Page 96 of Cruel Hearts

“Ashton Black has been trying to kill you, and if he follows social media for even a second, which is what we’re hoping he’ll do tonight, he’s going to know exactly where you are at exactly the time you’re there. Let’s not tempt fate, okay? Zane’s paying me big bucks to worry, so I will.”

She adjusts it over my bra. Despite the design, the extra layer in the late summer heat will be irritable at best and downrightsweltering at worst. I’ll have to resist pulling at it. It isn’t the most uncomfortable thing I’ve ever worn—as a child I was constantly dressed in clothing that didn’t fit—but I won’t forget I’ll have it on, that’s for sure.

Mel picks up the blood pouch she bought at a Halloween costume store across town. The plastic is flimsy and made to burst upon slight impact. I worry that I’ll break the bag just by moving around, but she tapes it under the tank top, near my heart, and it’s protected under the sturdy material. No sudden movements, and I should be okay. I wiggle my shoulder. “It looks bulgy.”

She pulls a black dress off the hanger and holds it up to me. “Yeah, I figured that would happen. While you were bathing, I ran to a thrift store and bought a few things. Try this. It’s a size bigger than what you normally wear.”

I step into the dress and Mel zips it up. It hides the pouch and tank top, but not well. The black edges peek out from the dress’s gaping neckline, and no one would mistake them for bra straps. I sigh.

“A cardigan would work, but you’d look like a lunatic. It’s almost a hundred degrees out there,” Mel mutters, turning me around, yanking at the material, trying to cover the tank top’s straps but downplay the blood pouch at the same time. “Maybe this will work.” She adjusts a black and pink floral scarf around my neck and ties it in a loose knot. It disguises my shoulders, and no one would ever guess what I’m wearing under it. The thin scarf’s made of polyester, the edges fraying, and it reminds me of the type of clothing I wore before I met Zane.

“That’s perfect.” She nods, pleased.

Zane’s pacing outside Mel’s room and stops wearing a path in the hallway’s carpeting when he sees me. He crushes his mouth to mine, his hand resting on the nape of my neck under my hair. He tears his mouth away. “You look gorgeous.”

I suck in a breath. He didn’t give me a warning, and I need air. “Thanks. Mel did a good job.”

“Don’t mess up the goods,” she says, shoving him away and smoothing my hair back in place. “She’s ready to go.”

My skin prickles. I know I’m safe.

It’s just dinner and a show.

Only, I’ll be the star.

Crap.

Mel leads me down the corridor without giving Zane any more time. It’s probably for the best. I already feel like I could have a panic attack.

“We’ve done all the work, Stella,” she says in the elevator, trying to reassure me. “Just go through the motions.”

“Right. Okay.”

There’s a bus stop a mile from the hotel and Mel drops me off so I don’t have to walk in the heat. I’m supposed to be on the run without resources, and we agreed it would make the most sense if I rode it to the restaurant. Even the cheap cotton dress and scuffed heels Mel bought me supports the story. She truly has thought of everything.

I wish I didn’t feel so nervous. Mel’s last-minute pep talk didn’t do much good.

To keep calm, on the bus I count to one hundred ten times. It stops a couple of blocks away from the restaurant, and thankfully, I don’t have to do it again.

Gripping the handrail, I step off the bus, my heels slipping on the dirty little stairs.

I stand reluctantly on the sidewalk, the doors behind me closing, cutting off the slightly cooler air. The restaurant is up ahead, and right on time, Douglas glides up to the curb.

Zane elegantly slides out of the town car, and the photographers are already waiting, hoping for the perfect shot that will elevate their careers. He poses and allows them to take a few photos, and they love him for the chance. He rarely cooperates, and I want to caution him not to be too accommodating, but he abruptly turns and heads into the building. The photographers groan in frustration.

Until they see me.

Stiffly, I walk down the sidewalk. Maybe I look like I’m not comfortable in the tight heels and the cheap dress or the attention the paparazzi throw at me, and that’s okay. It’s the itchy tape that’s holding the blood bag in place, irritating my skin. In this heat, I want to scratch the skin off my bones.

They snap pictures, and I try to ignore them. I succeed until one asks, “Did you and Sergio Cardello break up? Is that why you’re meeting Zane? Broke, Stella?”

I want to respond, God, I want to respond, but that’s what this whole thing is about and if the photographer, that sleazy man with the bright smile who feeds on others’ misfortunes believes that, then we’re doing our job.

I look at the ground, demure. “I just need a little to get back on my feet.” I stare at my pumps, and the scuff marks fill my eyes with tears. They remind me of the shoes I used to wear in payroll. I’m still straddling between two lives, and still, I don’t fit in with either.

The paparazzo jerk is cruel, and laughing, he flips a quarter at me. It bounces off my collarbone and lands on the concrete by my feet. “Spread your legs on Fischer Boulevard, Stella. You’re a pretty girl. Might make a few bucks. Hell, later I’ll come see youmyself. You must have something special if Zane Maddox and Sergio Cardello want what you’ve got.”

I’m tempted to spit in his face, but I can’t. Instead, to his hilarious amusement, I crouch and pick up the quarter, tears running down my face. He’s wheezing with laughter as I let myself into the restaurant. A place I could never afford on my salary in payroll.

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