Saved by the Outlaw: Motorcycle Club / Hitman Romance (42 page)

Of course, that’s not what I want to do. What I really want is to call up Natalie, get her to round up a mob out of whatever connections she’s got, track down those goons, and have their houses trashed, but my better judgement decides it’s probably best not to start a one-woman war with the Russian mafia.

As I post my Dad’s memories online for sale, I make my way to the medicine cabinet and take out some sleeping aids. I’ve got a little wine left, and I’m going to need all the help sleeping tonight I can get...even if that does mean a little self-medication is in order.

Tomorrow is going to be the longest day of the month.

I
’m
slow getting ready for work today.

Every tick of the clock on the wall reminds me of how harrowing my situation is. Today is the day, and I have nothing for them. I stand in front of the foggy mirror in my tiny bathroom, searching for my face amidst the condensation clouding the reflection. I rub a circle of clarity into the mirror’s surface and blink sadly at myself. I look like hell.

I spent the whole night agonizing over what to do, and I’m still at a loss.

At three in the morning I was still digging through online auction sites, posting ads for every piece of decent clothing, every nonessential I own. My eyes are pink-rimmed from hours of staring at a laptop screen in the dark, and my back aches from the tense position I was perched in all night. I guess I must have fallen asleep sitting up around eight o'clock, my neck bent at a totally not-normal angle. I was certainly feeling that now, as I stretch my limbs in the shower and tried my best to feel like a regular person.

For as long as I can remember, taking a long, hot shower has been the best form of therapy for stress. After my dad died, I used to sit in the bathtub and let the steaming water pelt my cheeks until the tears stopped falling. And it is still what I turn to in times of stress — which comprises most of my waking hours these days, as it turns out.

I always thought that by this age, I would have things more figured out. Then again, I never expected to lose my whole family by the age of twenty-two, either. But life has a funny way of forcing you into places you’ve never been, and forcing you to become a person you never planned to become.

I blow-dry my hair and plait it into a simple braid over my left shoulder, then apply just enough makeup to make it less obvious that I haven’t really slept. My phone starts buzzing on the bathroom counter and I press the stop button — my eleven AM “get up and go to work” alarm. I sigh and slip into a pair of dark jeans, black kitten heels, a scarlet off-the-shoulder tank top, and throw a black blazer on top of it all to inject some professionalism into the look. I need an outfit that is both comfortable and indicative of my position as the owner of the club.

I’m trying not to think about the fact that I may be selecting an outfit for my own appointment with the gallows. Or, more accurately, the mafia.

My mom used to always say that if you’re going into a bad situation, you might as well look good getting there. It’s a piece of advice that has stuck with me ever since. I swing my purse over my shoulder and take a final glance in the full-length mirror hanging on the back of my bathroom door. I
do
look pretty good, especially considering the lack of sleep and, well, everything else I’ve got going on at the moment. Thank God for small miracles, I suppose.

Locking the door behind me, I click-clack down the hall to the elevator and ride it down to the first floor. There’s a hunched little old man in the elevator who gives me a sweet smile. I’m sure I’ve met him before — he’s probably one of my neighbors. I try to remember his name as he checks his wristwatch and comments on the weather.

“Supposed to rain,” he says quietly.

I nod politely, and he continues.

“You look very nice today. Don’t forget an umbrella,” he adds with a genuine wink as he stops off on the second floor before I can muster a thank you. I notice then that he’s got a small bouquet of daisies tucked under his arm, and just before the elevator doors close, I see one of the doors open and a grinning, elderly woman throws her arms around him. Despite the anxiety brewing in my gut, a smile springs to my lips. Sometimes it’s actually a relief to know that there are so many people leading happy lives out there. And some small, stubbornly optimistic part of me still hopes that one day I will find happiness, too.

The rain clouds are gathering in gunmetal-gray clusters overhead, threatening to spill at any moment. I hurry down the street to where my modest white sedan is parallel parked, unlock the door, and slip inside — just as the first few sprinkles of precipitation start speckling the windshield. With a heavy sigh, I start up the engine and make the trek to the Amber Room.

Upon arrival, I notice that Natalie’s motorcycle is parked in back, with two helmets hanging on the handlebars. I can’t help but roll my eyes fondly, wondering which girl she’s romancing today. I remember when I first started coming around the club, back when my dad was still alive and he’d just hired Natalie, she clearly had a bit of a thing for me. It wore off quickly, after my dad died. She shifted straight from pick-up mode to caregiver mode, always checking in on me and being supportive however she could. Nowadays she is one of my very best friends, and there’s nothing remaining of the former vibe.

I fish my umbrella out from under a pile of jackets and scarves in my backseat and step out into the light rain, leaping a few puddles as I cross the parking lot. Once inside, I am immediately greeted by Charles, whose wiry frame pops out from under a booth.

“Good morning, sunshine,” he calls out with a cheery smile. I squint in confusion at the screwdriver in his hand and he promptly explains. “Oh, this metal table leg has been kind of wobbly and a couple patrons pointed it out last night, so I brought my tool kit to fix it up.”

“You’re a lifesaver,” I reply warmly, fist-bumping him as I walk by on my way to the bar, where Natalie is wiping down the counter. She’s humming to herself and clearly in her own little world. I clear my throat and set my purse down loudly on the stool beside me. Suddenly she does a double take over at me and breaks into a wide grin.

“Hey, short-stop,” she greets me. Then she narrows her eyes and adds suspiciously, “You look rough. Did you sleep okay?”

Damn it. Count on Natalie to be the perceptive one. “Thanks,” I say sarcastically.

“Oh no. Today’s the day,” she continues, catching on.

“Yep,” I reply, resting my chin on my hands and giving her a what-can-ya-do shrug.

“What are you gonna do, kid?” she asks, leaning in closer.

“No idea.”

Her eyebrows shoot up and she purses her lips. “Down to the wire, huh?”

I change the subject quickly — this is a topic I don’t need her worrying about. It’s my problem, and I’ll deal with it. Natalie, Ashton, Charles — they’re all innocent bystanders in this situation, and all I can do is hope that my failure doesn’t put them in any danger. So instead, I say softly, “I couldn’t help but notice the two helmets hanging off your bike. Wanna tell me how dinner with your
mother
went last night, Nat?”

Her cheeks went pink and she bit her lip. “Okay. Now that I can explain—”

“You didn’t bring your mom to work this morning, did you?”

“I was actually being a perfect gentlewoman and giving Ashton a ride to work, thank you very much,” Natalie retorted, fighting a smile. “She always takes the bus and you know how dangerous public transportation can be for a girl like that!”

“Oh, like she’s really safer on a motorcycle with
you
?” I goad her teasingly.

Just then, Ashton comes around the corner with her blonde hair in a flouncy ponytail, looking very sweet and totally oblivious. Natalie gives me a pinched look, shakes her head ever so slightly, and I stifle a laugh.

“Hi, Miss Foss,” Ashton says brightly.

“Hey, Ashton. And remember you can call me ‘Katy,’ okay?”

“Yes, ma’am — Katy,” she replies.

“Alright, people. I’m going to be in the lounge working on some business stuff for a while if anyone needs me,” I say, loudly enough that Charles can hear me from his place underneath the table. He extends a thumbs-up.

I give everyone a brave smile and head to the VIP room to lock myself in with my misery and ponder what the hell I’m going to do. It is noon now, and from previous months I’ve gathered that the mafia guys prefer to strike around this time. I suppose it’s somewhat considerate of them to show up before we actually open at one o’clock. The last thing I need is for my patrons to catch the club owner in mid-shakedown. I’ve gotta put on a tough façade. It’s hard enough just being a woman in charge, especially in such a male-dominant industry. Most of the other clubs around the area are run by paunchy older guys in sleazy business suits. I wouldn’t be surprised if some of them are actually members of the mafia themselves. But me, I’m just a pawn, low on the totem pole. Financially, I’m barely holding it together. Emotionally, I’m starting to really fall apart, living in my dad’s shadow and trying to keep his dream afloat.

So physically, I’ve got to look pretty damn put-together.

But here in the lounge, nobody can see me. So I pull my legs up underneath me on the velvety couch and open up my tablet, getting as comfortable as I can. Who knows how long I have before the thugs show up to ruin my day, and possibly my life?

Nervously, I scroll through pages of my own ads, hoping for a bite. But besides a few wishy-washy comments, there doesn’t seem to be much interest in the stuff I’m selling. After all, none of it is particularly fancy. I live a very simple life, and the accoutrements of my existence are equally simplistic. But damn, I’d still hoped for at least a
few
offers.

A lock of dark hair works its way loose from my braid and dangles annoyingly between my eyes, as though to add just an extra pinch of frustration to my day. I sit up straight for a moment and try to tuck it back behind my ear. But it keeps falling free again, and so finally with a groan of irritation I yank the hair tie off the end of my braid and shake my head, sending the freshly-wavy hair tumbling in a brunette cloud around my shoulders.

“Whatever,” I mutter aloud, raking a hand back through my hair and rolling my eyes. I hold up my phone to check my dim reflection in the black screen, to see my face framed with a mane of wild hair. So much for looking put together. Oh well, I think to myself, perhaps this cave woman aesthetic will strike fear into the hearts of the mafia guys.

My phone vibrates in my hand and the little ding-ding of the text tone goes off as the screen lights up with a text from Natalie.

It says: “stud on premises, I repeat, stud on the premises.”

I furrow my brows in confusion for a moment, and then as the realization dawns on me, I can actually feel the blood draining from my face and my stomach flip-flops with fear.

The next moment, there’s a soft knock at the VIP door and Ashton’s sweet, timid voice says from the other side of it, “There’s someone here to see you.”

“Uh, tell them we’re not open yet,” I answer firmly to buy myself some time, hoping my voice isn’t shaking as much as my hands are. I fumble to stuff my tablet back into my bag and untuck my legs from underneath myself. I smooth my tank top down and frantically try to restore some semblance of normalcy to my hair.

The door creaks open and Ashton pokes her head through, her blue eyes wide.

“Um, h-he’s very insistent, Katy.”

He
? Did they only send one minion to collect my debt today? For a moment a barrage of wild thoughts rampage through my brain. Maybe if there’s only one of them, they’re planning to just drag me away. Maybe if there’s only one of them, I can fight him off. I’m fairly strong! I can totally take down a burly, bloodthirsty mafia thug on my own! Totally reasonable!

“Katy?” she prods, looking a little scared. Regaining my composure, I get to my feet and walk over, my heart hammering in my chest, but with resolution in my steps.

I gesture for her to come inside for a moment, and I explain quietly and quickly, “Okay, Ashton. Everything is going to be just fine. I just need you to stay cool and go get Natalie and get both of you into the storage room, ‘kay? Just hang out there and be very quiet. Don’t come out, no matter what you hear.”

I can see her shrinking in fear, her dainty hand coming up to cover her mouth. “What?”

I put my hands on both her shoulders and say emphatically, “You’re okay. Just go hang out in the storage room, alright? I’ll come get you when everything is over.”

“Actually, that really won’t be necessary,” interrupts a deep voice with a light accent.

The VIP door pushes all the way open and there is a tall man standing there, wearing a navy-blue suit with a dark gray tie. My brain seems to flounder for a moment trying to place his face, as he looks vaguely familiar. Then it hits me.

The guy I slept with a few months ago.

“You may not recall me,” he says, sidestepping Ashton and extending a hand to me.

I instinctively stand up straighter and move ever so slightly in front of Ashton as though to shield her somewhat. With some trepidation, I take his hand and give it a quick shake.

“I do,” I reply swiftly. My heart races as I take in his suit, his accent that I couldn’t properly identify before, his timing — he was a mafia guy. I should have known it all along. This is Brighton Beach, after all.

“Go to the storage room,” I murmur to Ashton, without breaking eye contact with the Russian guy. As she moves to leave, he gives us both a vaguely sympathetic expression.

“I told you that won’t be necessary. I am here of my own accord, and I tend to handle matters more, ah,
delicately
than some of my associates. There is no reason to hide,” he explains. The look in his eyes seems genuine, and I give Ashton’s hand a squeeze and nod for her to go.

She mumbles a fearful “okay” and slips out the door, shutting it behind her.

Closing me in with
him
.

He stands watching me for what feels like a very long minute, his hands pushed into his pockets and his expression unreadable. Despite his disclaimer, I am still completely on edge. I refuse to believe that it’s possible for mafia guys to be “delicate.” From all that I’ve seen, they don’t have much of a particular proclivity for handling issues using anything but muscles and intimidation. And to be sure, this guy has no shortage of both. Standing in front of me, I note both his muscles, taut beneath his finely-tailored suit, and his piercing, dark blue gaze.

“Have a seat, if you like,” he finally says, breaking the tension only slightly.

“Since this is my establishment and you are a guest,
sir
, I feel it’s only appropriate if I offer a chair to you first,” I reply sharply, before I can stop myself and edit my words. There goes my attitude. It’s a reflex, and one that has gotten me in trouble many times before.