Page 11 of Sinful Lord

“Hey, me too!” Dana proclaims. “Looks like we’re not so different, after all.”

She slaps me on the back and I can’t help the pathetic little laugh that trickles from my lips.

But our little moment is quickly cut short.

“Hey! One Black Russian, don’t skimp on the vodka or the caffeine!” a customer shouts, leaning over the counter so sharply that he nearly falls onto our side.

Dana hardly even has to look. Her little black whip comes snapping down on the side of the man’s head. He springs back into place.

“I’ll make you a Black Russian,” she says. “But only if you behave.”

Unlike the last guy, this drunkard actually seems to enjoy Dana’s display of dominance.

“Yes, ma’am,” he smirks.

Dana rolls her eyes. It instantly reminds me of someone from my past life.

Rozalia Dorn.

My best friend.

An ache appears in my chest at that thought.

How pathetic. Before I left home, I’d only known Rozalia for about a year, and all of that time, she was dating my brother. So, I wasn’t even closest to her in my own family.

Yet she was still the best friend I ever had. A badass who unintentionally inspired me to take the biggest risk of my life.

I miss her.

A small pinprick of warmth rolls through me as I think of how proud she would be of me for taking control over my own life.

Proud and pissed off.

That’s the best I’m going to get, though. The rest of my family is probably just pissed off.

And probably scared shitless too. I don’t blame them.

“So, what kind of art do you make?”

Dana’s stern voice pulls me back to the present as she gets to work on that Black Russian.

“Who said I was an artist?” I mumble.

“ You did, by accident,” Dana replies, pointing over my shoulder. “Grab me a bottle of the City Vodka, will you, doll?”

I do as I’m told “How?” I ask, handing her the bottle.

“Not even the artists?” she says, doing her best American accent.

A sad little laugh peters out of my down-turned limps.

Still a sore spot.

“I’m… I’m supposed to be a painter,” I reluctantly admit. “Or, at least, I thought I was until I came here.”

“What changed?”

At this point, Dana isn’t even looking at me. She’s more focused on her Black Russian. But the conversation has already become therapeutic.