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To some, he’d be considered handsome, at least from this side of him. Dark hair, the kind of cheekbones and jawline that should have its own Instagram, and a body that doesn’t quit.
I saw him for the first time a few months ago. The first time we met, it was through the darkness, the rain. He looked like he’d stepped out of the pages of GQ, but there was such a cruelty in his eyes that I could never find him handsome.
That and the scar down the left side of his face, making part of his mouth droop into an angry frown. The Viper, as I’ve been told to call him, is old enough to be my father, and he looks like he’d be more the leather-belt type of dad than the lollipops and piggy-back rides. I hope he doesn’t have kids.
"You didn’t hire me because I was a snappy dresser," I point out to him, knowing that I can get away with a little bit of banter. There’s some safety in my profession, some. I’m a few steps above, say, a low-level drug runner, or a cook brewing up drugs for the street. I’m replaceable, but not easily.
His jaw tenses.
"Show me," he says, and I hesitate.
"Look, dude, there is a lot of glitter and it’s going to get?—"
He makes a sound in the back of his throat that I know means I’m coming up to the end of his patience, and I better listen. But only because he’s already laid down a hundred k with our ‘escrow’, an Irish mobster who rules the far end of my neighborhood and is basically incorruptible when it comes to money deals. Cash left with him always stays safe, and gets paid out when the job is done. Liam never lifts or skims. He’s as honest as he is beautiful, that one.
I pull out the bra, leaving the thong where it is. Somehow that seems too intimate and personal, and never mind that I’m about to show a bunch of men my ass in it before the night is over. But here, trapped in the Viper’s town car? I’d rather cut my own face off. It just seems like a bad idea, and my gut has never gotten me into trouble before.
He eyes it up and then looks at me, as I try to turn my face so I don’t have to look at him directly.
"It’ll do, but next time?—"
Next time? My gaze flicks to him in panic. No. The deal is for tonight, and that’s it. Two mil for inside access to the computer system of the Greco crime family. It’s worth at least that, probably four times as much. The Feds would kill to get my kind of access, and I’m surprised they haven’t tried, but the Greco family seems to sniff out plants when they’re government-bred.
Word on the street is they’re still finding pieces of the ‘accountant’ who was double-agenting for the Feebees.
"I need insurance that the—" The Viper gestures towards me, and I tuck my bra back inside my bag, zipping it up tight.
"Key-logger. The thing that gives you every single key-stroke and mouse-move," I reply. Under me, the car starts moving, making me tense up.
"That it stays in place," he says, "for a long enough period of time to be valuable to me. As valuable as the cost of that knock-down you’re living in."
I freeze. He knows where I live. And where Sam is. I’m not a super spy, or an assassin. I’m just a kid who got kicked out of her home early and took community classes while working the midnight shift at the local diner.
He reads my fear easily, and he smirks, as much as he can with part of his mouth refusing to cooperate.
"Insurance," he says softly, "I’m sure you understand. Your friend could use some, perhaps get some therapy, help her get out of the house—" My heart rate starts to pick up, sweat rising on the back of my neck and along my collarbone under my shirt. "Just like you are my backdoor to Greco," he says, his smooth voice so quiet I can barely hear it over the purr of the car as it takes us toward Cascade. "There are backdoors into every building in this city. I just needed to find the key to yours. Do you understand?"
My heart sinks. Someone, in our building, is a mole for the Viper. Someone who’s probably desperate for a little extra cash, and could be cajoled into giving details about me, my life, and the strange girl I live with who never leaves the apartment.
"How long?" I ask, through gritted teeth, and he tuts.
"Don’t tense your jaw," he says, "you can’t afford the dental work yet." I glare at him and he smirks.
"One hundred thousand per week you work there."
What?! No.
"I’m not dancing at Cascade for nearly half a year," I say flatly, trying to keep my voice neutral, and in serious negotiating mode instead of going shrill like it wants to. It’s a war in my body. "I’m not that good of a dancer."
"You’ve already done three months," he points out, and I want to cry.
"That was in a workout room, without an audience. You want me to get naked every night—" I shake my head and he cocks his head, reaching for the phone in his pocket. There’s something so threatening in that move that my mouth dries up and my throat goes tight. "Three hundred a week," I counter. I could do six weeks. That would be fine, I think, at the same time trying to bury the sheer panic.
I’m not a stripper or a sex worker, and I have nothing against those women who do that as a profession, but the idea of being so exposed for that long. I could handle doing a dance set tonight. Ten minutes, sure, twenty in a pinch. But every night?
"And I get two days off a week," I say through gritted teeth.
"Two hundred and fifty," he counters, and the car comes to a stop. I glance outside. We’re not at Cascade. We’re in front of my building. There’s a man on the front steps, in dark jeans and a plain black t-shirt. He’s not even ten feet away, and he’s got black gloves on. My head whips back to the Viper. He smiles at me serenely. "Insurance."
