Total pages in book: 113
Estimated words: 109164 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 546(@200wpm)___ 437(@250wpm)___ 364(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109164 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 546(@200wpm)___ 437(@250wpm)___ 364(@300wpm)
“I need you to get a car here right away. Reese and his guest are not to leave here under any circumstances unless they get into the car you called. Got it? If they’re not out here in five minutes, send someone to escort them out.”
“Yes, sir,” the giant of a man says, picking up a two-way radio and getting started on his task.
“Good man,” I say, clasping him on the shoulder and making my way back to the VIP room. I don’t pay any attention to Reese, knowing Rob will handle him.
I’m almost calm when I get back to the room, but what I find when I pull back the curtain has my fists clenching.
There, on the cold concrete floor of the club, is Bailey, wiping away the remnants of coke. The white residue is striking against the black floors. She shouldn’t have to clean this. But that’s not what has me so enraged. It’s the way her shoulders shake.
Lowering my body until I’m eye level with her, I place my hand over hers, stopping the erratic scrubbing.
“You don’t have to do this.”
“I need to clean it,” she says absently, as though she’s lost in thought.
“No, you don’t.” When she doesn’t stop, I reach my hand out and turn that haunting face toward me. “Stop. I got this.”
She looks up into my eyes but doesn’t speak. So many feelings flood through me, and I don’t know which one is most potent. Our gazes lock for what feels like an eternity as her pain bleeds out of her. My own demons reflect in her eyes, making it hard to be near her, but I don’t move. I won’t. Not until she breaks the connection and looks away.
I take that opportunity to stand and extend my arm out to her. When she places her delicate hand in mine, I help pull her to her feet, all the while focusing on how her hand feels so small engulfed in mine. It feels familiar. It transports me back in time to another place, one that feels like a lifetime ago.
“Thank you,” she whispers, drawing me back to the here and now.
I let out the breath I was holding. “I’m sorry you had to see that.”
“It’s okay.”
“It’s not,” I spit, just a bit too harshly. She recoils slightly, and I feel like an ass.
“It wasn’t your fault,” she says, turning before I can say something else. But what more can I say?
I’m sorry for hiring you? I’m sorry for wanting the property and putting that above what’s best for you? I won’t say any of that because she wouldn’t understand. I hardly do. This woman is a stranger. I gave her the job because she needed it, and I needed to play nice with Cal. That’s all. Keep telling yourself that, asshole.
The similarities between Alexa and Bailey are startling. So many things about each of these women’s lives are parallel, and having her here is only another reminder of all the ways I failed Alexa. I couldn’t help her, but maybe I can Bailey. Perhaps this job is the very thing that gives her purpose and keeps her clean.
Right now, she looks broken.
And it’s my fault.
It’s always my fault.
6
Bailey
After what just happened at work, Carter is my saving grace. His witty banter gets me through the difficulties of trying to forget the event.
“You going to tell me what finally made you decide to sober up?” he asks out of nowhere as he wipes down the bar.
I look in every direction to verify that nobody heard him. “Jeez, Carter. Can you air any more of my secrets? Keep it down,” I hiss.
“Sorry, I’ve just been thinking about it.”
I sigh. Peering once more around the bar, I find that everyone is deep in conversation and currently good on drinks, so I decide to go for it. Maybe he just needs to know that everyone has a rock bottom, and the bottom is ugly. It may just be the ticket to getting Carter on the fast track to sobriety.
“One morning, I found myself walking through a very bad part of town. I was drunk off my ass, stumbling around on way too many pills. I must have looked like easy prey,” I say, swiping at a piece of dust with my rag. “A dirty man, I think he might have been homeless, cornered me in an alley.” I shudder at the memory.
His fingernails were caked in dirt, hair so greasy an egg would’ve fried on his head under direct sunlight. His clothes tattered and stained. “He had a knife and started to close me in. I was so scared.” I pause, summoning up the courage to tell him the worst part. “He pushed me to the ground and held my hands above my head. I spit in his face, and he punched me in the eye. I thought he . . . I thought he was going to rape me,” I admit, goose bumps forming on my arms as I speak the words.