Page 6 of Ruthless Bonds

“Hey, sexy, I was just thinking about you.” He grinned, running his tongue over the top row of his teeth.

“Oh, were you thinking about coming to fix the leak in the bathroom ceiling? It’s going to cave in any day now.”

He scowled and stopped twirling his keys. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll get Bobby to take a look.”

I attempted to walk past him, but his arm flew out, blocking my exit.

“Whoa, where you headed? I thought we couldgrab a drink at my place.” His eyes were fixed on my breasts, giving me goosebumps.

Always trust the goosebumps.

“Work, Dario.” I gave his arm a pointed look.

“You know”—he took a step closer, his belly pushing me into the wall—“if you’re nice to me, I’ll be real nice to you.”

Seriously fucking die already.

I debated throwing my coffee in his face, but decided I didn’t want to waste my caffeine, knowing I had a long shift ahead of me.

“I haven’t kicked you in the balls yet, have I? I’d say that’s pretty nice of me.” I tried to jerk away from his touch, but he caged me in between his arms, giving me a disgusting view of the sweat stains under his armpits.

“Don’t be like that, sweetheart.” He lowered his head until his lips were next to my ear. “I’ll make it good for you.”

I laced my keys between my fingers and gripped them. There were three rules I lived by. Rule number two: fear was a choice. Men like Dario didn’t scare me. Even though he was over a foot taller and had at least a hundred pounds on me, I knew he was a muppet. Just a small vile man thinking he could take advantage of people who were already struggling.

“If you ever want to use your pathetic excuse for a dick again, I suggest you get your hands off me.” I pressed the keys just under his gut, satisfaction coursing through me as his eyes widened.

We both snapped our heads to the side as my neighbor across the hall, Mrs. Fortino, threw her door open.

“Dario Butto, get your filthy hands off that girl.”She smacked him with a rolled-up newspaper until he stepped away from me. “You no-good scoundrel, your mama is rolling over in her grave.”

Dario huffed and held his hands up, and I took that as my cue to get the hell out of there.

I mouthed “thank you” to Mrs. Fortino and sped down the hall, not bothering to turn around as she berated him in Italian.

I was sick of his shit. This wasn’t the first time he had cornered me, and it probably wouldn’t be the last. We needed to get out of this hellhole with its gunshots, screams, and constant risk of being robbed by drunks or addicts. The cops did nothing to help, either. Not when the building across the street had caught on fire, or when a man had lain motionless in the street for over two hours before a squad car finally showed up. Just a few of the never-ending reasons my rule number three was to never trust the police.

The problem was money. Ever since Dove’s attack, she hadn’t been able to work, not that I expected her to. She needed time to heal and feel safe, and if that meant I had to work three jobs, then that was fine by me. But the past month had been harder than expected. The temp agency had been slow, and the dentist office I worked part time at was going bankrupt. The only money coming in this month was from bartending and from the community center where I figure-modeled once a month. Even though it was easy money, four hundred bucks for three hours of standing or lying mostly nude, it wouldn’t be enough to cover all our bills.

I just needed to get through the next few months. Things would be different soon. Fifty thousand dollars different.

All I had to do was win the Montreal International Photography Grand Prize.

I was one of ten finalists.

Out of thousands of entries.

I still couldn’t believe it.

When I’d submitted a collection of portraits last year to MIP, the judges were brutal. “Soulless and safe,” one judge had said.

Receiving that feedback had been a crushing blow. But they had been right. So this year I put my entire heart and soul into this project, a series of portraits of people from all walks of life in my gritty hometown, and it had worked.

Now, to win the grand prize, the finalists had to put together a new collection based on a secret theme:

Mortality.

The irony wasn’t lost on me that I was constantly surrounded by death in my life, and now I was basing my professional dreams on it.

---