Page 4 of Wrecked By You

I hung up without responding. I regretted it already, and I hadn’t even seen the damn woman yet.

Chapter2

Ella

Maybe, just maybe this is my lucky day.

My tailpipe backfiredas I pulled into the parking lot of the Level Nine nightclub, the sound reminiscent of a gunshot. Despite knowing what had made the noise, I ducked in my seat, my heart rate rocketing.

“Calm down. It’s just your stupid car.”

I sucked in a breath and held it, releasing it slowly. If I landed this job, then Imightmanage to save enough money to get my car fixed. I’d only been in Los Angeles for a few months, and one of the first things I’d learned was that public transport was patchy and unreliable. The entire city was addicted to their cars. If I was to show a prospective employer that I was a reliable employee, then I needed my car.

I also needed it in case we had to run again.

A shiver rocketed up my spine, the taste of fear sour in my mouth. I wiped my clammy hands on my smartest pair of jeans, unable to resist the urge to glance behind me.

Breathe. Nothing there. He doesn’t know where you are.

For now.

He’d found us once already, not long after I’d escaped the compound in the dead of night carrying my sleeping child and dragging behind me a small suitcase crammed with as many of her clothes and toys as would fit inside. In my innocence—or rather ignorance—I’d kept my original cell phone, and he’d used his contacts to track me. I’d only gotten us out in the nick of time, my good fortune blind luck more than any kind of planning.

After driving halfway across the country rather than simply one state over from my former home in Oklahoma, I’d settled in California among the sprawling population of Los Angeles. How many people lived here? Four, five million? A place to hide among the masses.

And this time, I’d smartened up.

I slipped the burner phone from my purse, one I’d picked up at a refurbishment store in New Mexico for twenty bucks. My chest tightened at the picture on the screensaver. I ran a fingertip over Chloe’s rosy apple cheeks, my daughter’s beaming smile staring back at me, her dark locks a mass of curls around her angelic face.

“Love you, little bug. It’s all for you.”

When I’d turned eighteen, I’d married a much older man that I had thought I was in love with. I’d lived a life filled with all the comforts money could buy. But I’d been naïve and gullible, and my daughter had almost paid the price.

I’d rather live in poverty if it meant keeping us both out of his clutches. The fear, the suffering, the constant looking over my shoulder, the struggling to make ends meet. All of it was worth it to keep her safe.

The heat from the midday sun beat down on me as I made my way across the lot. As instructed, I went around the back of the building rather than use the main entrance to the club. I swiped at the sweat gathering along the back of my neck, my mouth dry as a desert. I hated interviews, even if those for bar work or waitressing were usually a tick box exercise. Most places were only interested in a pretty face and whether you knew the difference between a mojito and a cosmo.

Not this place, apparently. The lady at the recruitment agency I’d recently signed on with after my last temporary job came to an end had said this place was different, that the owner had high standards.

Hence my nerves were rioting, and my stomach had tied itself in knots.

Still there were positives. A year ago, I wouldn’t have had a clue how to tend bar. Back then, I only knew how to drink cocktails, not make them.

Then I’d found out—the hard way—how my husband paid for our lifestyle. Drugs.

I tapped on the door, rocking back on my heels as I waited. When no one came, I knocked a little harder. Through a small glass panel, a man appeared, a scowl scoring his forehead, two deep lines that sent prickles racing over my skin. He yanked open the door.

“Yes?”

My tongue darted out to wet my lips. “Hi. I-I’m Ella Reyes. The agency sent me. I was told to ask for a Mr. Kingcaid.”

He towered over me by a good foot, and his attire of a black turtleneck sweater and matching black pants coupled with dark brown hair and pale skin gave him an intimidating air. His ice-blue eyes raked over me with disinterest and boredom.

“Follow me.” He spun on his heel, throwing back over his shoulder, “Shut the door.”

“‘Please’ wouldn’t go amiss,” I muttered, too low for him to hear. Sass wouldn’t help me get a job I urgently needed. I’d lurched from casual job to casual job barely making ends meet, and I’d expected this would be the same, until the agency had assured me this was one of the top nightclubs in Los Angeles, with rich clientele who tipped well, and if I made a good impression, it could be the long-term opportunity I’d hoped for. A chance to squirrel a little aside for a rainy day I prayed would never come.

I followed the man into a messy office with papers strewn across every surface and a half-empty takeout coffee cup from a chain store. He invited me to sit by jabbing his finger at a chair opposite the desk. I perched on the edge and willed my legs not to bounce, which they often did when nerves got the better of me.

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