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Who carries that kind of cash on them?
A guy who came to a club to buy sex. The question is, why did he give me so much and ask for so little in return? Dumbfounded, I look around the room that holds a large selection of sex toys and furniture.
All thoughts leave my mind momentarily when I catch my reflection in the mirror over the bar. Black mascara streaks down my cheek, my hair is unruly, and my dress is rumpled. I look like the way I feel. Used.
Using some napkins and water, I remove the smeared mascara as best as I can before running my fingers through my hair like a comb. Only when I look somewhat presentable do I dare to leave the room and make my way downstairs. I somehow hold on to the belief that no one will know what I just did. But as I step into the staircase, Toni and Bruno—two of our bouncers— both look at me with an unmistakable comprehension in their eyes.
Making my legs move faster, I hurry down the stairs just to come to a sudden halt when Lucian steps into my way.
“Were you with a guy up there?” He points at the top of the stairs like he doesn't already know the answer.
“You don’t have to rub it in my face, okay? You were right. I fucking did it.”
“I don’t give a shit about that, Monroe. Were you with a guy who had a red ribbon tied around his wrist?”
“Um, yeah.”
“Shit, did he hurt you?” I’m surprised by the genuine concern in his voice.
“No, why?”
Lucian looks around, making sure no one is listening to our conversation. “He killed someone in the side alley before going up with you.”
All air wooshes from my lungs. My head spins, and my stomach churns as I try to process Lucian’s words.
“You must be mistaken. It’s not true.”
“Monroe, the red ribbon means he works for the Lombardis. Do you know who they are?” He pauses, probably waiting for me to answer, but when I don’t, he continues. “They are bad news. They are the mob, Monroe. You can be glad you made it out of that room unharmed.”
The stack of money in my bra suddenly feels like a thousand-pound weight. Fuck, what did I do? I let a guy pay me for a blow job.
A guy who works for the mob. A killer. I almost gave my virginity to him.
And I don’t even know his fucking name.
3
Alaric
I don't get hung up on pussy.
It's one of my rules and a way for me to keep my head clear. I fuck women once, and that's fucking it. Relationships are for the weak. My dick, however, is not.
Yet a few days later, I find myself unable to think about anything but the dark-haired vixen who sucked my cock so clumsily it felt like it was her first time. If I didn't know any better, I'd be convinced she was new at this shit. But the fact that she was so eager to take my money makes me think otherwise. She needed that cash.
Over the past few days, curiosity has started blooming in my mind. I'm wondering what she's going to spend the money on. Probably expensive bags, clothes, whatever the fuck girls like her buy. I do my best to push Monroe out of my head and away from my mind. Yet my thoughts keep circling back to her, imagining her life and wondering what she does when she isn't mixing drinks at Purgatory.
I fight it. I do everything I can to get her out of my head, but Monroe holds on for dear life. Four days after our fucked-up little encounter, I've finally had enough. I'm going to give in. I'm going to find her and make sure she's not being a dumb little bitch with the money I gave her.
Finding her is easy enough. With just a couple of calls, I have her address.
I've made a business of staying in the shadows. My nondescript sedan means I remain unnoticed as I turn onto her street, and I don’t draw any extra attention from passersby. It's dark outside, dark and cool as the evening turns into night.
Monroe lives in a tiny house, one in a row of many on her street. She must share it with someone else, another girl who seems to be better off than Monroe. My little victim lives in the basement with a separate entrance. Her apartment looks fucking tiny. I'm guessing she makes a decent earning at Purgatory and could afford rent at a better place, so why the fuck is she living in this shit hole?
The girl is intriguing. My curiosity has piqued yet again, and I watch her come back home from a shift at Purgatory after midnight. She takes the basement entrance and lights a single bulb in her apartment. I watch her strip from her signature black dress and put on an oversized shirt to sleep in. My hands form fists, and I mutter a curse word under my breath. The girl isn't careful enough. She doesn't even shut the curtains to prevent some fucking creep from watching her change.
