Page 66 of Filthy Little Games

“I thought I could upload the photos from your phone to the frame so you could still see them.”

“Oh.”

He bought the frame so I could look at my pictures, which is sweet, but he did it because he still doesn’t trust me with my phone.

In fact, every day when he leaves the penthouse, he has two guards stay here with me at the door. They may not leer at me from the sofa like Lorenzo, but I know that they’re there, ensuring that I don’t leave and reminding me that I’m really just a prisoner who gets to enjoy lots of oral sex.

“Thank you,” I add, since it’s a sweet gift. Sort of.

“I wish I could trust you. You know that right?” Creed sits next to me on the sofa.

“And I don’t blame you,” I admit. “I do appreciate the gift and your help with Eugene tonight.”

“I’ll start transferring the photos over now.” He lifts the frame box from my lap and opens it. When he removes my cell phone from his pocket, he remarks, “You have a lot of photos on your phone.”

“Yeah, it’s sort of a hobby.”

“A hobby?”

“I’ve always loved capturing life through the lens, even if the lens is my shitty little phone’s camera.”

“I like the photos. They’re good shots, capturing the essence of city life.”

“Thanks,” I say, since that’s the way I’d describe the images aswell. “I actually came to the city because I thought I had a shot at modeling.”

“Really?” Creed looks up at me.

“You don’t have to sound so shocked,” I tease him.

“No, I mean, you’re gorgeous. I can see you on the runway or on a giant perfume ad in Times Square.”

Laughing, I tell him, “You are so full of shit.”

“I’m serious. Why did you give up modeling?”

“I ended up in some campaigns that I didn’t feel completely comfortable with and decided the industry wasn’t for me. Oh, and I got pregnant.”

“Right. Well, I wish it had worked out for you, but I’m glad I don’t have to share you with an audience.” Creed gives me a small smile that quickly disappears before he returns to working on the frame.

I don’t say much to him the rest of the afternoon until he leaves to meet Eugene in Queens, too lost in the memories of those first few years in the city. I regret them. In fact, Oriana is the only reason that I’m glad I came to the city seven years ago.

Well, Oriana and now, Creed.

I’m so glad I met the mobster, despite the shitty circumstances. I just wish he felt the same.

Creed

I’ve been waiting in the alley behind the discount store for about ten minutes when an ancient blue Cutlass comes squealing. Last week he was in a different vehicle, but I have a feeling it’s the sameboy. I stay hidden in the shadows until the car stops just beside the store’s back door.

The familiar-looking scrawny kid that’s nearly my height climbs from the driver side with a ski mask covering his face, leaving the vehicle running. He goes to the door and lifts his fist to pound on it.

“She doesn’t work here anymore.” My voice startles the kid. He whips around to face me while pulling out the gun tucked into his rear waistband of his baggy jeans. “And if you’re smart, you’ll throw that damn thing away before you end up with a three-and-a-half-year mandatory prison sentence.”

“Aw fuck,” he mutters, then turns back around and reaches for the car’s door handle.

Stepping out of the shadows and into the glow from the car’s headlights, I tell him, “Wait a second, Eugene. Zara sent me. She’ll be pissed if I let you leave empty-handed.”

The boy pauses. “Zara sent you? Are you a cop? I don’t know what she told you —”

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