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Anya Sanchez
Screw my life. I had no idea why I let my roommate convince me to go out for a drink at the most obscure nightclub in town. I didn’t like bars and clubs because my father’s goons frequented those places, and though most of them were behind bars, I didn’t know if anyone still had a score to settle with my father.
I hated being the daughter of the Devil himself. I could never rid myself of those genetics, of the killer’s blood running through my veins.
It wasn’t just about not wanting to be vulnerable in a club—my roommate had no idea who my father was—but it was about being worried about my Intro to Criminal Justice grade. I’ve never gotten less than a B in any introduction class I’ve taken. And the thing was, I needed a GPA of 3.5 to get the job waiting for me. If I got anything less than a B in Mr. Miller’s class, my GPA would drop, which meant I risked the job offer.
Dang. I groaned into my club soda and lime—I wasn’t a drinker. I wished academics didn’t matter to employers. I wished my writing and ability to research spoke for itself. But I wanted to work for the best investigative journalist team, and they wanted employees with strong academics.
“What’s with you?” Gina, my roommate and friend from last fall semester, nudged my elbow, and it nearly slipped off the bar.
I snapped back to reality. The loud music. The low lighting, the wafts of alcohol, perfume, and perspiration. We were too close to the dance floor. I’d have preferred to be on the second level, away from the masses. But only VIPs had access to the second level. I wasn’t any degree of important.
I shook my head, feeling the thrum of a headache coming on. Why did I let Gina pull my hair into a slick, high ponytail? “I don’t really like clubs.”
Gina shifted her blue eyes to the side. “Yeah, I know. I’ve been trying to get you to come with me here since last fall.”
I laughed. It was true. I rejected her every time. This time, I was … desperate. Maybe not desperate, but out of control. Dejected. Really damn worried about my future. If I came here, then maybe I could forget my predicament. My teacher, Mr. Miller, stood in the middle of everything I wanted.
Oh, God. Mr. Miller. If I said I didn’t replay the incident in his office every second since, I’d be a liar. And I most certainly wasn’t a liar.
He’s your teacher. He’s the DA. He’s the man who hates your father the most.
What would he think of me if he ever found out the truth about who I was? What would he think if he knew how much I wanted to kiss him? The whole thing was so messed up.
“Anya.” Gina touched my hand.
My eyes snapped to hers, and my face grew hotter in the already hot club. “Sorry. I have so much on my mind.”
“I could tell something was up. Is summer session going okay?” She pushed back a puff of blond spiral curls behind her sharp, bony shoulder. Unlike me, she was tall and rail thin. And gorgeous.
“Not really.” I closed my mouth. I needed to be cautious in how I described Mr. Miller. There were more layers than anyone could ever know. “I don’t think he likes me much.”
Gina jerked her head back, an incredulous look on her face. “You? Miss Sunshiny wonderful? How could anyone not like you?”
I laughed, dropping my gaze. I guess she was right. I was the one everyone liked. No matter how I felt inside, how much anger or depression, people only got my smiles. My laughs, my words of encouragement. How else could I balance out what my father did to people?
“I guess there’s a first for everything.” I drank more from my glass to smooth out the lump forming in my throat.
“Who do you have?” Gina shook her hips to the intro of a new dance song playing.
I just loved how carefree she was. And sexy. She was a weapon. I wish I could be like her. Maybe in the next life.
“Mr. Miller—”
“The fucking DA?” Her eyes grew wide, and her smile did too. “He’s fucking hot.”
I know.
My gaze dropped, and I couldn’t help but bite the inside of my cheek until it hurt because it all came back to me yet again. His closeness. The words he said. The obscene gaze of his eyes on me. What I did in my car afterward.
Jesus. This couldn’t be healthy.
“He’s okay,” I finally said, though not without draining the rest of my club soda.
Her eyebrows knit together. “Not just okay. He’s a god. And he’s the youngest DA this county has ever had. He’s what, thirty-five?”
“I think he’s thirty-four.”
