Three
LULU
Ididn’t die today.
To be fair, it’s only eight in the evening, so there’s plenty of time for my status to change before midnight. I’m sure my father and his men are on the hunt for me. There’s no way they’re not. It’s been two days since I ran, and it’s not like I went very far.
Reno to Vegas is almost laughable.
But I decided to make it simple. Sure, I could have drained all my funds and spent a week on a godforsaken smelly bus to Florida or New York, but then I figured they’d probably expect me to go as far away as possible. They wouldn’t expect me to stay so close to home.
So I came to Vegas and checked into a motel using my new fake ID. The motel is just on this side of sleazy, meaning there aren’t any bedbugs. But the room hasn’t been updated since the 1980s, the carpet and drapes smell like cigarettes and pesticides—hence, no bedbugs—and I refuse to drink the water out of the tap. I won’teven brush my teeth with it. I did see a housekeeper and witnessed them changing the sheets, so at least it’s relatively clean.
However, it’s on a shitty side of town. I got mugged this morning, and they took all the cash I had left, along with my burner phones. I was stupid and put up a fight because it waseverythingI had left, so the two bastards kicked my ass. Literally. They also managed to kick my ribs, and I’m so sore it hurts to breathe.
At least they didn’t hit my face. I already have a bruise on my jaw from my father’sfarewell gift.
On the upside, before the mugging, I managed to buy a few items of clothing yesterday, and a few more staples like shampoo, a hair dryer, and makeup to cover my facial bruises.
The motel I could afford didn’t offer those amenities.
My room is only paid through the week, which means I have to figure out my financial situation within the next two days.
My father sold me.
My own flesh and blood fucking sold me, and even with my ribs singing and my money gone, that’s all I can think about. Although I don’t respect or trust my father, I never believed he would have sold me as if I were an old car. I know that arranged marriages are common in the Mafia, but he’sneveruttered a word about it to me. I didn’t even know that it was a possibility or a consideration.
I’m royally fucked. Stranded in Las Vegas, with nomoney and nowhere to go, I feel like I lost a fight with an MMA champion.
If I’m going to survive, I need a job. Now. Without money, I’m a sitting duck. I’m taking this one minute at a time. I can’t reach out to any friends to help me financially because I don’t have any friends. And even if I did, I wouldn’t trust them not to call my father.
With the hundreds of establishments on the Strip and in this city, someone will hire me on the spot. I’m dressed in a pair of brown slacks with a cream blouse that I found at a discount department store. I knew I needed something semi-nice for job interviews, and the jeans I ran away in wouldn’t cut it. My dark hair was styled earlier, and if I tease it with my fingers, it’ll be okay.
Although I admit, I’m a mess. I’m shaky because I’m exhausted and hungry. I don’t even want to know what my makeup looks like since I’ve been walking around the Strip aimlessly, trying to decide where to apply for a job. I could start crying at the drop of a hat, but I don’t have time for that now. If I keep my wits about me, I’ll survive the rest of this godforsaken day.
And hopefully end it gainfully employed.
Blowing out a breath, I look up and see a discreet sign.
RAPTURE.
I haven’t heard of this club before, but I like that it’s not over the top. There aren’t a ton of flashing lights around the name. It’s not … obvious.
Maybe they need a bartender. I can’t show my licensethanks to having to use a fake ID, but I can make just about any drink under the sun. I’m good at it.
When I step inside the building, my jaw drops. This isfancy.I know without a doubt that I’m way underdressed for this place, but I already like the vibe. I push my hair over my shoulder and glance around. The two men by the front door watch me, but they don’t kick me out on my ass, so I take that as a good sign.
I’m relieved when I find a restroom off the opulent lobby, because I need to freshen up before I speak to anyone. The floors are gleaming gray marble, the walls black, and the club’s color scheme continues in the restroom, with gold light fixtures and finishes. A quick look in the mirror has me cringing. The makeup situation isn’t great, but after wetting a towel, I wipe the mascara from under my eyes and tidy my face up. My hair is okay after I drag my fingers through the dark curls, but my outfit is rumpled after walking around most of the day.
At least I don’t have sweat stains in the armpits.
“Well, shit.” I smooth my hands down and then resign myself to having less-than-stellar clothes on. I’ve learned how to hide my bigger body with fashion. My father always hated that I’m curvier, with zero resemblance to the lean, statuesque women he wished he’d had on his arm in public, but after years of diets and exercise and hating myself, I realized that this is simply who I am.
I also learned to keep my makeup simple, so I didn’t draw the attention of my father’s soldiers. I hated it when they leered at me.
And what does it matter what he thinks of me? He no longer has a say in anything I do. And at twenty-three years old, it’s about damn time.
Squaring my shoulders, I push out of the restroom and approach a receptionist. I’ve never been in a club with a receptionist before.
