Deep down I know I remind her of the daughter she lost to drug addiction a few years back. My heart aches for her and in time we’ve bonded over our life losses. It’s sad if you think about it too long, so I keep my eye on my own problems. Rent and surviving long enough to work up a better life plan.
No one is born wanting to be a below minimum wage waitress in a diner with dingy windows that offer a bleaker future, but I’m working with the cards karma and life flung my way. On the good days, which are far and few, much to my disappointment, I dream about working part-time and paying my way through college, but most days reality sets me straight, so I take one step at a time.
I’ve worked a double shift for the past five days and my throbbing, aching feet are letting me know I’ve reached my limit, but I shove down the pain and push on. I can’t afford not to. I grit my teeth past the stabbing pain in my heels and screaming calves and shove aside the fact I’m three days late on rent again. This time I might not have a home to return to even if I do manage to make the last four dollars in tips I need.
My last name might be Kane, but that is as close to wealthy and privileged as I’ll ever get. My father made sure of that. Believe it or not, before I took my first breath twenty years ago, the man who knocked my mother up disowned me, and I’ve been fighting for my place on this earth ever since.
Ask anyone and they’ll agree he got the better end of the stick. A great one-night stand with a beautiful escort while my mother paid the ultimate price of death trying to raise a child on her own. It’s painful to think that my mother was no more than a plaything so easily tossed aside by the high and mighty Supreme Court Judge of Illinois, Judge William Kane. I doubt she even earned an afterthought from him. For reasons beyond my understanding, she didn’t see it worth forcing him to support a child he didn’t want.
Both were wrong and I am left living with the consequences of their actions.
After my mother passed from complications of the heart a little before my eighth birthday, I bounced around from one home to another until I finally took my fate in my own hands, skipped out on my last foster home at the age of seventeen and now live it up as a waitress by night and most likely by day if I’m lucky to grab a second shift. Bless Sally’s seventy-year-old heart, to top it off, the outfit I wear more than my own small collection of clothing is made of scratchy polyester the color of mustard.
I rub at the spot between my brows, trying to ward off a coming headache with not much luck. God, what I’d do for a solid straight eight hours of sleep, but I would have better luck spotting a freaking unicorn running down main street right now.
“Kat, you’re up.”
The cook bellows my name through the small portal window where they place the trays for me to deliver, and I push off the wall I’ve been leaning against for the past few minutes watching the news. I take the plates and deliver them, welcoming another diner pushing through the door and grabbing the closest booth. “What can I get you tonight?”
He says something, but I don’t hear his reply. My mind is too busy trying to catch up with what I hear coming from the TV.
With my mouth wide open, I stare across the half-empty tables and booths as the news anchor’s familiar face cuts to a picture of a man in a black robe with a familiar set of whiskey-colored eyes.
My father. I might not have a connection with him but I have the internet and can google with the best of them, so I immediately recognize the set of brown eyes with a unique shade of amber I happen to share with the man.
But that isn’t what has tears stinging my eyes or my heart lurching on the floor by my feet among the crumbs and crumpled napkins.
Someone cranks the volume up a few notches.
“In a shocking twist, this evening sitting Supreme Court Judge William Kane has been found shot to death in his home. Officials have ruled out suicide and are currently investigating what they believe is a murder. Once thought untouchable, Judge Kane has reportedly fallen from grace in recent months with allegations of taking bribes from local organized crime. Maybe in death the truth will finally come to light. He's survived by one daughter…in other news—”
Dead.
Chills run through me.
My father is dead.
I stare at the TV anchor who delivers the news with practiced matter-of-fact coldness her job requires, but the words sting all the same. Just as the TV screen switches to a reel of my father presiding over some big wig murder trial from back in the day when he had more hair and less weight going for him, I see an even more shocking image. A picture of me snapped at some point by someone. I’m standing outside our local community college on a rare day off at the beginning of last fall. I’d splurged a little, crossed town and checked out the school I wanted to attend once I could afford the time off it would require. Back then I had shorter hair compared to now. That day I opted for an artful twist up-do and looked every bit the college student ready to tackle the world.
I am not entirely convinced of what I’m looking at so I reach up and rub my eyes. “What the hell?” The headache I hoped would wait until I clocked out thunders through my brain and bounces off the side of my head, causing tears to sting my eyes. Why? I don’t know but I can’t help the sudden rush of utter despair.
I can feel the diner’s eyes fall on me, but I don’t make eye contact. I can’t. Hiding among the masses of people and blending in is my specialty. Now I feel like a spotlight is shining down on me, and all I want to do is run and hide. Now everyone knows just how unwanted I truly am.
Ice runs through my veins about as fast as molasses uphill, and my thoughts jumble in a tangle of knots as each one freezes. I tighten my fingers around my pen and notepad trying to refocus my eyes, but a full body numbness takes over until I can’t feel the paper in my hands or the pain of losing my last parent, bastard or not.
“Miss, did you hear me? The house special.” His words are clipped, rugged like he gargled sand on a nightly basis.
A rough hand clamps down on mine when I don’t answer and I jump, pulling my gaze off the TV to look at a man with a jagged line slashing through his left eyebrow and cheek. My attention falls to meet a set of eyes so dark they appear black. It could have been a trick of the eye from the dim lighting or smudged windows blocking out the shine of the parking lot lamps, but the newcomer has a look about him that creeps me out. I jerk my hand back and do my best to hide the tremble in my fingers as I scribble the order down trying my best for normal of what passes for it.
Unlike the normal customer of the everyday joe at this hour, this one wore all black. But that wasn’t the odd detail. What made him stand out was the leather coat in the ninety-degree summer weather. But hey, each whack job to their own. Right? I am only here to serve coffee. Judging others seems a little on the hypocritical side, and I don’t need any more bad juju coming my way.
“Uh, yeah. Yeah. Sorry Got it. Um…house special: coffee and apple pie. Will that be all?” I try not to sound rushed but the crank of his scarred eyebrow screams I need more practice at the whole not giving a shit act I am trying to pull off.
He gives me the once over, stopping a little too long on my cleavage before giving me a gruff grunt of approval.
Freak.
Rain begins to pelt the windows and I take the small little interruption as my cue to step away as I scribbled the order and turn toward the back, but I only make it a couple of steps when the words finally break through the fog of too many hours on my feet.
My father is dead.
Out of a million things I should do right now I stand there like a corpse, unmoving, the signals between my brain and legs severed along the way somewhere. I don’t know how long I stand there trying to breathe and not pass out.
“Sweetie, you okay?”
Sally comes out of the back room, wraps her arms around my shoulders and pulls me in for a tight hug. I block out the laughter from the teens in the back and a pair of newcomers wanting their menus. Someone else can take care of
them for a change.
“C’mon, sweetie, talk to me.” Sally shakes my shoulders a little, jarring me back to reality.
“Uh, yeah, I think so. I mean the man might as well be a stranger to me.” But deep inside in a part that I shut off for the most part, stings with a pang of regret that churns my stomach. “I thought if I could make something of myself he would want me.” I lift a shoulder in a defeated shrug. “But now I’ll never get that chance. I’ll never know.” It takes all the effort I have left in me not to break down in the middle of Sally’s diner.
The one friend I have in this world pulls me over to the side and away from prying eyes. “Stop that. You don’t need a man like him in your life. Now take a deep breath and steel those nerves, baby girl.”
“You’re right. I know. Fairy-tales are made for books. Got it.” I wipe at the few tears that escape and take comfort in my friend’s nearness. A kind smile pulls at the lips of the much older woman, and all the weathered lines she tries to hide behind mounds of makeup crinkle. That small token of kindness helps me fight my way out of the cobwebs of pain.
Her warm gaze holds mine. “A father is a father, Kat. Bastard or not. This news can’t be easy, I know. I’m not trying to be a hardass. But I don’t think the man deserves a second thought. But you’re young and a lot more soft-hearted than I am. Tell ya what. Why don’t you go on home and take off tomorrow to regroup, huh? How does that sound? I’ll call in a couple of girls to help out until you can come back.”
Her idea sounds like the million-dollar jackpot, but just like winning the lottery sounds too good, so does Sally’s idea. “I can’t afford the time off, but thank you. After I finish my shifts I’ll have enough time between then and tomorrow’s shifts to pull myself together. You’re right. He doesn’t deserve my grief.” Naturally, I work a small smile on my face for Sally’s benefit to show I believe my own words.
Sally is the only one who knows my true identity and who my father is. Or at least did. Now the whole damn city knows I’m the unwanted bastard child of the shitty judge not man enough to own up to the daughter he fathered.
I shove aside the unwanted nostalgia for what could have been in some fairy-tale version of my life and finish out my shifts a full hour after official closing time. Fridays are normally the busiest and tonight didn’t disappoint. I pull out my phone and send a quick text to my landlord letting him know I have rent and a bonus for the wait. Hopefully, that will keep my stuff on the inside of the apartment instead of stacked up on the outside for anyone to rummage through.
I stumble out of the diner into the cold, drizzling rain and the pitch-black of the wee hour welcomes me as soon as I step out of range from the diner’s lights. If my feet were aching at the beginning of my double shift, that pain doesn’t compare to the swollen throbbing ache I’m feeling now. I am sorely tempted to hail a cab to drive me the ten blocks to my apartment, but I need every cent of the tidy sum I earned tonight.
I am so dead on my feet that I don’t see the black silhouette of a man appear beside me until he’s in my face. A scream sticks in my throat and adrenaline shoots through my veins until my heart is nearly pounding outside of my chest.
“The boss wants to see you.” He grunts in that same sandpaper, gravelly voice.
Oh fuck.
I squint into the darkness and catch a hint of his expression which sits between a mix of deadpanned and grim, then again with that puckered, jagged scar running through his brow the look might be more of a permanent situation than any kind of emotion. Too bad for me I didn’t recognize the voice or the scar before a set of beefy hands clamp down on my arms. A black SUV with blacker windows rolls up beside us, and I’m shoved into the back before I can fight or reach for the can of unused pepper spray tucked away in the pocket of my uniform.
Panic kicks in as the thug slides in beside me and I’m about to land my foot in his jaw when I catch a warning in his eye that has me freezing. The hand on his gun does a pretty good job of that too.
I’m not stupid nor do I have a death wish. In hindsight, maybe that cab ride home would have been the smarter option after all.
I try my best not to show how freaked out and scared I feel nor be paralyzed by fear. It’s a razor’s edge I’m skating along as I scoot across the leather and position myself against the opposite door and as far away from the leather-clad thug as possible. I glance over my shoulder to find the back of the SUV filled with something that looks like a tarp, but in the darkness I can’t tell. I’m putting two and two together here and while my mental math isn’t always spot on, goons plus guns equal bodies, so I’m going with that being a big wad of plastic to wrap me in when they finish.
Not so great. They are going to kill me, wrap me up and dump me in some landfill. My mind races with a reason behind all this, and I’m pulling up a big fat blank.
“So, huh, this boss of yours…he…huh, give you that nasty scar or did you face plant on a machete?” I catch a twitch of the thug’s upper lip in the street lights as we speed off in what direction I have no idea. I’m too busy keeping an eye on the guy’s hand clamping down on something inside his trench coat. Unlucky for me I tend to get a little mouthy when I’m scared, and this time it might get me in more trouble than I already am. For what, I guess I’m about to find out.
Continue reading Hard Irish Mobster Available Now!
RED HOT SERIES
Red Hot Christmas Virgin
Red Hot Naughty Vixen
Red Hot Dirty Rebel
STANDALONES
Unwrapping His Christmas Virgin
Guarding Their Valentine
Hard Irish Mobster
Dirty Little Blackmailer
DIRTY LITTLE DARES
The Professors’ Sweet Treat
The Professor’s Bought Bride
The Professor’s Sweet Virgin
HAREM OF THREE
Mercy for Three
Honor for Three
HER SAVAGE MOUNTAIN MEN
Her Savage Mountain Man
Claimed by Her Mountain Man
MAGICALLY MATED
Mated by the Alpha
Forever Mated
Cuffed and Mated
Twice Mated – Nov 15th
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About the Author
Penelope Wylde is the dirty-talking, sometimes sweet and most-times naughty alter ego of a rebellious Southern belle who loves writing smutty, sexy romances that are quick and extra filthy.
She lives in the South where she enjoys reading and keeping up with her own personal harem of alphalicious hotties.
Wylde readers like it naughty, a bit sweet and always with a wicked happily-ever-after and Penelope always delivers. No matter what you're in the mood for, all her heroes are bad boy sinners at heart and brings enough heat to melt your heart and your panties.
If you love your romance wet, wicked, and WYLDE, you're in the right place!
www.PenelopeWylde.com
Copyright Notice
Copyright © 2019 by Author Penelope Wylde. All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, email to [email protected]
http:/www.penelopewylde.com
Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometim
es used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
Edited by Em Petrova
Cover Designer: Bookin’ It Designs
Cuffed and Mated Page 7