Anger and fear fight inside me. “Who’s the guy?”
“Better you don’t know yet. You’ll meet him soon enough.” He grins, cocky as always. “Relax.”
He playfully dangles the envelope in front of me, only to click his tongue and yank it back, like the dick that he is. “Oh, and Lexi?”
I grit my teeth. “What?”
“Try not to look like someone ran over your dog. He’s gotta want to fuck you. Get dolled up for your date, Cinderella. Clock’s ticking.”
I can’t help but snarl as I fling the door open. “Guess I missed the part in Cinderella where she swipes the prince’s Benz.”
Deano cracks up like we’re suddenly best buddies. But before I can bail, his hand clamps my wrist in an iron vise.
“You should be thanking me.” He winks. “I’m basically your knight in shining armor here.”
Yeah, right.
I’m way out of my depth here. But it’s not like I have a ton of options.
Guess I’d better go get prettied up for my hot date tonight.
Just my luck that there’s no fairy godmother in this twisted tale waiting to pamper and prep me.
Nope, it’s all on me, as always.
THREE
Lexi
The air in this upscale hotel bar is so thick with money and ego, I half expect my next exhale to come out as Chanel No. 5.
This, right here, is the scent of “making it.”
A world away from my reality of unpaid bills, leaky roofs, a toilet that belts out sea shanties, and upstairs neighbors who think my ceiling is a trampoline.
I can’t even recall the last time I was in a joint like this just for kicks. It’s always work-related, schmoozing clients.
But tonight’s different. Tonight, I get the grand honor of feeling wildly out of my league among the Gucci crowd, while becoming an unwitting accessory to grand theft auto.
Girl can’t catch a fucking break.
I fidget with my straw, stirring desperately for courage that won’t come. My legs uncross-recross-uncross as I scope the room. At this rate the bartender probably thinks I have a raging UTI.
My gaze lands on a guy in a velvet vest. Clearly on a date, yet he has the audacity to throw a wink my way, the filthy bastard. Is it him?
Oh god, I can’t do this. I’ve been here half an hour, eyeing every dude that walks in. Deano said he’ll text when the “target”arrives, and that I should expect him here by nine. I’ve never dreaded a text more. I’m seconds from revisiting that sad noodle salad I choked down earlier.
I adjust the thin strap on my shoulder, cursing the AC blasting my nips. My ancient black satin dress from Target screams cheap against these designer labels. I’m a planner by nature but Deano only gave me thirty minutes to get ready. So here I am, my only strategy being plunging necklines and nipples on full alert.
Because men are programmed to ogle boobs, thanks to some kind of breast voodoo from feeding that forever hooks them through the eyeballs. Vallure PR exploits that weakness constantly—cleavage here, artful sideboob there. Hence my painted-on Little Black Nothing tonight.
Grace nearly choked on her cheesy bites when I strutted out, feeding her some emergency work meeting bullshit for a new client.
I take a deep breath, steadying myself. Ever since I got roped into this madness, normal breathing’s been a luxury.
I catch a glimpse of myself in the bar mirror. I’ve got the whole femme fatale look down—smoky eyes, bold red lips, my dark hair loose and lightly curled, dress clinging like my dignity. But it’s only an illusion masking the panicked little girl inside.
I’m not a bad person, I swear. I don’t lie, cheat, or steal. That’s not me.
