Tempting Devil: Sinners and Saints Book 2

by Eden, Veronica

  Once I’ve given myself thirty seconds to feel fragile and vulnerable, I swallow and return to Mom’s side.

  The drive isn’t long. The cheery holiday decor going up around Ridgeview for December is at odds with the knots in my stomach. Our destination is in the middle of town.

  At the front desk, the receptionist is sweet. She takes Mom into a different area while I fill in forms and fork over my cash. The thick wad makes my hands shake.

  “Ah, I’m sorry, Miss Davis,” the receptionist interrupts me as I’m signing the emergency contact form. “You’re short. This won’t cover the clinic’s program we talked about.”

  Dread spears into my gut and sinks it down. I rub my forehead. “Uh, okay. How much more…?”

  “Without insurance this will cover two nights.”

  I keep my eyes from bulging by sheer force. Jesus fuck, that’s a lot of money I handed over.

  “Okay.” My voice wavers. “I’ll, um. I’ll be back with the rest in a couple of days.”

  Panic surges in my chest. I need money and I need it now.

  Forty-One

  Blair

  There’s no choice. If I don’t do something to get money immediately, Mom’s health is in serious danger.

  The drive back to the trailer passes in a blur as my thoughts race.

  My options are knocking over a couple of convenience stores near the interstate, hoping they have enough in the register, or the one line I’ve never been willing to cross. At least…not for anyone but Devlin. My broken heart pangs with a twinge thinking about him.

  I can’t believe I’m back to the same spot I was in months ago. Except stealing Devlin’s car won’t fly this time.

  When I get home, I sit there, digging my nails into the steering wheel.

  Time’s ticking, little thief.

  I hate my inner voice. Why does it always sound like Devlin?

  With a bitten off sound, I storm inside. I run my fingers through my hair a few times, tucking everything into a tightly protected box. When I feel numb, I do what I have to.

  It takes twenty minutes. I stop in front of the mirror I’ve been avoiding since I got dressed, rubbing my fingertips together. I’m afraid to look, but I do it anyway, forcing myself to face what I’m doing head on. It’s the only way to put my mental armor in place.

  The makeup I applied is thicker than usual, my eyes rimmed in black winged liner to make them appear bigger. An unamused smile stretches my plump red lips. Devlin would say I finally fit the cat burglar vibe with the winged style.

  My hair falls around my shoulders, partially covering the sheer mesh top with tiny dots. The black lace bra is visible beneath it. I picked out a short leather skirt and the only pair of tights I own—they’re sheer gray with a few holes, but they’ll keep me warmer from the chill in the air. None of my coats give off enough sex appeal, so I opt for a thick long cardigan.

  As I stare at the new phoenix I’ve morphed into, I tuck away the idealistic little girl inside who cries for crossing this line.

  Bracing my hands on either side of the mirror leaning against the wall, I give myself a pep talk. “Buck the hell up. Life’s not going your way. What the fuck else is new?”

  I take the bus into town, too nervous I’ll give into temptation to hop back in my car if I have an easy exit. The bus driver gives me a sidelong glance full of pity when she takes in the ripped tights and the sheer top peeking out of the collar of the cardigan I grasp closed. A man that gets on at the next stop leers at me, taking his time dragging his disgustingly open gaze up my legs.

  By the time I get off the bus, my heart thuds. All around me, Ridgeview is bursting with holiday cheer. I pass a shop window on the main street with painted holly leaves and a scene of snow on the mountains decorating the display. Early birds and planners mill up and down the block, weighed down by shopping bags and packages purchased in time for the holidays. It doesn’t click in my head that people can be so happy and festive when my entire world is crumbling.

  Each step on the pavement clacks, echoing from the heels I snagged from Mom’s closet. It’s the soundtrack to my panicked plan.

  I shiver as the breeze blows. It’s cold out. The tights and cardigan don’t do as much as I’d hoped to protect me from the wind.

  “Damn it,” I mutter, jogging a little toward my destination to warm my body.

  The problem with jogging is it brings me to where I’m going too quickly.

  Ash and acid creep up my throat as I approach the dark corner on the outskirts of the main strip in the middle of Ridgeview. It’s known for sex workers, near enough to draw customers and secluded by the darkness enveloping the narrow, forbidden street.

  I hesitate for a long moment a few feet before I reach the corner. There’s a bustling cafe to my left. It would be so easy to slip inside the warm shop and forget about this harebrained idea.

  This is insane. I’m eighteen and a scholarship student. I tug the cardigan tighter, gritting my teeth.

  I’m a scared girl with no other options.

  Steeling myself for how excruciating this will be, I make my feet move, walking to the dark corner. Men like the one on the bus will come here. With any luck, after a night of this I can figure out how girls end up as Sugar Babies or an escort. This town is full of rich upper class residents. They have to pay better.

  It’s hard to swallow past the lump in my throat as I pass two women near the entrance to the street. My skin crawls as I hear a faint moan further down, in the dark shadows. My limbs are jittery and stiff as I clomp along in my mom’s heels.

  Other workers look at me with understanding, sympathy, solidarity in their gazes.

  A sharp breath catches in my throat as I find an open spot. Surreptitiously, I peek at one of the women nearby for an idea of what to do, how to stand so I don’t scream newbie.

  With monumental effort, I unclamp my clawed hands from my cardigan, allowing it to fall open and droop off one of my shoulders. The icy chill whips up my legs, moving over my belly. I smother a shiver and cant my hip to the side when a car turns down the street in a sedate roll. The other workers on the block prowl, some even calling out to the car.

  Over here, honey.

  Want a good time?

  Right here, baby, I’ll give you what you need.

  My stomach revolts. It’s all I can do to keep my sexy pout in place. Well, I hope it’s a sexy pout and not a hint at the riot going on inside me.

  The car stops and a girl that doesn’t seem much older than me leans into the car with a smug smirk as she talks to the pudgy middle-aged man behind the wheel.

  I twist my fingers in and out of the edge of the cardigan, wringing it into a stretched out shape. God, I wish I hadn’t fought with Devlin right now. The broken heart I’ve been nursing without any sign of recovery gives a sad thump in agreement, as if it’s saying ya think, dummy?

  It never felt like I was selling my body to Devlin.

  The money he exchanged to touch me was…different. Like it was his excuse to get close to me. Even if all of it was a lie, my feelings were real. They still are.

  Enduring Devlin’s storm was easier than the hell I’m sinking into tonight.

  A familiar sounding engine tears my gaze toward the main street. My pulse ratchets fiercely as I keep my eyes peeled for the red Porsche.

  Is he—?

  The rev of the engine turns faint, driving away. My heart sinks.

  Two more cars drive slow down the shadowed street, pulling sex workers out of the woodwork as they sell their wares—angling their bodies, puckering their lips, and flashing a teasing peek of bare thigh to the Johns.

  I’m working up the courage to talk to the girls near me when a car rolls to a stop not far from my spot. The car is nice, a gunmetal gray with bright halogen headlights. When the window rolls down, the John waves me over with two fingers. Horribly, my mind flashes with a memory of my dad doing that same move.

  “Come over here,” the John calls in a gruff,
authoritative baritone.

  My pulse thunders in my ears and my palms turn clammy. I force air into my lungs, ignoring that my whole body feels cold. Unlocking my trembling knees, I take an unsteady step. Terror mixed with determination wars inside me, but my survival mode kicks on to shut up the side of myself I’m betraying.

  I can’t see inside the car past the tinted windows, but he’s resting an arm on the open window. The crisp dress shirt looks expensive.

  Please, please, please have a lot of money and no kinky requests.

  Maybe the magic of the stars I used to wish on is finally kicking in and I’ve been sent a Sugar Daddy who will only want me to sit around doing my homework in my underwear. Looking, but never touching. Yeah right.

  I wonder if this is what organ failure feels like as I trip on a crack in the curb. I wobble on the heels as I take stiff steps to close the short distance between me and the car.

  The John isn’t awful looking, so there’s that. He has thick dark eyebrows, a square jaw, and a natural frown. He peers at me with clear blue eyes and I jolt into action, leaning against the open window.

  “Uh, hi. Hi,” I repeat, correcting my strained tone into something approaching sultry.

  The John’s eyes drop to where my hands clutch his open window in a death grip. His brow twitches and I jump back.

  “Sorry. What, um,” I’m totally fucking this up, but the nerves wracking my system are making it hard to think on my feet, “What do you like?”

  The John stares at me for another beat, the silence stretching.

  Fuck! Get it together!

  Sucking in a subtle breath so I don’t puke, I flutter my lashes and peek through them, biting the corner of my lip. Hopefully no red lipstick ends up on my teeth. I trace down the column of my neck, across my minimal cleavage—thank you, single push up bra from the back of my closet—down the sheer material showing off my stomach, and tuck my fingers in the top of my leather skirt.

  “Want a good time?”

  A grumbling sigh sounds from the John. He gives me another once over. “What do you offer?”

  Shit. I didn’t work up the courage to get a list of services from the other sex workers in the middle of my freak out.

  “Ah, anything you want.” The breathy voice I use makes me roll my eyes internally. I twirl a lock of hair around my finger. “See something you like?”

  He taps his fingers on his thigh. “I haven’t seen you around here before.”

  Translation: my fake it til I make it bravado isn’t cutting it. I’ve got first timer written all over me.

  I give him a girlish giggle, flapping my hand. “I’m here all the time. But if it’s your first time, I’ll be good for you.”

  Pouring acid on my tongue would hurt less than uttering those words.

  The John hums skeptically. “You look pretty young. How old are you?”

  I can’t stop my eyes from widening. My nails dig into my palms. “Twenty-one,” I lie, even though I’m not underage. “Want to go for a drink first to loosen up? Then we can go somewhere private. Um, like a hotel.”

  “Right.” The John doesn’t buy that for a second. He opens his door and steps out. He’s tall, cutting an imposing figure in a dress shirt, tie, and charcoal slacks. Propping a hand on the roof, he leans into my space. I shrink back instinctually. Something shifts in his gaze and he nods. “That’s what I thought.”

  “About my age?”

  “Miss, you’re under arrest for solicitation and prostitution.”

  My stomach drops. What?! I blink, faking a confident laugh. “I bet you play that with all the girls. Listen, if you want to use restraints, that’s extra.” I’m on a roll now, creating a whole story. I mime rubbing my wrists. “The last time a guy used handcuffs on me, it chaffed like a bitch.”

  He grants me an unimpressed look. “I’m not kidding. I don’t really want to handcuff you, but I will if you resist arrest. Get in the car.”

  Another laugh leaves me, this one far less confident, tinged with dread. “If you’re a cop, where’s your badge?”

  “Off duty.” He checks his watch, sighing like I’ve caused him a huge inconvenience. “And late for a steak dinner I’ve been looking forward to.”

  “I want to see your badge.”

  With a grumbled mutter, he fishes out his wallet and opens it, flashing me the badge. Darting a suspicious glance at him, I snatch it, bringing it close to inspect if it’s fake. It says Ridgeview Police Dept. across the top and Chief at the bottom, sending my stomach into panicked roiling.

  “It’s real.” He takes it back, slipping the wallet in his pocket.

  The fucking chief of police. Oh god, I’m screwed.

  “I’m not going with you.” An uncomfortable tightness sits on my lungs. I stumble back a step, losing my balance when my heel catches a loose rock in the road. “I need, ah—!”

  He catches me before I fall with big, sturdy hands. Before I can get away, he gently pins my arms behind my back and guides me into the car.

  “Wait, no, please,” I ramble as he deposits me on the leather seat.

  The officer blocks me in, leaning against the roof with a sigh. “Look, we’re going to make it quick and easy, okay? You’re a little older than my daughter, and I hate having to arrest the younger ones. I won’t cuff you, but in exchange you’re going to cooperate. Deal?”

  A boulder-sized lump gets stuck in my throat when I try to swallow down the panic. “Will I go to jail?”

  The cop doesn’t answer. He frowns and shuts the car door, getting in the front seat.

  As we drive toward the station, I chew on my nails. I failed. Hot tears slide down my cheeks.

  I’m finally out of tricks. This time there’s no smooth getaway.

  Forty-Two

  Blair

  The light in the Ridgeview police station is too bright, making it impossible to hide from my failed plan. I caught a quick glimpse of myself in a mirror when the police chief brought me in. My stomach plummeted at the way I looked—exposed, destitute, desperate.

  This is what I get for selling my soul.

  A night in a holding cell by myself, too cold, tired, and out of options.

  One of my cuticles bleeds from chewing on the nail. I keep picking at it. The sting reminds me I’m here and alive while time seems to tick by slowly and at a rapid rate, all at once. I have no way to tell what time it is. Like a casino, there’s no window and no clock.

  Let the good times roll…

  Except all it does is leave me with my bleak thoughts.

  Devlin would call it psychological by design, a tactic to let the criminals stew in the cage until they were ready to crack under pressure.

  Scoffing, I curl up on the hard bench, tucking my bony knees to my chest. I lean my forehead against them, thumping my head with my eyes screwed tight. It doesn’t change my surroundings when I open my eyes.

  The concrete wall and iron bars with chipped white paint close in from all sides, distilling a sense of no escape. There isn’t a plastic spoon in sight.

  A hollow laugh puffs out of me, shaking my shoulders. I rub my arms, wishing the guard had let me keep my sweater. This sheer top does nothing to keep me warm.

  Squeezing myself, I worry about Mom. What will I do? The clinic needs the money by tomorrow to keep her spot. Damn it, I shouldn’t have gone to the streets. Devlin’s cage was far cushier.

  If only I wasn’t so full of stubborn pride, pissed off about the contract.

  The only noise in the echoing room comes from me. If I strain my ears, I can’t catch any sounds drifting through the heavy door separating the holding cell area from the maze of the station beyond the hall. I imagine this is exactly what purgatory feels like. Harsh fluorescent lighting, hard seats, and a vacuum seal on the room that leaves you alone with your thoughts and your begging cries once the desperation takes root.

  A wobbly sob gets caught in my throat, hiccuping to the surface out of nowhere. A deep sense of despair fills me as
I wish for some way out of this.

  Come on, stars. For once, please, just…do your thing.

  I tuck my tender, nail-bitten fingers underneath my bent knees, willing the wave of emotion to subside. Something Dad used to say pops into my head. Crying is for quitters. My lip curls in a fierce snarl.

  I’m no fucking quitter. He’s the deadbeat quitter.

  There’s no time for tears. If I don’t get out of here soon, Mom will be in trouble. I can cry when I’ve clawed my way out of this mess.

  What will you do?

  That familiar, snarky voice needs to get the hell out of my head. With his voice comes thoughts of other things, like the shape of his full lips when he’s pleased, the way he curls around me in bed, and the way his kisses steal my breath.

  “Ugh, you freaking sap,” I mutter, tipping my head to the bland ceiling.

  All my wretched thoughts keep snagging on Devlin. I’m sitting in a jail cell, facing the one thing I’ve been running from all this time, and I still can’t stop thinking about him. Am I pathetic, or what? It’s ridiculous how easily someone can take root in your head and your heart.

  I wish I’d never found the contract in his closet. My throat stings with my next thought—I wish I’d discussed it with him with a level head instead of assuming what it meant. I never gave him the chance to explain.

  The only way forward is to swallow my pride, enduring the cactus tines prickling along my throat the entire way.

  Devlin is the only person I know capable of getting me out of this holding cell.

  I need his help. If I have to, I’ll beg him for it. I can hate him later. Right now I need him.

  I lick my lips. More than that, Devlin is the only person I’m more desperate to see tonight other than Mom, because when his arms wrap around me, I’m home.