Page 68 of Forgive Me For I Have Sinned

Dorian turns his head to look at Adam. "Hey, man. I was just here to check on my girl."

Adam swings his gaze between Dorian and me with a confused expression, and I shake my head slightly. Dorian slides out of the booth. "I'm trying to convince her to stop working here. She doesn't have to, but you know how girls are. Stubborn. I can provide for her, but she stuck in her ways."

"She likes working here," Adam says in a serious tone.

Adam would know if I was seriously dating someone, and the only guy he has seen me with is Alaric. I look over when a couple walks in, needing to be seated.

"Dorian was just leaving."

Dorian winks at me, and I want to throw up. "I'll see you later, babe, and remember to call me." He gives me a peck on the lips before I can turn my head, and I wipe my mouth in revulsion. "You'll owe me for that one," he says through his teeth.

"Have fun jerking off," I snap back. "I'm sure you're used to it." He grins and points at me while walking backward toward the exit with his jeans and sweater, looking like a trust fund reject.

When he walks out, I watch him cross the parking lot to his ostentatious-looking car, a gold McLaren sports car that looks like a shiny easter egg. Hideous, just like the owner.

"Who is that guy, and why did he say you're his girl?"

I glance up after peering through the window, making sure he leaves. "I'm not. Not yet."

"What do y––"

"Long story. If he comes in again, let me know so I can hide in the bathroom and tell him I'm not here."

"Want me to kick his ass?"

"No!" He raises his brow at my outburst. "Look, he doesn't play by the rules, Adam. He's well-connected and has all the money and resources in the world to––" I trail off.

"To what."

I sigh in defeat. "To make shit disappear like rich people do. He hates Alaric. He's trying to mess with him by using me," I lie.

I'm not sure about anything. I don't know what to believe, but what Dorian said about his secretary and what Alaric told him about me felt like getting stabbed with a hundred knives. They all burned because the truth hurts. I have to marry Dorian.

"Fine, if he comes back. I'll make sure to tell you and ask him to leave."

"Thank you," I say nervously.

"No sweat."

After my shift, I take the last trash bag on my way out. I texted Alaric and told him that my shift would run a little later and not to pick me up. I want to confront him, but what would be the point? He would continue with his life, and I would be trapped in my hell or…I could run. I have money saved. They would vote, and all would be in agreement to end me. I’ve thought of it a lot this past week. I could just take a bus, leave and go somewhere far away, and not tell anyone. It would give me time. I always wanted to leave Kenyan and go somewhere warm like California. Maybe Texas.

I toss the trash bag in the huge bin and freeze. I blink hard a couple of times. The exit to the left and right are blocked by three men, all wearing plague masks. The first time I saw one on the bus, I thought I was dreaming, but it was real because six are standing right now like the people in the movie the Purge. Disturbing.

It's still dark at 4 a.m. Two lamp posts are the only lighting in the back of the restaurant, and no one comes back here. I look to my left and right, backing away toward the door. "What do you want?"

My palms are sweating, and my hands are shaking. I clutch my bag under my arm, knowing they are not here to mug me. They stand rooted to the spot, looking like human-sized birds. A spine-chilling fear grips me as they move forward in unison like walls closing me in. I can’t see their eyes. The eye sockets on the mask shine with the reflection of the lights. The black cloaks conceal their bodies. It could be anyone under those masks. They could kill me, and no one would know who did it. Tears prick my eyes.

"What do you want? I repeat.

Silence.

"Stop fucking with me!" I yell.

They shake their heads slowly, and my fear contorts to anger. "I'll fucking scream, and everyone will come out."

They don't respond. Bastards.

They keep walking toward me like they don't care if I scream for help or call 911. I reach into my bag, searching for my cell phone, trying to unlock it before pulling it out and dialing 911 while I scream at the top of my lungs. There are six of them and one of me. There is not much of a chance, and the back entrance to the restaurant is behind me. I would have to run screaming and dialing 911 all at the same time to give me a fighting chance.

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