Page 8 of Her Cruel Empire
The creepy New Face guy slides up to the bar. “One more whiskey,” he cajoles, settling onto a barstool like he owns the place. “For the road?” He holds up a fifty. “You can keep the change.”
I glance at Logan, who pauses, but then gives a nod. He knows how much I need the money, and I’m grateful to him.
I pour out the drink, trying not to notice how the man’s eyes linger on my cleavage. Men like him come in here all the time—guys who think their money gives them license to undress me with their eyes. But I’m hardly going to complain, not when I need every red cent I can get.
“Couldn’t help but overhear your conversation,” he says as I slide the glasses across the bar. Logan has gone into the back room to unload the dishwasher. “Sounds like you could use a miracle, sweetheart.”
Every instinct I have screams danger, but I keep my expression neutral. “Just down on my luck this month. Nothing I can’t handle.”
His laugh is oily. “Everyone’s got bills, sweetheart. But not everyone’s willing to do what it takes to pay them.” He leanscloser, and I catch a whiff of too-much cologne mixed with something that makes my skin crawl. “You know, I work for a very exclusive private club. Very discreet. Very well-compensated. It’s Shirley, right? Shirley, this could be your lucky night.”
I almost laugh. Logan might call me Shirley Temple, but even I’m not naive enough to misunderstand what this asshole’s talking about. “I’m not interested.”
“Hear me out.” He slides a business card across the bar—cream-colored, heavy stock, with nothing but a phone number embossed in gold. “We cater to a very specific clientele. Wealthy. Refined. Lonely. They’re looking for companionship, nothing more. Someone to accompany them to dinner, maybe a weekend getaway. Keep them company.”
The euphemisms make my stomach turn. “I told you, I’m not?—”
“A hundred grand,” he says quietly. “For thirty days. Think about it—thirty days of partying with someone who knows how to treat a lady right, and you walk away with enough money to solve all your problems.”
My mouth goes dry. One hundred thousand dollars? That could pay off our debts, get us insurance to at least partially cover the operation that Maisie needs.
It could change everything.
But I know what he’s really asking for. What he’s really selling.
“I’m not the partying type,” I tell him.
Jim’s smile never wavers. “Everyone’s the partying type for the right price, sweetheart. Think about your family. Think about what that kind of money could do.”
Before I can respond, Logan appears like an avenging angel. His face is set in hard lines as he snatches the card from the bar and glares at Jim.
“She said no. And it’s time for you to leave.”
Jim holds up his hands in mock surrender, but there’s something unpleasant glittering in his eyes. “Just offering a business opportunity. No need to get hostile.”
“The lady’s not interested in your kind of business,” Logan says flatly. “Door’s that way.”
Jim picks up his glass, drains it, and sets it back down with a grin. As soon as the door shuts behind him, Logan turns on me. “That guy’s a Gatto. As in organized crime. Anything he offers you? Not worth the price.” He rips the business card in half and dumps it in the trash can we keep under the bar. “Promise me you won’t do anything stupid.”
“Of course not,” I say quickly, but my eyes stray down to the torn pieces of cardstock. “I would never—well, you know.”
“Good.” Logan’s shoulders relax slightly. “Because girls who get involved with the Gattos have a tendency to end up missing.”
We finish closing up in silence, but my mind is churning. One hundred thousand dollars. The number keeps echoing in my head like a drumbeat. Enough money to save us all.
But at what cost?
The drive home takes me through the worst part of town, where streetlights flicker and broken glass sparkles on the sidewalks. Our apartment building skulks ahead, complete with cracked concrete and peeling paint. Home sweet home.
I climb the stairs to our unit, my feet heavy with exhaustion. I can hear a baby crying through the thin walls again.
I slide my key into the lock as quietly as possible, hoping everyone’s asleep. But Adrian meets me at the door, and one look at his face tells me everything I need to know.
“What happened?” I ask, though I’m not sure I want to hear the answer.
“Pipe burst in the bathroom. Flooded everything. I had to call the emergency plumber.”
My heart sinks. “How much?”
