Page 7 of Blindside Sinner

“Got it. Steer clear unless on official business.”

“Precisely. Beck has a personal chef that comes in three times a week to deliver groceries and prep food. She’ll deliver your groceries, too, but she’s not your cook. If you want anything special or have any allergies, text Karla. Her number’s on your phone already. Then there’s…”

As Vivian drones on with more instructions, I tune her out. The apartment is a dream come true. For the first time ever, no one knows where I live except my closest and most trusted friends. I left no forwarding address at my last apartment. I don’t even care that I forfeited the security deposit when I broke the lease early.

This place, this job? It feels like a fresh start.

It feels like a step toward my future.

I tune back into Vivian’s monologue at the perfect time. “I know this all moved fast, so I’ve already transferred a signing bonus to your account. It should be enough to keep you going until your first paycheck comes in, but if not, let me know.”

Signing bonus?I have to stop myself from screaming. Holy hell. Thisisthe promised land. “Oh, wow. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. I’m sure you want to unpack, so I’ll let you get settled.”

I nearly snort at the idea of unpacking my stuff. The few items I have are barely enough to fill the trunk of my car. I’ve already sold everything else.

“You start with Beck first thing tomorrow. He has morning skate at 6:00 A.M. Take one of the cars downstairs and drive him in. The address is?—”

“In my phone?”

Vivian smiles. “You’re catching on. That thing is your lifeline. Don’t lose it. It’s already set up, so you just need to put a good password on it—and I meangood.”

She hands over the keys to the apartment and the codes to the house and gates. Then she’s gone in a cloud of too-floral perfume.

And I’m alone in my new place for the first time.

“Welcome home,” I mutter to myself.

I flop onto the soft couch and nearly scream as it swallows me whole.

Vivian was right. I’m definitely not in Kansas anymore.

4

BECK

My alarm refuses to shut the fuck up.

I thought I broke it for good when I punched it after it went off for the third time in a row. But it looks like lucky number four is what it’ll take today.

WHACK.

That does it. Plastic circuit boards crunch. Music to my ears. When it finally stops screaming, I crack my eyes open.

The room is dark and silent other than the faint snores of the woman beside me. What was her name again? I don’t remember, and also, it doesn’t really matter. I don’t bother memorizing the details of the women who warm my bed anymore—my “conquests,” as Dixon calls them, complete with an obnoxious fake British accent to really sell it.

This one does have some nice tits, though.

I sniff myself. Not great. I’m gonna have to shower if I want to retain any hope of not walking into morning skate smelling like a distillery that just got laid.

I try to sit up. The world immediately lurches to one side and my head throbs. That’s when I know I’m in for a rough day.

“Fuck this,” I grumble. “I’m calling in sick.”

“You’re not sick—you’re hungover.”

My brows furrow and my hungover brain whirrs as it tries to figure out who the hell just spoke to me. The voice is soft, but the way it shoots through me is like nothing else.

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