The Right Side of Wrong

by Prescott Lane

  THE RIGHT SIDE OF WRONG

  by

  PRESCOTT LANE

  Copyright © 2021 Prescott Lane

  Kindle Edition

  Cover Design by lorijacksondesign.com

  Photo by: Scott Hoover

  Editing by Editing4Indies

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Epilogue

  Also by Prescott Lane

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  PROLOGUE

  PAIGE

  Promises.

  Every promise that was ever made to me has been broken. That’s why I’ve never made one myself. I never want to break one. All that’s about to change. I’m about to make the most important promise of my life.

  It’s not to my husband on my wedding day. It’s not to a boss or a best friend. No, this one is more important.

  It’s to the little newborn boy in my arms. And unlike wedding vows that can be undone by a judge, this one I won’t ever let be broken. This is my promise to keep.

  “I’ll do whatever I have to. Your life will be better than mine.”

  CHAPTER ONE

  FIVE MONTHS LATER

  PAIGE

  His arm tightens around my waist. God, how much cologne does he have on? Not that it matters, it’s not enough to mask the smell of whiskey and old man that seems to radiate off him. That’s really not fair. He’s not that old, just old compared to me. I’m only twenty, and he’s got to be at least sixty.

  I flash him a smile. He’s paying for my company this evening, so it really doesn’t matter how old he is or what he smells like as long as the evening ends with a wad of cash in my hands. Rumor is, he likes his girls young, brunette, and blue-eyed. Rumor also is that if he really likes a girl, he’ll set her up with a place, a car, a spending account. Tonight is an interview of sorts.

  His hand slides to my ass, not caring who sees. In fact, I’m sure that’s the point. He wants everyone at the party to see. Bile rises to the back of my throat, but I swallow it back down with a smile. It’s all a lie—the smile, the dress.

  Lies can be big or small, but they don’t always have to come in words. Only amateurs lie with words. Master liars like me can lie with a smile, or a laugh, a forced tear. My smile says I’m happy. My eyes say I love you, but that’s not the truth. I smile to hide the pain. My eyes sparkle because they are on the brink of tears. I don’t need words to lie. I lie to survive. I lie to keep a promise.

  “Fetch me a drink, sweetheart,” he says.

  Another fake smile earns me a pat on my ass as I walk away. Making my way through the crowd, I let my body relax a little, giving myself the hundredth pep talk of the night. I know it could be much worse. Think seedy hotels and kinky fetishes.

  The line at the bar is long, which is a blessing. I need the extra time to convince myself to stay in this game. I run my hands down the red chiffon fabric of my dress. It’s easily the nicest thing I’ve ever had against my skin. A present from him for me to wear tonight. Some would think it’s a sign of his generosity, but I know better. This man wants to control me. From the way I wore my brown hair to the makeup artist he sent to make sure my blue eyes didn’t overshadow the red lipstick he wanted me to wear to match the dress, he’s the master. I’m the plaything.

  Everyone here is dressed to the nines—sequin dresses, high heels, jewels—and I fit right in. No one would know I’m “working” tonight. I wonder if there are any other girls like me here? It’s a bit ironic that this party is a charity event to support the arts in the greater Nashville area when I’m probably the one who needs charity the most. There’s an auction for a bunch of frivolous junk that no one needs.

  It’s not that I don’t think the arts are important. Not long ago, I was a college student. I love books, history, museums, but I love having food on my plate, clean clothes, and a roof over my head more. I thought I’d escaped this life. College was my ticket out of poverty, public housing, and watching my mom snort, smoke, or shoot up anything she could get her hands on. I never wanted to be like her. I wanted out. I worked hard in school despite often not having the supplies I needed. I was going to use my brain, not my body, to make a living. What do they say about the best-laid plans?

  Everyone else seems to be having a wonderful time, drinking and dancing, smiling and laughing, but I’d rather be anywhere else. I’m not here for fun. Nothing about this is fun. A woman doesn’t decide to sell her body, her time, her soul for fun. She doesn’t come to it until she’s out of options and no other choices remain. It’s not something you do lightly. It’s not something I thought I’d ever do, but I don’t do it for me. I do it for the only member of the male species I’ll ever love—that little baby boy.

  All the women here look so in love with their dates, their husbands. Girls like me don’t get the luxury of love. Yes, love is a luxury. It’s not a right. It’s a privilege not all of us are afforded.

  “Having a good time?” a deep, rough voice asks from beside me.

  I look up at the man who’s suddenly appeared by my side. In my heels, I’m easily six feet, and he towers over me. He’s one of those big guys—the type you just know has to have his suits custom made. I’m pretty good at sizing people up. One look at this guy tells me he’s used to getting what he wants. I give him a polite smile. I can’t afford to give him more than that.

  “My father has good taste. I’ll give him that,” the stranger says. My head whips up. Family is not part of the deal. He extends his hand. “Slade Turner.” I reach to shake his hand when he slips his hand over mine, pulling me close. Unlike his father, he doesn’t reek of whiskey and old age. “I’ve seen your type before. I know you’re just after his money.”

  Straightening my spine, hoping my stilettos give me a boost, I say, “Yes, I am.” This tall, broad beast of a man jerks back just enough for me to notice. But I don’t throw hi
m off his mission for long. He leans closer, his mere presence forcing me to look at him. “You want all of his money for yourself?” I ask with sass.

  “I don’t need his money.”

  “Then mind your own business.”

  The bastard actually smiles at me. “I’ll let my father know you needed to leave early.”

  “I’m not leaving.”

  He motions with his hand to another man I hadn’t noticed standing just a few feet away. Roughly the size of a house, he’s bald, and his eyes are so dark they look like a moonless night. “Make sure she gets home.”

  “Your father invited me. I’m not leaving,” I snap. No way am I losing this gig.

  “He hasn’t paid you yet?” Slade asks, glaring at me.

  My heart starts to thump. It’s one thing for him to think of me as a gold digger, but it’s another for him to suspect me a whore. In truth, it’s just semantics. Gold digger, prostitute, escort, whore—they all mean the same thing. All words meant to degrade women and maintain power over us.

  It’s not the first time anyone’s ever looked at me like I’m trash and worthless, but that doesn’t make it any easier.

  He turns to his friend. “And make sure to pay her.”

  *

  The sound of poverty bleeds through the window of my one-bedroom apartment. You know the sound—the sirens, the gunshots in the distance, the cries and screams of women and children. I’ve never spent the night in a rich neighborhood, but I imagine it’s serene with a humming of birds or insects in the background. Perhaps even the traffic of taxis in big cities like New York.

  Dumping the contents of my wallet on the table, I hear the clang of the two pennies I have to my name, literally. Apparently, I can’t even sell my body correctly. I really needed that trick tonight. I would’ve hated every second of it, but I would’ve done it. We need it. Bad. I’d do anything for that sweet little boy asleep in the next room. Anything.

  I hate to resort to working a street corner, but I may have no choice. I made a promise to that baby boy, and I won’t let him down. No matter what it takes. That’s what I promised him. Glancing down at my oversized gray sweatshirt and sweatpants, I’m hardly the picture of sex appeal.

  More the picture of my true self, working two and three jobs while trying to take care of a baby. And it’s barely paying the bills. If I’m going to get my head above water and make enough money to go back to school, I’ve got to take the next step. That’s what tonight was about. And that self-righteous prick had to ruin it. Or he saved me, depending on how you look at it.

  The truth is, I left. I could’ve put up a much bigger fight, made a scene, refused to go, found his father and finished what I started, but I didn’t. Now I have to pay for that decision.

  At least I have the chiffon dress. That should earn me a pretty penny at the consignment shop. When people think of Nashville, they think about country music, honky-tonks, and The Grand Ole Opry. Of course, that’s part of it, but like every big city, there are neighborhoods like mine.

  Dangerous neighborhoods.

  But my address isn’t the real danger.

  There are a lot of bad things in this world. I grew up with most of them in my own house. Drugs? My mom is an addict. Prostitution? My mom’s profession. Abuse? I’ve endured my share. Hunger? More days than I care to think about. I’ve survived it all.

  The real danger, the thing that can take anyone down, is hope.

  If you don’t hope, your heart doesn’t get broken. If you don’t hope, you aren’t disappointed. The first lesson I learned as a child was the only person I can rely on is me. Hoping my mother would get clean and take care of me broke my heart more times than I can count. Hoping someday someone would rescue me from the hellhole of my life only kept me waiting.

  No one was coming.

  I had me.

  Hope can go fuck itself.

  Heavy footsteps pound through the hallway, the kind of footsteps that only a man’s weight produces. A single gal living alone in this kind of building tends to become an expert in said footsteps. I know the sound of 4A’s regular on Monday night. The sound of 4B’s abusive boyfriend. The weight of the elderly gentleman who visits his grandchild in 5C. But these footsteps are new. A new client for 4A?

  They stop right outside my door.

  A rapid swoosh sounds as an envelope slips under my door. Leaping to my feet, I grab it, ripping it open to reveal five crisp hundred-dollar bills. The exact amount I was due for tonight.

  Son of a bitch!

  Without another thought, I fling the door open, finding Mr. Nosy, Slade Turner, sauntering back down my hallway. The friend he had bring me home must have given him my address. He stops but doesn’t turn to me. Guess trash like me doesn’t deserve the courtesy. I wad the envelope and bills into a tight ball and throw it with everything I have, which is pretty sad. It’s paper, so it doesn’t go very far.

  I might be poor. I might be trash in his eyes, but I don’t take money that I haven’t earned. That will come back to bite you in the butt every time. No one, not even family, gives you something for free. Strings are always attached whether you see them or not. The wad of money lands close enough to him that he gets the message.

  Nonchalantly, he bends down, picking it up and turning to me. God, I’m so pissed, my chest rising and falling rapidly, my fists in tight balls at my side. “I don’t want your damn money!” In one stride, he’s towering over me with that smug smile that makes me want to smack him. “I didn’t take the money when your goon offered it. What makes you think . . .”

  “Goon?” he repeats, fighting back a smile. “Who uses the word goon?”

  Is he really questioning my vocabulary right now? “What else should I call him? He’s huge. Barely said two words to me.”

  “His name is Jon, and I’m sure he didn’t mean to scare you,” Slade says.

  “I wasn’t scared.”

  “Of course not,” he says, taking hold of my wrist and dropping the wadded-up cash into my hand. “Stay away from my father.”

  “You get that you can’t control me, right?”

  He leans forward, but I hold my ground, refusing to give him an inch. “My father will chew you up and spit you out.”

  “And I’ll let him.”

  I hear him inhale a swift breath right before a little cry starts from the other room. With surprise in his eyes, he darts his gaze to my bedroom door. Not now. While I was at the party, I had him at a twenty-four-hour day care I sometimes work at. It’s not far from here, but now he’s off his schedule. The cry gets a little louder. The walls are thin, so I can’t let him cry for too long without disturbing the whole building, but it looks like my guest isn’t going to excuse himself.

  Without a word, I walk backward toward my bedroom door, my eyes glued on the blue eyes of Slade Turner. How did I not notice their color before? They’re so clear, almost like sapphires.

  Shaking my head, I disappear into the bedroom. I’m only gone about thirty seconds, but when I step back into my living area, Slade has stepped just over the threshold of my door. On my hip and cuddled into my side is a complete chunk of baby love. You’d never think we are so poor by the looks of my little guy. “You should go,” I say. “I need to get him back to sleep.”

  “You live here with him alone?” Slade asks, shutting the door behind him.

  My fight or flight response kicks right in, and I angle my body, shielding the baby, my eyes darting for something to use as a weapon. Slade must sense my panic because he holds his hands up.

  “I just meant, where’s his father?”

  “None of your damn business,” I snap.

  “Fuck,” he says, looking at the floor like he’s searching for something. “I mean, you don’t have a roommate, family, or anyone else helping you? Protecting you and him?”

  “We’re fine. We’re perfectly safe,” I say.

  “The stoned guy passed out in the hallway tells a different story,” he says with a hint of a smile
playing on his lips.

  “We all can’t have a rich daddy.”

  “I’m not judging you,” he says, his voice soft.

  “Yes, you are. You judged me from the moment you saw me at the party. You’ve just got more ammunition now.”

  “No, now I have more of the story,” he says, holding out the money again. “Please take it.”

  “I can’t,” I say, holding the baby closer. “I didn’t earn it.”

  “Some kind of prostitute principles?” he asks.

  Our eyes meet as a fire of anger fills my chest. If he wasn’t such a prick, he’d be swoon-worthy—okay, he still is. But I can’t be distracted by his hard chest or those piercing blue eyes. Just because he’s hot as hell doesn’t mean he’s not an asshole—just a hot asshole. Those are the most dangerous kind.

  I could use that money. I should take it, but no one gives you something for free. Those bills would mean I owed him, and with no idea what the repayment will be or when it will be expected, the risk is too high. “Something like that. Now get out of my apartment before I call the police.”

  He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his wallet. I’m expecting another wad of bills, but instead, he places a business card on my rickety coffee table. “I have my own business separate from my father. I can help get you a real job.”

  “What will it cost me?” I ask.

  “Can’t be more than you were willing to give away for five hundred bucks, can it?” he asks, holding my glare. “You should really charge more.”

  It’s late, I’m tired, and my eyes lower to the ground for a second. “Why do you care?”

  “I don’t,” he says. “But I want you away from my father, so I figure I’ll get you a real job and . . .”

  “Your father came to me,” I say.

  “I’m aware of how it works.”

  “Yeah, you seem to have all the answers,” I say sarcastically.

  “At least we agree on that,” he says with a smile before motioning toward the business card. “This is the part where you thank me for helping you and getting you off the streets.”