Page 2 of Blindside Sinner

Life ain’t fair—that’s another one of those things people say. Usually not when it’s their life that’s treating them unfairly.

Ididn’t make the bad bets.Ididn’t sign for the bad loan from the violent loan shark. But here I am, paying for someone else’s mistake with every drop of blood and sweat and tears I have to give.

If I could, I’d leave. I’d walk away from this nightmare and forget I ever heard of the Bloodhound.Sayonara, asshole.

But men like him don’t play when it comes to money. So in the end, I get my ass in the shower and prepare to work myself to the bone once again.

When I step into Rusty’s nearly an hour later, it’s already packed with the beginning stages of the dinner rush. The old-school diner is a mix of old and new. Checkered floors, deep red vinyl booths that fit in snugly with the classic rock posters, and a jukebox blissfully unaware that the 80s are over.

Guests chat in their seats while Monroe ignores the man who is desperately trying to get her number as she fills drink orders.

Where Cassie is all love, light, and fairytales, my other bestie Monroe is equal parts darkness and sarcasm. Her box-dyed black hair is pulled back into a sleek ponytail, leaving her face and crimson lips in sharp relief. Dark eyes with thick eyeliner and even thicker lashes glare at the customers like they’re irritating the hell out of her, which is almost always the case. Even in the standard Rusty’s uniform of a checkered button-down and a pair of ripped black jeans, Monroe Vale oozes attitude.

I adore her.

“Hey, babe,” I call, ducking through the kitchen to drop off my bags. I keep the apron with me and tie it around my waist.

“Why are you here?” she replies.

“Can’t a girl come into her favorite job early?” I tease.

She gives me a look that says,I’m not a moron, so don’t treat me like one.“You need money,” she deadpans.

“Yep.” I creep closer and lower my voice so it doesn’t travel past our section of the restaurant. “I’ve got to make a payment tonight.”

As expected, Monroe just nods. She points over at the schedule with one red-tipped finger. “Ashley called out sick today. Add yourself to the roster and clock in. I’ve already got almost everyone’s order in, so finish her side work before the food’s up and you can take over her tables.”

“Thank you!” I grab her face and plank a smacking kiss to her cheek.

She swats at me sourly, though it’s all a big act. She’s a teddy bear inside. “Get to work, foul beastie.” Monroe pauses with the full drink tray in hand and jerks her chin behind me at something I can’t see. “Oh, and you get the drunk girl.”

She struts off, cackling like the Wicked Witch of the West. I flash a middle finger at her back—all out of love, of course—and then turn around to see what kind of disaster she’s dropped in my lap.

I’m not particularly surprised to see the kind of woman who’s plastered across the countertop. Her glossy ash blonde hair is fanned all over, including a thick lock dumped into a cup of coffee. Her clothes look tailored and new, but I’m too busy hoping she isn’t drooling all over the counter to care.

I clock in and finish fastening my apron around my waist before I slink over to check on the drunk lady.

“Uh, ma’am? Can I get you anything? Water, soda…?”

“A new life,” she mumbles.

I can only laugh at that. “If you find somewhere to buy that, let me know. I could use one myself.”

I fill a large water and set it in front of her before I grab what I need to wrap the silverware and restock napkins. I set myself up close enough to watch her while I work without crowding her space. I mostly want to make sure she doesn’t choke on her own vomit à la Jimi Hendrix.

It’s quiet, simple work for a while. The best kind. I try not to think when I get moments like these. Just let my brain drift off peacefully for a while.“Screensaver mode,”I call it.

All of which is to say that I’m way off in La La Land when I turn my head and see the drunk woman staring right at me. I have to stifle a scream.

“My boss called me into his office this afternoon to tell me that I have a new client starting immediately,” she informs me.

“Oh. Uh-huh.” I’m only half listening to her.

“The client is my ex.”

I cringe at that. “I don’t even have many exes, but there isn’t enough money in the world to make me want to work with a single one of them.”

She blinks slowly for a moment. Not that what I said was so hard to process, but like she’s sifting through me in search of something. What that something is, I have no idea.

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