Chapter 5
Chapter five
Alisa
“I brought Trader Joe’s wine,” Gemma announced.
My best friend swished into my crappy apartment like she was walking into a ritzy club instead of a studio with a permanently broken heater.
“Burgers with extra cheddar and no pickles,” I said, gesturing at the greasy fast food bag sitting on a scratched coffee table I’d found on the sidewalk. “I still can’t believe you don’t like pickles.”
Gemma smiled mischievously. “Oh trust me, I love pickles. Just not in my mouth.”
I snorted and handed her a chipped wine glass.
The moment she joined me on the ripped blue sofa it felt like I was breathing for the first time in weeks.
Gemma was my only friend outside of the Bratva.
When it was just the two of us, my brain wasn’t on high alert checking for microexpressions that hinted the interaction was about to turn deadly.
I could let the stress I wore like a second skin slip away.
I was just me.
“How’s the new job?” I asked while she dug into her cheeseburger.
“Good tips. Although I’d prefer to wear something else to work.” Gemma gestured down at the midriff grazing top and leather miniskirt she was wearing.
I completely understood. I tailored my outfits to the fetishes and preferences of the marks I was forced to kill. Absently, I ran my fingers through my hair. It felt nice not to have to wear an itchy wig or fake tanner all over my skin during my downtime.
Not that Gemma knew anything about that. She thought I had a perfectly boring low-paying job.
“Wait, what are these?” Gemma said. She picked up the red bottomed shoes lying on my listless rug.
Shit, I’d forgotten to put those away. I tried to lock away any reminders of the Bratva when Gemma came over.
As if it was that easy.
“They’re cute right?” I said with a forced smile.
“You could kill someone with this,” she said, running a finger down the stiletto heel.
She had no idea.
“I’ll kill you if you break them,” I teased.
Gemma’s eyes widened as she took in the label. “Girl, these better be fake. You need to be saving to get out of this shit hole.”
“My apartment’s not that bad.”
“Are you kidding me?” Gemma glared at my perpetually broken radiator. “I keep waiting to hear you froze to death. And don’t get me started on your kitchen. Even my shitty apartment has a working oven.”
“Are you complaining after I bought you food?” I said, snatching a fry from the bag.
“I’m serious, you need to get out of this death trap. Like I know my landlord is a slumlord, but yours takes it to the next level.”
I sighed. She wasn’t wrong, and what made it worse was that every time I went to my parent’s immaculate house I was reminded of what I was missing. Showers that stayed warm for more than ten seconds and appliances that actually turned on.
The worst part was that I was funding my parents’ entire lifestyle, and I couldn’t reap any of the benefits.
“I’ll figure it out,” I said, even though it was a lie. My parents were restricting my finances to try to force me to move back home.
I shuddered. Risking frostbite was better than going back there.
There was a reason I escaped.
I could see Gemma was building up to a rant, so I tossed a french fry at her mouth, and giggled when it fell onto her lap.
“Do you think you’ll stay at the new job?” I asked while she grabbed the french fry and popped it in her mouth.
“It isn’t as bad as I was expecting from a strip club. Granted, I’m just a cocktail waitress, so that makes things easier.” A frown crossed her lips before she took a heaping bite out of her burger.
“What is it?” I asked.
As a child, I’d learned to watch people’s faces for minute twitches that gave away their emotions. Usually it was for self preservation, but now worry swirled around my stomach along with the wine.
She glanced down at the ground for a second and then plastered on a smile. “It’s not a big deal.”
I crossed my arms and stared at her silently.
“Fine,” Gemma said. “This guy followed me home from work and snuck into my building. Not that it’s difficult to do, considering everyone leaves our front door propped open…”
“Did you see his face?”
She nodded and flicked through some pictures on her phone.
I zoomed in on a slightly blurred image. My frown matched her own when I recognized the tattoos.
“Have you seen him since?” I asked.
“He shows up a couple times a week at the club, but lots of guys are regulars so that isn’t unusual. And I haven't seen him near my apartment since that night.”
She sighed, and her shoulders sagged. “When I came home from work last night, I could’ve sworn that some things in my apartment weren’t where I left them. But I’ve been working late hours. I probably just moved them and forgot.”
“Gemma-”
“I know you’re going to tell me to quit, or move somewhere safer.” Gemma’s voice took on a desperate air. “But I can’t afford to. I’m so close to doing better in life. And it was probably a one off and-”
I squeezed her into a hug. “It’s going to be okay,” I said as she quivered against me.
I’d make sure it was.