Page 11 of Spades

“That isn’t the point, Alissa.” She grabs my arm, holding so tight it hurts. “You need to learn to be clean. Mummy hates a dirty house, and she can’t keep it clean if you don’t start thinking about things like muddy footprints.” She leads me to the back door. “Dirty girls belong outside.”

“But Mummy, it’s hot out there. The sun is too bright. That’s why I came inside, to get a drink of water.”

She opens the back door, flinging me outside. “You should have thought about that before bringing in mud, Alissa.”

“Can I at least bring my water outside?”

“And have you dirty up a perfectly good glass? I think not.”

She leads me to the lemon tree in our backyard and grabs a long piece of rope that Daddy left out when he was restringing our clothesline.

“Stand against the tree, Alissa,” she says calmly.

“Why, Mummy?”

“Because Mummy can’t trust you not to track mud inside while she’s cleaning. So from now on, when she’s cleaning, Mummy is going to tie you to the tree for your own security.”

I start crying again. “Mummy, please don’t tie me up. I promise I’ll take my shoes off next time.”

“Promises mean nothing unless they’re backed up with actions.” Mummy wraps the rope around my waist. “This is for your own good, Alissa. Cleanliness is next to godliness. You won’t get into heaven if you’re not a clean girl.”

I continue sobbing, but I nod. “Okay, Mummy, if you say so.”

She smiles. “There’s a good girl.” She ties the rest of the rope around the trunk of the lemon tree, knotting it tightly. The rope squeezes against my belly, making it a little hard to breathe.

“Once Mummy is done cleaning, she’ll come get you. We’ll scrub your shoes clean and then you’ll be allowed back inside. Okay, darling?”

Tears are falling down my cheeks, but I can’t wipe them away because my hands are tied down, too. “Yes, Mummy.”

And she leaves me in the hot sun.

4

MADDOX

The sun streamsin through the window in the one-bedroom apartment I keep above the haberdashery. I fell asleep on the couch last night—there’s a fifty-fifty chance of that happening any time I watch TV in the living room after ten. I yawn, stretch my arms over my head, and meander to the kitchen to put a pot of coffee on.

Funny that Alissa is British. I’ve always felt like I should have been born British. I love a cup of tea in the afternoon.

God, Alissa…

She crossed my dreams several times, and I woke up with a hell of a boner.

I grab my phone and check the time. Seven thirty. I have an hour and a half before opening time. Good.

Coffee’s done. I grab a mug from my cupboard—my favorite, the one that looks like an upside-down top hat; a gift from my mom for my eighteenth birthday—and pour myself a cup. I flip the TV from the streaming channels to a news network just to have a little white noise in the background. I couldn’t possibly pay attention to the news right now, just like I couldn’t pay attention to the TV show I was binging last night.

For the last fourteen hours or so, my mind has only been able to wrap itself around one thing.

Alissa Maravilla. The girl who entered my shop on a whim last evening.

The girl who I’m taking to the club tonight.

There’s something about her that intrigues me. She has an air of innocence, but I also sensed a curiosity, a hunger almost, for something a little dark. She’s grown tired of routine and is looking for something a little spontaneous, a little dangerous, even.

I think she’ll like my club.

I’ve never taken a woman there.

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