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"Hey! You!" Several someones spill out of the car, tall men dressed in fine suits. Their clothing looks like they cost morethan the limo itself. I let my gaze slide away, and I hurry to make it across the street.
A hand grabs me, turning me.
"You're pretty. I'm good to slum it; you wanna make an easy hundred?" My eyes meet his. Tanned skin, from vacationing on warm beaches or surfing, surrounds dark brown eyes. His hair is bleached blond, and there's a diamond in one of his teeth, a vulgar display of wealth, especially here in NoHo, where the average income couldn't even buy a single diamond for an engagement ring.
He grins at me, wide, the diamond sparkling in the lamp-light. My heart tightens in my chest, and I freeze as he reaches to cup my chin in his hand.
The contact of his skin on mine has me gasping, and I yank away.
"Don't!" The word hiccups in my throat as I stumble, and my back hits a warm, solid chest. Two hands descend onto my shoulders, and I tilt my head backward, mouth opening in surprise.
"Well, this is a nice birthday present," a liquid molten voice pours over me, and for a second, it's like the whole world has fallen away.
He's good-looking, criminally so, green eyes glinting with amusement, even with me looking at him upside down.
My breath hitches in my chest.
"What's your name?" He asks, my cheeks going warm.
"Hey, hands off!" Tom has woken up that not all is right outside Revenge, and he's off his barstool, walking toward us.
I pull away from the guy holding onto me, the world surging back into place around me, sounds blurring back into the present.
"She bumped into us, probably trying to get a settlement from the marquis," the first man says, and I try to escape the crowd, their suits formidable and forbidding. "And who are you to talk to the Marquis of Hollywood like that?"
"Don't name-drop; it's classless," the man who'd held me last, the one with the green eyes, says as I push through bodies and turn to glance at him.
I can still feel his hands on me.
He winks. At me. I shiver. The crosswalk squawks one final warning, and I take off running.
"Let's slum it tonight, lads!" An accented voice crows, and I realize it's a crowd of all high-born men, titled, wealthy, useless. They must be hosting someone from the English monarchy with them.
I dart across the street, breathing hard as I get to the other side. There's a noise behind me, and I duck behind a low wall, trying to catch my breath. It sounds like there's going to be a fight. I want to get home. I know Erica'll be okay. She can roll with the best of them, and she doesn't take shit, even from the high-born.
The streets are nearly deserted as I make my way home, and I fall into bed after texting Erica to make sure she's okay. She sends me a smiley face back, and I let my eyes close, relief and sleep washing over me.
Morning cracks like an egg,and I beetle out of my single-room apartment and get laundry started, leafing through some newspapers and magazines left there by other residents as reading material.
MARQUESS IN A MESS, the headline blares from the front of a glossy magazine. My fingers go still on the cover, my eyes widening. My pulse trips over itself as my heart jumps into my throat.
The man from last night. The one who'd said I was a birthday present with the liquid-gold voice and the green eyes.
There he is, right on the cover, at some red-carpet event, clearly out of his mind because he's got his hand in the front of a woman's dress, yanking it down for all to see. They've censored the picture, but they can't censor his grin. He's got a wild look on his face like he knows he can do whatever he wants and get away with it.
What the hell was he doing in NoHo last night, at Shake's Revenge, of all places?
Slumming it? My face burns with anger, and I slam the magazine into the trash as I leave the laundry room. I've got more chores to do, and I'm not going to sit around waiting for my clothes to wash. They're not at risk until the dry cycle when Mr. Jameson goes on his panty hunt.
Something's different as I turn the corner of the building and walk into the covered walkway that leads to the courtyard andmy door.
A piece of white paper sticks out, lifting and falling, flapping in the light morning breeze.
It's a notice from my landlord. And I know exactly what it is. My heart sinks as I stare up at the rent renewal notice slapped on my front door. I'm covered in laundry-room dust and want to shower off, although the prospect of fighting the roaches in my cracked shower stall is not good. I swallow hard and pull the notice down with shaking fingers. The envelope is taped to the aging and flaking paint, and it pulls off a strip with it when I take it down.
Great. I hope they don't bill that to my damage deposit.
The AC has been off all day while I worked, and the heat hits me like I've just opened an oven when I step inside. Throwing open the windows and trying to make my place more livable, I finally stop procrastinating and open the dreaded envelope. My heart immediately drops beyond just seeing the stupid thing minutes before.
