on the fence about whether that was a good decision. On the one hand, Liam helped me put a proper roof over my sisters’ heads. And he introduced me to boxing. Before I met him, my only outlet for the frustration, sadness, and despair I had so much stock of had been losing myself in drugs, alcohol, or someone’s dick.

But then I started competing, and I realized I didn’t have to lose myself just to stay sane. Boxing became my anger management, and my God, it worked wonders.

I still had issues, though. Relationships were out of the question. I couldn’t hold down a job. The little bit of money I made winning some national competitions wasn’t enough to support myself and my sisters.

And then I got back on coke, and I fucked up any chance I had to compete by sending a bitch to the hospital.

That was when Liam grudgingly introduced me to Donny—his uncle.

The rest is the kind of history they don’t teach you in schools. The kind that’s written by the victors.

I’m definitely not on the winning side.

I don’t think I’veeverbeen.

* * *

“You went through my stuff,”I say, staring at the slinky dress Savage is holding up for my inspection.

There’s a flicker in his eyes, a tiny curl to his lips, as if he fuckingknewI’d be pissed off, but he couldn’t care less.

“We’re trying not to draw attention,” Savage says. He takes in my clothes with a derogatory scan, the same ones I wore when we were running for our lives from the Bogota cartel.

I’ve been a little too busy to clean up. Also, I couldn’t give a fuck what I look like. This dress? This slinky, champagne gold strip of fabric? It’s from a long-gone era—one I’d prefer not to think about.

But when we cruise past the entrance of Seven Sins, I know it makes sense to change my clothes. There’s no way I’ll be blending in with the throng of girls waiting to get inside, what with their sleek hair and their false lashes and their killer stilettos.

I snatch the dress from him. “Could have gone back to that apartment. Why the hell are we here?”

“Here I have armed men who can protect us.”

It still doesn’t make sense to me, but I guess I’m not thinking about it like a cartel overlord. Vito pauses briefly at a closed-off security gate, but as soon as the guard manning the post sees his face, he waves us through.

Not even bothering to ask us to lower our tinted windows.

Real safe.

As soon as we’re parked, Savage grabs Phoebe’s backpack, gets out, and walks around to the trunk. When I try to get out, the door won’t open. He comes back with a duffel bag I don’t recognize and starts hunting through it. When he pulls out a fresh pair of rolled-up jeans, I roll my eyes.

Go bags stuffed with club attire?

Go fucking figure.

I shrug off my jacket, then tug my shirt over my head. The dress isn’t the right cut for a bra, so I go to take it off. I happen to catch Vito’s eyes as he glances back—apparently coincidentally—but when Savage thumps his fist against his door, his friend hurriedly looks away.

“Eyes up front,” Savage growls.

I allow myself a tiny smile, and unhook my bra. Savage keeps his eyes to himself, but I don’t. When he rips his shirt over his head, my gaze lingers all over his hard, tattooed body. It’s only when he glances my way that I duck my head, busying myself with unlacing my boots.

He brought the wrong shoes, but I guess I can’t fault him for that. I slip into the pair of silver high heels, fastening their tiny buckles as I stare through the back window of Savage’s massive SUV.

Even out here, the club’s music thumps like the heartbeat of some enormous beast.

Savage and I stand outside the SUV while Vito changes inside. We’re parked in a small lot that runs alongside the building. Of the ten parking bays, only three have cars in them. One Bentley, one sports car of some kind.

I’m not into cars.

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