1
Cleo
My nerves jump like I’ve tap-danced on an electric wire. I can’t seem to stop my shaking hands and the drinks on my tray wobble, even as I wind my way through the booths at Rapture.
The place is dark and muggy, and as always, breathing’s like sucking air through a straw. The atmosphere is too oppressive, and any second I expect a foot to shoot out and trip me. No one has, but the fear remains.
Eden swings her nimble legs around the pole, silver bikini catching a violet strobe light as she swings past, smirking at a pair of college-aged men as she goes. They wear twin grins, and they fade when they glance up at me.
I tug my blouse down self-consciously, but there’s no hiding it. My belly balloons outward like a bowling ball jutting from my chest. The size tag on the shirt makes me cry every time I see it, and times like these remind me just how much I missed being a single, attractive woman at the bar in this joint.
In tandem, their eyes drop to the bulge, then flick to the foamy beers on my tray.
“Two Bud Lights?” I inquire, trying to keep my voice neutral. Raging pregnancy hormones demand that I whack both upside the head with my tray and let them wear their beers. Ever since I’ve started waitressing in the front of Rapture, the men seem to have this reaction every damn time.
The first man is blonde with a square chin and baby blues a woman could sink into. If he weren’t acting like a jackass, and I wasn’t hugely pregnant, I might have considered flirting with him.
“Yeah, we ordered that but...” He glances at my stomach.
“But what, sir?” I say, tilting my head to the side like a curious bird. If he’s doing to say it, he better damn say it and stop beating around the bush. “Did you want to order something different?”
Their eyes do that not-so-subtle flick down and my jaw flexes in irritation. I will owe my dentist a fortune, with all the teeth-grinding I've done in the last month.Spit it out already,I urge blondie.It'll make you feel better, jerk.
"Well, you shouldn't be serving beer while you're..." He trails off again and his buddy nods once for emphasis. I explode, slamming their drinks onto the small, round table that sits near the stage. Foam slops down their glasses and onto the table. I'll have to clean it up later, but now, I'm beyond caring. I've had enough of this crap.
I know that I'm not mad at the pair of chuckleheads at table five. I have centered my thoughts on the dark, imposing figure that skulks at the back table every night, eyes trailing me.
Trent, the Sleepless Spades co-president has come to Rapture every night for a week, and the barely contained violence that rolls off him scares me. With Bryan still curled within my womb, poking out of my body for the world to see, I feel vulnerable to harm. My shoulders are tight, heart’s racing, I've been hurting off and on all day, and the condescension from a pair of drunken frat boys is the icing on the cake of my shitty week.
"While I'm what? Pregnant?" I demand. "I'm serving it, jackass, not drinking it. It will not enter my body via osmosis. Do you want the damn beers, or not?"
"Uh...yeah," blondie's buddy pipes up, seizing his beer from the table. He sips at it, hoping to mollify me. I'm past that. I tuck my tray under one arm and stalk toward the kitchen. Well, waddle is a better word. I don't go anywhere quickly anymore with the little man inside of me.
It's at times like these that I miss Holly. Though her presence in my life is a double-edged blade, cutting me knowing I will never have Cruz, she would have known just how to handle the brazen men coming into Rapture. My recent outburst aside, I've never been good with confrontation. Plop me in an argument and I balk, tongue tripping over my words or freezing in my skull. Heavy breathing isn't far behind and then I feel faint.
Holly Madden, gorgeous blonde goddess that she is, never took shit when she worked here. She's now off with Penny, tending to the junkies and prostitutes that wander Spade territory. I suppose I'm happy for her. Holly had a shittier life than most, born with a heroin addict for a mother and a drunken asshole for a father. She's living her dream, helping others get sober. But it has us short-staffed, and I don't appreciate pulling double duty cooking and bartending. Though, I don't have to stay here. Cruz stuffed me into Rapture's kitchen to keep me away from Damian, my abusive and now very dead ex. I suppose I'm just lingering out of some misguided sense of loyalty to the only man who's given a damn about me.
The train of thought brings me back to the cause of my sudden outburst. Trent. Damian's father didn't buy the staged shootout that Cruz arranged after his disastrous confrontation here only a month ago. Word is, he's trying to sniff out the culprit and exact a bit of retribution on Damian's behalf.
And if he's here, he must think I had something to do with it.
The thought has me moving faster, banging through the set of double doors that lead into the back. The sooner I'm out of his sight, the better.
I'm so preoccupied by my thoughts that the touch on my shoulder makes me yelp in fright. When the grip tightens and spins me around, I freeze a hare before the gaze of a hungry wolf. Trent stands just behind me, face flat and expressionless, betraying nothing. Still, I can feel his rage in the bruising grip on my shoulder.
"Trent," I say, trying my hardest to keep my voice level. Showing fear to this man is like waving blood in front of a Great White. "Can I help you with something? I thought Vicky was tending your table."
Because I'd asked her to do it, too cowardly to face the powerful man myself.
I take a shaky half-step backward, realizing too late that there's not enough room for me to back away from him. The hall is narrow, and the pumping bass beat of the techno song would be enough to drown out any sound I made. My heartbeat pounds in my ears, and I move the tray in a futile move to protect my belly. My back hits the wall a second later and Trent advances on me, his steely gaze never leaving mine.
Just the sight of him makes me nervous on a good day. Damian was a dead ringer for Trent, with only a slightly softer chin to show he had another parent and hadn't somehow been cloned from Trent. In the light that peeks in through the windows of the double doors, the scar on his eyebrow shines white and prominent. The rumor is that he got it from a brawl with Calamity Gardel, the head of the Spade's rival gang. The fact he came away from the fight alive is a testament to how tough he is.
I don't stand a chance if he‘s gonna lay hands on me. I cringe into the wall, preparing for a blow. Trent's grip on me tightens, and I know I'll have an imprint of his hand later.
"Don't you pretend you don't know what I'm here for, Cleo Sutton. You know damn well why I'm here."
I do, but like hell am I going to admit it. The less he thinks I know, the better. Perhaps he'll move on to terrorizing someone else.
