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Under the weight of three pairs of eyes, my brain whizzes in a circle, trying and failing, to come up with anything good. I’m Penny, I’m a thief, and I set fire to a casino in Atlantic City because its owner forced me out of the state.
Yeah, that might be appropriate if I were trying to make friends in jail—which might be the case soon, considering Martin O’Hare knows the arsonist was a she. I’ve buried the panic under all my organs and refuse to turn on the television so it doesn’t get the chance to rear its ugly head.
“Uh, I’m Penny, I’m twenty-one, and I work onboard Signora Fortuna.”
Pathetic, I know.
“Ah, so you’re working with Rafe now,” Wren says, the twinkle in her eye hinting that she remembers our conversation from the hospital. “Do you think he’s a gentleman yet?”
Gentleman. That word is an emotional trigger these days, giving me flashbacks of muffled mouths, snapsof elastic, and silk-wrapped threats. I’m growing clammy under faux fur, so I slip off my coat and drape it over the back of the stool.
Rory grabs a fistful of peanut M&Ms, shoves a handful in her mouth, and slides the bowl over to me. “What’s it like working for my brother-in-law?”
I grit my teeth. “I barely see him.”
She laughs through rabbit-like crunches. “Really? ‘cause he sees you.”
Five words of little importance, and yet they sweep my next breath from my lungs. The smartest thing would be to say nothing, I know. But the itch in my throat won’t let that happen. “What do you mean?”
“The night I was on the yacht, he couldn’t take his eyes off you.”
My cheeks sting, putting a dent in my nonchalant facade. Thankfully, Wren lunges over, whacks Rory on the arm and says, “Stop it! She’s turning red.”
“Uh-huh,” Rory says with an all-knowing smirk. “Fine, change of subject. What’s it like working with the mean girls?”
I laugh, thankful for the change of subject. “Laurie’s nice, and so is Katie. But there’s this one girl…”
“Anna,” Rory and Wren say in unison, sharing an eye roll.
“You know her?”
“We went to school with her.” I frown. That’s strange. I’d think I’d recognize her too, then. “She was horrible then, horrible now.” Rory leans in, a secret swirling in her amber eyes. “Wanna know something cool?”
“Always.”
“Her front two teeth are fake.”
I blink. “Really?”
“She was bitching about me in the toilet of a club, and Tayce overheard. Punched them straight out of her mouth.”
They all laugh, and I turn to Tayce in surprise. She runs a thumb over the side of the card deck and hitches a shoulder. “Talk shit, get hit,” she says, breezily.
I stare at her for a beat too long, something between amusement and curiosity sitting in my stomach. Before I can put weight to it, Wren pipes up.
“Beer anyone?”
I nod, and her gaze narrows on me. “Did you drive here?”
“No?”
“Okay, good.”
She strides into the back room, and Rory meets my confused gaze with a smirk. She cocks her brow to a paper sign above the liquor wall, and I squint to read it. It’s yellowing, with curling corners, but I can just about make out the faint message:
More than two drinks will require handing over your car keys to a member of staff. No ifs, no buts, no exceptions.
The last line is in bold, underlined, and followed by a row of exclamation marks.
