I can’t quite meet that person’s eyes. “Damon might be willing to help.”
“He’s no better than his father,” Daddy snarls. “Leaning on family like that. He’s not supposed to do that. He’s never done it before. And with you still a child.”
A child? Not really. There are enough men in the diner who stare at me to know they see me as a woman. And Jessica’s barely older than me, her body just as slender despite having given birth only eight months ago. We grow up early in the west side.
The Rubik’s Cube is long gone, lost to the vagaries of childhood. Maybe left behind in the trailer outside of town. But my fingers clench together all the same, longing for something to solve.
A puzzle that’s guaranteed to have an answer.
“What will we do?” I ask softly.
“I have a plan,” he says, gruff, almost glad.
“But how—”
“It’s better if you don’t know.”
“Tell me.”
“There’s this big game.”
Dread slithers down my spine, thick and cold. “No way.”
“The pot is huge, Penny. It could pay off all the debts and still have more.”
“You have to win.”
“With your help I would. If you were there—”
“You don’t think anyone would notice?” Counting cards isn’t allowed, which has never made sense to me. As if I could stop counting them. But any sort of signals I made would definitely be caught.
“The game isn’t for six months,” he says. “We have plenty of time to practice them.”
“And what would I be doing at a high-stakes game?” Even in the twisted sex world of Tanglewood, the fifteen-year-old daughter of a player would not be allowed into the private room. There are rules, which is why I couldn’t help him in the big games.
He’s silent in that way that’s filled with words. With guilty admissions. “You’d be in the room if you were my buy-in.”
My gasp sounds loud and ridiculously innocent in the broken little apartment. Who knew I still had naivete to shatter? “You want to bet me?”
“It costs fifty thousand dollars just to enter.”
Oh my God. I thought we had hit the bottom with the debts, but this is worse. There are rocks down there, sharp and slick. And no one to pull me from the water.
Suddenly I remember Damon Scott, his eyes black, fierce.
What made him able to hold his breath underwater so long?
My throat tightens. The memory of a tall man in black sweeps over me, his grey eyes like mist in a dream. “Who’s running the game, Daddy?”
“Jonathan Scott.”
“Don’t do this,” I whisper, knowing I’m too late.
“We’ll win, Penny.” He’s pleading now, asking forgiveness for something already decided. We’re not so far away from medieval times. A man can sell his daughter. A man can gamble her.
I don’t have to ask what happens if he loses, my body forfeit.
Horror is a black hole, threatening to drag me under. Only denial keeps me floating in endless space, denial that my own daddy would do this. “There has to be another way.”
He stares at his hands, knotted together. I know he has arthritis, that his joints swell up in the warm muggy nights, that he struggles to hold the cards.
Oh God, I hate that I care about him.
“The debts are coming due,” he says, and in his voice I hear the grains of sand falling, the amount of time I’m the owner of my body slipping away. The water level rising.
Chapter Eight
The diner still pays me off the books, the way they did before I was old enough to legally work. That means I get to keep one hundred percent of my measly tips, the handful of coins tired factory workers leave beside their empty coffee cups.
Supposedly I’m saving for college, but both Daddy and I know that the few hundred dollars in my account will never cover actual tuition. Stochastic calculus is just a pipe dream, stored on a shelf alongside leaving west Tanglewood and finding out I’m secretly a lost princess.
Six hundred dollars seems to be the tipping point. That’s how much I can save before Daddy gambles again and needs help paying the debt. A fifty-dollar note from the bar owner. A few hundred dollars deep. Not thousands of dollars.
I guess I should be flattered that I’m worth that much.
There’s a cold, hard stone where that flattery would be. Polished smooth from years of being objectified and diminished, shined with every day working in this diner.
I wipe the cracked countertops with extra fervor.
“What do you recommend?” comes a voice out of my nightmares.
A muffled shriek escapes me before I catch myself.
Damon Scott sits on one of the stools, looking at ease despite the fact that his suit costs as much as a car. He sounds so much like his father that I’m surprised to see him there. And relieved. And secretly so very glad.
A lock of dark hair falls onto his forehead, effortlessly perfect. He studies me with a bland expression, the only sign of life the amusement dancing in his ebony eyes.
I glare at him. “What are you doing here?”
“I haven’t eaten dinner.”
“So go somewhere else. Somewhere with caviar and steak on gold plates.”
He sighs, woebegone. “Those places can’t fill a man up.”
“Get out.”
“I’m a great tipper.”
“How about you tip the amount my father owes you?”
“I don’t know.” He sounds thoughtful. “That’s a lot of money. And so far you haven’t really given me great service.”
“I’m not servicing you at all. Leave.”
“We didn’t finish our conversation.”
“That’s because I don’t want to talk. Or see you, ever again.”
“How disappointing for you.”
His smug dismissal sends a jolt of electricity through my body, not entirely unpleasant. I whirl away from him and push into the kitchen. I hate how aware I am of Damon’s voice, the low and sensual timbre. I hate how I can see his cocky smile even when he’s not there.
The scowl on my face must be fierce because the stoic cook, Jackson, raises an eyebrow.
“What?” I demand.
He doesn’t answer, just flips a greasy burger on a grill caked with black.
Ruth Mae has no such qualms. She heads out of the office like a bull seeing red, as if she can sense an unsatisfied customer from far away. If anyone on the floor gave her attitude she would throw him out in a heartbeat. That’s why she doesn’t usually talk to customers. Bad for business.
“What the hell are you doing?” she growls.
“Checking on an order.” That’s a lie but luckily Jackson slides the burger onto a bun, and I grab the plate. It takes some time to do the rounds to all my tables, to refill coffee and jot down orders.
And then there’s nothing left to do but face him.
I slump behind the counter, closing my eyes. “Why are you still here?”
“Still in conversation,” he says, taking a sip from his mug.
“Where did you even get that? I didn’t give you coffee.”
“I went behind the counter. You seem busy.”
I’m replacing Jessica, but Delaney called in sick. That probably means she’s high with her lame boyfriend-of-the-week. So I’m working the tables by myself. Busy is an understatement. “You have thirty seconds to finish the conversation.”
One eyebrow rises up. If anything his voice becomes lower, a faint Southern drawl inflecting his dark velvet voice. “You were polite to the asshole who wanted five refills.”
“They’re unlimited.”
“He only drank that much coffee so he could stare at your rack.”
That’s probably true. “Well, then he’ll suffer plenty when he finds out what five cups of that radioactive sludge does to your stomach lining.”
Damon pushes the mug with his fingertip. “Duly noted.”
He manages to look affronted, which is a major feat for a man in his position. For a man who’s put me in this position. “You’re fifteen.”
“Then why did you really come here?”
For once in his life he actually seems uncertain. Almost nervous. Except he has the upper hand in every possible way. He’s handsome. Smart. Rich. And for some reason he’s holding his breath. “Look, Penny. It isn’t exactly safe for you here.”
“Is that a threat? Because the last guy my dad owed money to showed up at our apartment with a baseball bat. I didn’t know subtlety was part of your profession.”
His eyes narrow. “His name.”
“What?”
“The name of the person who showed up with a bat.”
I’m not going to tell him who beat the door in, who smashed my father’s knee. And I’m not going to tell him about the big poker game. This man is nothing to me. I owe him nothing. Least of all the truth.
I brace my hands on the cracked countertop, sure that I’ll need the support. “How much?”
“We should talk about this in private.”
Then he shouldn’t have showed up at the diner. “I could shove you into the freezer?”
“He borrowed five grand. And the interest on that’s… not negligible.”
All the blood drains from my head. I’m dizzy with fury, impotence. Hopelessness. “Is that all?” I manage to choke out.
“No, he came back and borrowed another five.”
Ten thousand dollars. My throat feels thick. I can’t start crying in the middle of the diner. Ruth Mae would definitely dock my already-slim paycheck. I press my nails into my palm, counting slowly until the moment passes.
There’s a look of genuine sympathy on Damon’s stupidly handsome face, which makes everything worse. I want him to look smug and gloating. I want him to be easy to hate. “Penny,” he says, low and grave. “I’m trying to help you.”
I make a sharp motion with my hand. “If you really want to help me, stop loaning money to my dad. No matter what he wants, no matter what he promises. We’ll find a way to pay you back, and then we’re done.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Why?”
“Because your dad’s fucking desperate,” he says, speaking more rapidly. He runs a hand through his hair with what’s most likely frustration, but it only succeeds in making him look charming. Is this what my prince looks like? No, my prince was the wild boy through the trees. “He would have gone to my father next. He would have lost everything.”
“We haven’t already?” I ask, bitter with grief.
“I prefer to think not,” he says, his voice casual, but I’m not fooled. It matters to him what I think. It matters that I don’t see him as punishment.
Tiredness sweeps over me, the weight of a thousand anxious days and a thousand sleepless nights. “I’ll talk to my dad. We’ll figure something out.”
“It’s too late for that. He’ll never come up with that kind of money.”
“Then what do you suggest?” I snap, my voice wavering.
“You pay the debt.”
I hold up my hands, as if they can encompass the griminess of the diner, the sadness of the west side. The complete worthlessness of my person. “With what?”
“With yourself.”
His meaning comes to me like a cold, hard slap. With my body. Whether he’ll use me himself or put me in one of his strip clubs, the result is the same. I’ll be wrung out as surely as the girls on the street. “No,” I whisper.
“You have to,” he says, leaning closer.
“Or what?”
“How do you see this playing out, Penny? You work your ass off to make five hundred bucks, barely a dent in the debt. And meanwhile Daddy’s out borrowing more money, from men more dangerous than myself.”
“He won’t,” I whisper, but we both know he will.
“The city is dangerous.”
“A guy slammed someone’s head into the bathroom floor last Tuesday. I know it’s dangerous.”
His eyes turn quicksilver. “More than that. You’re a target, Penny.”
God. My voice comes out shaky. “Do you know what it cost me?”
A pause. “What?”
“To hide everything I’m interested in, everything I can do. Everything I am. It cost me everything. And now you want me to pay ten grand. Fine. But I’m not going to be your whore, Damon Scott. I’m keeping my dignity. That’s the one thing I won’t give up.”
“It doesn’t have to be like that.”
This is a man who loves slick packaging—his European suit and his fancy watch that glints in the dim light of the diner. Except I know what’s underneath, what it really boils down to, and it’s not pretty. “Will I be able to come and go as I please? Will you touch me? Kiss me?”
A weighted pause. “Eventually.”
“That’s my dignity,” I say, my voice sharp.
The corner of his mouth kicks up. “Not if I make you like it.”
I meet his eyes with a solemn vow, because this is the only part of me that’s left. I already gave up everything else for this dubious safety. “No,” I tell him. “Never.”
Frustration flits beneath his calm surface. Even a hint of vulnerability. How many people can see it? I know that not everyone sees the kind side of him. He has weapons and suits and a million kinds of armor, all designed to shield his humanity.
Assuming he has any left.
“I’ll give you a little time,” he says, his voice tight. “You can think it over. Weigh the lack of options. Come to terms with what you have to do. But I swear to God you’ll be mine.”
The words are a cold gust of wind, the tap of a branch on a window. The distant howl of a coyote at night. “No.”
He looks almost compassionate as he tells me, “You don’t have a choice.”
He moves forward, one millimeter, as if he might touch me. Then stops.
I freeze, every part of me still and waiting. Wanting things I shouldn’t. The only thing moving right now is my chest, the rise and fall so marked as we become statues.
And then his hand rises. I should duck away. Anything, anything.
My heart thuds heavy against my ribs. Two knuckles. That’s the only part of his body that touches mine, at the top curve of my cheek. He strokes down in what could almost be innocent comfort.
Except that he doesn’t stop at my jaw.
His knuckles slide lower, to the tender skin of my neck. To the hollow at my throat.
When his hand finally falls away, I suck in an audible breath. He didn’t touch me anywhere that would make this dirty, but my body still hums like a car left running. Nowhere to go from here.
He leaves me in that diner feeling like I’ve transformed.
There are crescent moons left on my palm, tinted red from breaking the skin. I wash my hands. Force myself to breathe even. I have an entire shift to get through. Every coffee cup in the diner is empty after that little chat. I have work to do, shitty tips to earn, even though they won’t make a difference. Nothing I make will ever be enough.
Damon’s words ring in my ear, long after he’s left the diner.
A promise. A prayer. I swear to God you’ll be mine.
Chapter Nine
When I played dumb on the elementary school playground, I didn’t fully understand what I was turning down. Mrs. Keller made it sound wonderful, a school with all the math problems I could ever dream about, a place with teachers who paid attention to me. I felt the dark undercurrent, the same way I did on that river. Every muscle in my body clenched tight, my breath coming fast.
As I got older there were other men. Other offers.
I learned to put a name on what I wanted. Freedom. The freedom to decide where I go and when. The freedom to say who can touch me. The freedom to say no.
Some days I wondered if it was pointless to fight the currents. This is what the dark streets
did to a girl. This is how they pushed us along, eddies swirling around us, sharp rocks at the bottom.
And like that day in the tube I fought the pull.
I pumped my legs as hard as I could, even if I knew I’d go under.
I put on my uniform and go to the diner, because that’s the way I swim here. My only source of money. And the whole time my mind whirs, working on other options, some loophole. Worrying at the problem until the edges are raw. My brain has done things, improbable things, almost impossible things. And now it fails me?
When the bell over the door rings at midnight I barely register the sound.
The air changes in the diner. Even the drunks and the exhausted truck drivers from out of town straighten in their seats. Ruth Mae ducks back into the kitchen. I know who it is before I turn around.
Jonathan Scott.
He’s sitting in the corner booth, soft as velvet, his edges undefined. I know he’s a man, flesh and blood, bone and ill-intent, but he seems somehow unreal. As if he’s made of smoke.
I grab the pot of coffee and cross the diner. He won’t see me cower. He won’t see me beg. I give him my bland waitress smile as I pour. “What can I get you?”
He glances at the counter, where I can feel four men resolutely not looking at him. He exudes a menace that’s unmistakable, enough to make men his size stiffen in fear.
“What kind of pie?” he asks, his voice mild.
“Peach.” Ruth Mae’s one concession to decent food. She makes them herself.
“I’ll have that.” Of course he will.
I give him a tight smile before returning to the counter. Only there do I exhale. Being around him is like being underwater. He steals all the air, all the space. Until I’m drowning.
There are other customers that want refills and plates cleared. That’s my excuse for not returning right away. But really it’s because I need to be away from him the same way I need oxygen.
When I cut a slice of pie, quick, sloppy, I take a deep breath.
All I want to do is slide the plate onto his table and leave.
Mafia Romance Page 27