Page 6 of A Bride for the Bratva Boss
I’ve asked him nicely. I’ve complained. And I’ve begged my dad to stop claiming me as a dependent. Each time he just grins.
“You’ll figure it out, sweetheart,” he says. “You always do.”
And I have been, even since mom died when I was twelve, I’ve been the one to figure out how to pay the rent. How to make sure we had food.
Dad was too busy running cons to get a real job. He always thought the next scheme would be the big one. The one that would allow him to retire on some tropical island.
He still does.
At least now that I’m old enough to have a bank account, he can’t help himself to my money. I used to run errands for two elderly neighbors when I was a kid and I hid what they paid me in my room. But my dad would always find it.
“I’ll invest it for you,” he’d say and then buy beer and cigarettes with it.
I should get my own place so he can’t eat my food either, but our old house is walking distance to campus. And apartments require first and last month’s rent, and a good credit history.I have neither. On top of steeling my money when I was a teenager, my dad took out credit cards in my name. Which is also why my loan interests are crap. I had to go for what dodgy financial companies offers since my name was already drenched in debt.
And so yeah, tonight I was off my game. And that creep managed to get his hands all over my body, untilhestepped in.
I’d noticed him earlier in the evening, sitting in a back booth with a guy much younger than him. A good-looking guy close to my age.
And yet, it was the older man who held all my attention when I brought their drinks. His dark wavy hair brushed the collar of his shirt, with which he wore no tie. And the top two buttons were open, revealing swirling tattoos in unfamiliar letters. Sharp blue eyes bore into mine when I placed the neat whisky in front of him, as if they could see into my soul.
And he didn’t abandon me after he’d gotten the creep to let go. He followed me to make sure I was okay. Found me shaking, both from the fear of being caught in a grip I couldn’t escape, and from the unfamiliar experience of someone standing up for me.
Someone caring enough aboutmeto protectme.
But it wasn’t real.
When I said I wanted to thank him, he brushed me off and sent me back to my shift. It wasn’t at all about me. He was just being nice, and would have done the same thing for any other woman.
And so went to locker room and fixed my hair, even put on a little lipstick. But I might as well not have bothered, becausenobody looked at me for the rest of the evening. I was invisible, just their server fulfilling a function in the background.
For the rest of the night, that horrible voice inside my mind kept droning on.You’re just a waitress, Liza. Not smart enough, not tough enough, not anything enough. You should give up college now. There’s no other life for you. This is your life.
Finally, the dining room floor is as clean as it will ever get. I tug off my apron, count the crumpled bills, and sigh. The tips were horrible tonight and after I take out the bussers’ share, it’s barely enough to make it worth the bus fare to and from work.
I shout goodbye to the bartender who’s restocking the shelf for tomorrow’s shifts and step outside. Luckily, I have two days off before my next shift and I plan on spending them catching up on sleep and homework.
The cold wind outside ruffles my hair. I wish I’d brought a hat, but the sun beat down when I left my house and I tend to leave lose items like gloves and hats on the bus, so I didn’t bring one. Shivering, I cut across the back parking lot to get to the bus stop quicker.
My boots crunch over broken glass by the dumpster. I can’t help but to compare myself to slivers glittering in the street light, shattered and discarded.
And that’s when I see the asshole who grabbed my wrist earlier. He’s leering in the shadows by a silver Mercedes.
My steps falter and my stomach drops. I swallow down the panic rising in my chest. There’s no reason for him to be back here. The customers park in front.
His hands are jammed deep into the pockets of his jacket and he rocks on his heels.
Waiting.
“Hey, sweetheart.” He steps out, voice slurred, eyes hungry.
I try to step around him, but he blocks me.
My lips barely move when I force a smile. “Did you need something?” I make my voice pleasant, but my hands are shaking. “The restaurant is closed now.”
He laughs, the sound edged sharp. “It’s you I want. We didn’t finish our talk”
I take a step back, turning toward the restaurant to see if I could run back for help. But the outside lights are off now. The bartender has already left and the building is locked up. “I need to go home,” I say, my throat dry. “Just let me pass.”
