Page 9 of Luck of the Draw

Just like Jimmy, Vito had come to depend on Brennan for financial support.

But unlike Jimmy, Vito was a bit entitled, and he had no shortage of muscle to back him up when someone didn’t pay their tab in a timely manner.

Vito was known as “The Dentist” for a reason. And Brennan had seen it firsthand. And even the mother fucking Taliban had nothing on him.

3

TULANE AVENUE, NEW ORLEANS

Skye watched the digital clock on the nightstand until exactly the right amount of time had passed after Jesse left. She peeked around the cheap drapes one last time, assuring herself he wouldn’t be back for at least a few hours. He’d given her a task, and he was leaving her to it. But Skye wasn’t going to do it.

Nope. No more. Never, ever again.

Despite knowing he’d be gone for a few hours, she didn’t have a lot of time. She sprang into action, pulling her clothes off hangers and out of drawers, and then dumping makeup and shoes and cheap costume jewelry into a small suitcase.

The first step in her plan wasn’t ideal, but it was necessary. She’d play the part one last time, but this time it would be on her own terms, and this time it would serve as a means to her own end. And hell, maybe she’d be able to do it in a way that she actually enjoyed it for once.

Skye had no idea what the second step was, but she knew for certain it involved getting as far away from New Orleans as possible. New Orleans was her hometown, but it was no home. Not to Skye. Not after the twenty-seven years of hell she’d endured here.

She paused briefly before crossing the room to grab a CD she’d indulgently treated herself to a couple of weeks ago. The jazz artist, Oscar Quinn Washington, was relatively new on the scene, and his music was reminiscent of the few good things that stood out in her history. Part of her youth had been spent in Tremé, and the old neighborhood was steeped in the rich tradition of classic New Orleans jazz. And even though this city had never been kind to her, it was still her hometown, and the music was the only connection she wanted to take with her when she left forever.

After nestling Oscar’s CD into the suitcase, Skye stood still in the middle of the filthy apartment as she attempted to re-center herself, and then looked in mirror.

The swelling was gone, but the delicate skin under her left eye and across her cheek bone was still tinged with the ugly purple-gray and greenish-yellow of bruises fading at different rates, and that was far too telling. The bruises on her shoulders and biceps also wouldn’t do. Neither would the ones on her back.

A classy, respectable woman who flew under the radar would never be in a situation that resulted in a body riddled with bruises. Well-meaning people would ask questions. There was no way to answer such questions without coming off even more suspicious. Skye had seen a lot of things on Tulane Avenue and New Orleans in general, and there was no way for a woman to explain injuries like hers without causing people to ask a lot of questions.

So, she grabbed a pair of jeans and a tasteful cardigan. Those would cover the bruises on her body. She pulled the makeup back out of the suitcase. That would take care of her face.

Concealer. How aptly named.

Conceal it.

Concealeverything.

Everyone had secrets. And Skye needed to blend in.

Now, with a pretty, made-up face, long red hair smoothed into a simple, girl-next-door ponytail, and wearing the nice jeans and tasteful cardigan, she looked in the mirror and was pleased. Apparently, it was easy to blend in when you stopped trying to stand out. Though, considering the first step in her plan, it was a little too girl-next-door. She was definitely not a girl, and executing this first step necessitated some man acknowledging that she was fully a woman.

Sifting through the suitcase again, she found a silk camisole lined with lace along the top of the bust. She swapped out the shirts, now wearing the cardigan unbuttoned with a sexy, yet classy amount of peekaboo lace underneath. Jeans fitted, but not tight. Ballet flats. The long ponytail with a slight curl at the tips of her hair. The covered skin on her face and subtle hint of pink blush. She looked so much like a nice, normal woman that she almost fooled herself.

Almost.

The time on the bedside clock told Skye she’d spent enough time making herself presentable, and it was time to get the hell out of here. She scampered to the bathroom, lifted the lid on the toilet tank, and fished out the plastic bag of money. When Jesse returned to the apartment and found it missing, he was going to come after her for sure, and he’d undoubtedly have all of them in tow.

Her heart rate picked up, but Skye reassured herself that her destination for the night was a part of town they all avoided. Nevertheless, her hands trembled as she stuffed the cash inside a small slice in the interior fabric of her bra.

The wad of money gave one of her breasts a bit more cleavage than the other, but one small tug of the cardigan concealed that just fine. If anyone got to point of feeling her up, they wouldn’t care less about her bra and would never notice the strange, asymmetrical bulge.

Stepping out of the bathroom, Skye took one last long look around the filthy studio apartment, breathing the musty scent. This entire building should have been demolished years ago. Water lines from Katrina flooding the city still faintly etched the walls more than fifteen years after the hurricane, but that’s part of why rent was so cheap.

With her things removed and stowed in her suitcase, the room was noticeably emptier. That meant as soon as Jesse stumbled in, he’d stumble back out in a rage to find her and drag her home.

But fuck that. This wasn’t a home. It was just four walls and a roof.

Skye had no home. Nowhere hadeverbeen her home.

But she’d find one soon.

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