Claiming the Sinners and Angels Throne

1. June

June

The paper-thin walls of my shared apartment provide me no shelter from the blaring noise coming from my roommates.

At any given time, someone is either arguing, fucking, or playing video games.

Right now is no exception. I yank my pillow out from under my head and shove it across my face, muffling an exaggerated groan.

“June, keep it down in there.” Carter bangs what I can only assume is his fist against the meager drywall between us.

Out of all of them, I hate him the most. He’s not even on our lease, but for no good reason, he’s here every single fucking day.

The no good reason is Heather, his girlfriend. One of the four names signed to the piece of paper legally binding us to this dump of a unit.

Desperation is the only excuse for why I’m here. And no matter what I do, there seems to be no escaping this shit hole and the people that live in it. Hell, I can’t even escape myself.

I can’t afford to leave, and if I could, there aren’t many other options available. Finding a landlord that’ll rent to a single, twenty-one-year-old with a spotty job record is next to impossible. Plus, it’s not like I’ll be coming into a large sum of money anytime soon, either.

So, for the foreseeable future, I’m stuck here, unless I can find a crossroads demon to sell my soul to for a little peace and fucking quiet.

I toss the pillow to the side and drag my legs off the edge of my bed, dramatically slamming my feet onto the cold, hard floor, and storming toward the door. I swing it wide and glare at my target.

He flinches at my sudden appearance.

“One fucking hour,” I say through gritted teeth. “That’s all I asked. You can’t give me that?”

Carter glances at his bare wrist. “Sorry J, the boys are playing a live match.”

Because apparently, his gaming sessions are more important than me getting any sleep before pulling another night shift at the bar.

“You’re an asshole.”

Carter shrugs and continues thumbing the buttons on his controller. “I can’t keep track of your schedule. It’s not my fault you have two jobs.”

“Three,” I correct him.

If I stand any chance of ever making enough cash to get out of this dump, I had to take a semester off from school and focus on working, hence the additional gig I picked up.

I keep telling myself it's only the one skipped term, but at the rate I'm going, I have no clue when I'll be able to go back to college. Most of my waking hours are devoted to various income-earning endeavors with slivers of sleep in between. But with the increased workload, I can’t remember the last time I actually got any rest.

Carter flits his attention from the flat screen to me. “Oh, you’re still here.” He slides his gaze up and down my body. “Listen, if you want me to give you something to whine about…”

I cut him off. “Eat shit and die.” Turning on my heel, I go back into my room and slam the door shut behind me, wishing like hell it would rattle the TV off the fucking wall.

He mumbles a few choice words but I tune them out, not letting him have another second of my time.

What Heather sees in him, I'll never fucking understand.

He's a man-child, sitting around playing video games and having her wait on him hand and foot. She even went so far as to tell me he’s a bad fuck.

The whole situation makes no sense. She's a grown-ass woman, and who she chooses to keep around is on her, but with each passing day, it becomes more and more my problem, too.

The only reason I come to this place is to sleep and shower, so I might as well do one since I can’t do the other. Maybe if I’m lucky, I can start my shift early and make a few extra bucks.

I rifle through a stack of clothes piled on a chair in the corner of my room and do a sniff test to make sure they’re clean.

Once I’ve managed to find a decent outfit, I grab my shower caddy from my dresser.

My reflection stares back at me as I consider how long it’s been since I’ve washed my jet-black hair.

Was that yesterday? Maybe the day before? Each day blurs into the next.

I run my fingers along my scalp to reveal that it doesn’t seem that greasy. With a little dry shampoo, I’ll be good as new. It’s just my bar shift anyway. Those guys are too drunk to take their eyes off my tits long enough to notice my hair anyway.

Which reminds me, if I want tips tonight, I need to swap out my shirt for something a bit more revealing. It's not the noblest of career paths, but it pays the bills, and right now, that's all that matters.

After a quick shower, a pinch of blush and mascara, and enough eyeliner to make me look more dangerous than I really am, I slide into my sexy but practical combat boots.

I pass through the common room, ignoring the seething eyes of my roommate's creepy boyfriend, and make my way out the front door, not bothering to tell anyone where I'm going. Not like any of them care anyway.

At one point, what seems like forever ago, we were all friends.

High schoolers who couldn’t wait to graduate, get our own place, and do the whole college thing together.

Since then, though, we’ve all grown apart.

Drastically. Whether it was booze, drugs, or bad choices, none of us have much of anything in common anymore, and other than the occasional rent check drop off, or forced small-talk coming or going, we don't really speak.

If I’m being honest, I’m not bothered by it one bit.

They’re not my people. They’re just the humans I’m currently stuck living with.

I’ve made other friends here and there—Cora being the only one that doesn’t annoy the shit out of me—but I typically spend most of my time outside of work and school either alone or fulfilling my need for physical contact with a stranger.

All of which I’m totally okay with. It suits me.

And I’ve learned that if you’re the one who does the leaving, you can’t be left.

Not that I’ve ever felt the need to stay.

No one has ever caught my attention long enough for me to even consider it.

I make my way the few blocks to the shitty dive bar I’ve worked most of my evenings at lately.

It’s run down, and the pay sucks, but on occasion, a high roller comes in and makes it worth my while in tips.

I scan the patrons upon entering the smoke-filled establishment, noting the few regulars and the new faces littering the place.

“You’re early,” Jack says from his spot behind the bar. He stops counting the till and cranes his neck to get a look at the clock near the shelf of booze.

I bite my lip and tilt my head in my weak attempt to feign sweetness. “Thought you could use the help?”

“I could give you something to do,” a sloppy drunk man slurs from his spot at the bar.

Jack ignores him, rolling his eyes at me. “Right.” He sighs and nods to the drink Sarah had just set next to him when I walked in. “Corner booth.”

"Thanks, Jack." I let out a breath and grab the glass from the counter, immediately noticing the aroma of the top-shelf bourbon in my grasp, meaning only one thing.

I settle my sights on the person it belongs to. The same guy who has spent countless hours in here the last couple of weeks. Drinking the same expensive liquor. Always alone. Not speaking to anyone. Just brooding in his own little zone, not bothered by the world around him.

I approach, taking in his broad shoulders and pressed black suit, the jacket folded neatly and resting on the table.

His cuffs unbuttoned, his sleeves the most haphazard thing about him.

His salt-and-pepper hair is neatly swooped back, with that long on the top, but short on the sides thing going on.

His scruffy but well-kept beard matches him perfectly.

He’s significantly older than me, but there is no denying that he’s a sight for sore eyes.

The man drains what's left of his dark-honey-colored drink and holds it out to me to replace with the fresh one. I do my best not to stare at his lips as he licks the remaining liquid off them.

“Can I get you anything else?” I know damn well not to make small talk with him.

He’s been coming in here long enough for me to realize he’s a hell of a lot different than the rest of the people who frequent this place.

He doesn’t fuck around. He doesn’t treat me the way every single other douche in this bar does.

His gaze doesn’t linger on my tits and I don’t feel his stare when I walk away.

He’s just…him. We co-exist. I do my job, he pays his tab, always leaving way more than I deserve.

And that’s that. I enjoy his presence because it’s nothing like what I deal with daily.

Maybe I should take offense to that, because I do make it a point to put my body on display for the extra cash, but I don’t. Not with him. He comes in here to escape and that’s what I allow him to do.

Sarah told me a few days ago that I’m his favorite but I laughed and said she was out of her mind. He hardly speaks to me. According to her, it’s somehow much more attention than he gives anyone else who’s served him.

“You can get me something, sweetheart,” the drunk guy calls out from behind me.

I ignore him and focus on the dark and mysterious older man in front of me, paying close attention to the way his jaw tensed slightly when the guy spoke.

Mystery man slowly tilts his head toward me, his dark brown eyes piercing through me. "That'll be all. Thank you." His gaze doesn't falter, doesn't slide down my body, but yet stays directly on mine.

This should be the part where I feel intimidated, break eye contact, anything other than match the intensity of his stare. But I don’t. I let the wave of adrenaline rush over me and revel in the blissful decadence of it.

It’s him that looks away first, turning his focus back on the empty seat across from him.

I hide the smirk that wants to creep its way across my face and head toward Jack to see if there’s anything else he wants me to do before taking up my usual post behind the bar.