Page 9 of Broomsticks and Bloodstains
Honestly, for some reason, I thought they were mostly ones. It was what I was used to. I laughed, sharp and humorless, and pressed my palms against my eyes. Seven hundred bucks wouldn’t save me, not with the kind of debt I was drowning in. But it would give me air. A week or two without choosing between groceries and the electric bill.
Isabella had texted already. How she was up so early after a night like that, I had no clue.
Isabella: Told you it would be worth it. You in for Christmas or New Year’s if we get the call?
I typed back: Count me in. Then deleted it. Maybe. Then stared at the little blue bubble I’d sent until the screen went black.
Because money like that was dangerous. It made you think you could fix your whole life if you just kept saying yes.
But I knew better.
Last night hadn’t just been cocktails and masks and rich assholes in tuxedos. I’d seen something I shouldn’t have. Heard words that made my stomach twist. I didn’t belong anywhere near men like Igor Popov or Boris Volkov—or the man in the black mask whose gorgeous eyes had cut through me like a blade.
I told myself it was just another job. Just one night. One paycheck.
But even as I tried to convince myself, I couldn’t shake the certainty that I hadn’t walked out of that house alone. That somewhere in the dark, someone had been watching.
With a shake of my head, I shoved the money back into my purse and turned to the stack of mail I’d dropped on my counter last night. Most of it was junk—credit card offers I’d never qualify for, ads for furniture I couldn’t afford. The rest was worse.
Final Notice.
Payment Overdue.
Immediate Attention Required.
The words bled together until they felt heavier than the bills themselves. I dropped them back on the counter and pressed my palms into the laminate, staring at the chipped edge like it could magically give me answers.
Unfortunately, I’d had to use my credit cards to pay my bills several times over the last few years. It had been bad when Mom had gotten hurt and wasn’t able to work. Then I’d paid for my mom’s move back to Puerto Rico when my grandfather died. We’d both tried to get my grandma to move here, but she wasn’t having it.
My shoulders curled inward. Yeah, I was twenty-seven years old, but I missed my mom.
My phone vibrated and I glanced at it.
Isabella: Little pig, little pig, let me come in! I’m outside.
A laugh burst from me, making me snort. In my slipper socks, I padded to the door and down the stairs. Then I let her in, shivering as the cold blew in with my friend.
“Damn, it’s cold this morning!” she announced as she shuddered.
“Shh!” I told her as I glanced at the two doors to the downstairs apartments.
She waved her hand dismissively. “Pssh! It’s ten in the morning—it’s not like it’s the ass-crack of dawn, Sofe.”
I rolled my eyes as I climbed the stairs to my apartment, with her on my heels. My downstairs neighbor was a dick. He was always complaining that I walked too heavy, or that my music was too loud. I knew it was bullshit because a few of the nights he cited to our landlord, I was at work. Asshole.
Thankfully, my landlord liked me.
Sort of.
Inside my living room, I picked up the dress I’d dropped over the back of my sheet-covered couch. I handed it to her, and she shoved it in her tote to return to the catering company. I’d offered to get it laundered, but Esteban had assured me that the company had a deal with a dry cleaner.
“So?” Isabella asked as I shuffled the six steps into my kitchenette.
“So, what?” I asked as I pulled two mugs from the cupboard. I plugged in the old-fashioned coffee pot and, by muscle memory, went through the motions of making a pot of coffee.
As it brewed, I gathered the necessary ingredients to doctor my morning brew. I checked the date on the cream as I shook it to make sure there was enough for two cups.
“You know what,” she huffed as she tossed her jacket on the couch and took a seat on one of my mismatched stools. She scooted it up to the narrow, thrifted island that doubled as a table and rested her elbows on it.
