Chapter 2
2
GIANNA
Ugh, my neck is itching like crazy again.
I reach up to scratch it, eyes darting around the quiet streets of this rich-as-hell Seattle suburb, suddenly hyper-aware of my surroundings. Shit, am I about to be found again? The warning signs are all there. That familiar prickle means I’ve stayed too long, gotten too comfortable despite the endless godforsaken rain.
Two months on the run and my instincts are sharper than ever. Which is the only reason I’m not face down in a shallow grave right now, courtesy of my psycho uncle.
I sigh heavily as I jam my finger into the doorbell of my latest employer’s mansion. Mrs. Churchill—old money, more art pieces than sense, and a peculiar obsession with having every surface gleaming like it’s never been touched by human hands.
The door swings open mid-sigh, and the housekeeper’s face appears with her usual ‘What now?’ frown. “Something wrong, Bree?”
I startle at the name—Bree. Right. My new alias. It’s getting harder to keep track. The names are piling up faster than the false trail I’m leaving across the country. Bree, Madison, Anna, Kate… after a while, they all start to blur.
I’m losing pieces of myself every time I shed my skin. Pretty soon, there won’t be anything left.
Maybe it’s for the best.
The housekeeper’s deepening frown snaps me back, so I plaster on my best everything’s-fine smile. “Nope, all good, thanks.”
Her suspicious gaze drills into the back of my skull as I make my way to the supply closet. I gather my weapons—mop, bleach, gloves, cleaning brush—and march towards the ground-floor powder room, determined to push through another day of scrubbing this ridiculously huge mansion.
Professional cleaner. That’s my current gig.
Turns out the stupidly rich shell out a decent chunk of cash for ‘professional’ cleaning services. And lucky for me, I’ve gotten damn good at playing the part.
The bathrooms are my starting point, as always. Hair goes up into a bun, leather gloves snap on. Time to get to work.
Cleaning an entire two-story mansion is tedious, but I grit my teeth and tough it out, humming under my breath to distract myself as I listen to my playlist through my AirPod.
Five hours later, my back is screaming and my thighs are jelly, but the job’s done. I return the supplies to the closet and find the housekeeper waiting for me in the foyer, envelope in hand. The moment that makes this all worth it.
At every house I’ve worked the past few weeks, I’ve made it a rule to collect my payment the same day—you never know when you’ll need to run, and being broke while on the run is a death sentence I’ve already narrowly avoided once.
I accept the envelope and count the crisp twenties right there, not caring if it seems rude. Trust is a luxury I can’t afford anymore. Satisfied, I flash her a quick smile and turn to leave.
“See you next week?” Her question stops me on the front steps.
I work here once a week, and this is already my second week. Any longer, and I’d be tempting fate. Still, I hesitate before I say, “I don’t think so. This might be my last time here.”
I need to stick to the rules I set for myself. They’re why I’ve managed to stay off my uncle’s radar—and out of reach of his criminal cronies—for two whole months.
Rule number one: never stay longer than two weeks in one place. Seattle’s time is up.
She narrows her eyes, and I can see the questions on her tongue, but she swallows them. “Goodbye then, Bree. I’ll be sure to let Mrs. Churchill know.” The door shuts with a soft click of finality, and I let out a long sigh.
Goodbye, Seattle; goodbye to the name Bree. Another identity to shed. Because rule two: never reuse names. Each alias is a one-time mask, worn and discarded. This is so if someone manages to connect one false identity, they won’t be able to follow the breadcrumbs to the next. So Bree dies here in Seattle, just like Sarah died in Philadelphia and Maria in Detroit. No connections, no trails.
The only constants in my nomadic life are my go-to jobs: Cleaning, bartending—anything that pays cash and doesn’t need an ID.
I stuff the envelope into my backpack and jog through Madison Park’s picture-perfect streets to the bus stop. The doors start closing as I approach. “Hold the bus!” I yell, breaking into a sprint. Thankfully, the driver shows mercy, reopening the doors just long enough for me to stumble inside with a breathless thanks.
I slump into the nearest empty seat and press my cheek to the cold glass, watching the city go by, tired as hell.
Two stops from my place, I get off the bus and walk the rest of the way on foot, sweat dripping down my back, limbs heavy with exhaustion. Because rule three—though it really should be part of rule two—is to never leave a direct trail from the bus stop or taxi to wherever I live. Can’t be too careful.
The road gets progressively filthier the farther I walk. I have to weave around a minefield of broken bottles and suspicious-looking lumps as the houses start to crowd together, the pristineness fading like a mirage when I reach the other side of Capitol Hill: the poor side.
People loiter on the sidewalk, smoking, their eyes glazed. The tall schizophrenic guy I usually see walking around at this time is out, his curly hair a tangled mess and his soles blackened from walking barefoot. He catches my wince at the state of them and rewards me with some particularly creative curses. Poetry of the streets.
I walk faster, head down, avoiding eye contact as I hurry to my run-down apartment.
Rule number four: no meaningful interactions. The fewer people who remember me, the better. If they don’t know me, they can’t say anything about me.
Finally, I make it into my building and groan when the ‘Out of Order’ sign still mocks me from the elevator—it has worked exactly twice the entirety of my two weeks here, and I’m starting to think those times were hallucinations brought on by wishful thinking.
My legs protest as I drag myself up the stairs to my second-floor apartment, on the verge of collapse by the time I reach the door. The key slides home, and I slip inside the one-room space, immediately locking the door behind me before wedging a chair under the handle—a habit born of necessity and too many close calls.
Now, time to visit my ‘safe’.
See, I learned real quick not to leave money lying around after some junkie broke in and cleaned me out two weeks into being on the run. So I got creative. I peel back the lid on the toilet tank and pull out a Ziplock bag. Then another. And another. Three layers of plastic protect the money I’ve earned over the past two weeks. Today’s one-fifty joins the pile.
Five hundred dollars total.
I sigh as I reseal all the bags and plop my meager life savings back in the tank, replacing the lid. Not nearly enough, never enough, but it’ll have to do.
After a quick shower that barely qualifies as more than a rinse, I collapse on my sorry excuse for a mattress. Just a quick power nap before my shift at the bar tonight. One last shift. Then it’s bon voyage Seattle.
The gnawing hunger wakes me before my alarm can do its job. I blink blearily around my dark room for a moment before I force myself up. My feet hit the cold floor, and I fumble my way to the kitchenette, retrieving the remains from this morning’s breakfast—stale bread and jam, the glamorous food of a woman on the run.
I wolf down my dinner-breakfast hybrid, finishing just as the alarm blares to life. I smack the off button and groggily start getting ready for my last shift at the bar. Once I'm done, I grab my bag from the floor and throw all of my meager belongings into it, except my toilet tank savings—I can get that when I’m back later. I toss the backpack on the bed, then shove the chair away from the door so I can get out.
I lock the door and jog down the stairs, already counting the minutes. Damn, I’m cutting it close.
“You’re late!” Vince yells at me as soon as I walk into the establishment—a medium-sized bar in the middle of downtown Seattle that’s mostly patronized by tourists. I glance at the huge digital clock on the wall. 9:10 PM.
“By ten minutes,” I point out, lifting the divider and slipping behind the bar so I can go to the staff room at the back.
“This is the first time you’re late, so I’ll let it slide. Next time, it’s coming off your check,” he calls after me.
“Lucky for us both, there won’t be a next time…” I murmur under my breath, rolling my eyes as I push inside the female changing room. I change into my uniform—a mini skirt that barely covers my ass and a top with the name of the bar engraved on it that exposes more cleavage than I’m comfortable with. But hey, more skin, more tips, right? Doesn’t make me hate it any less, though.
With a sigh, I toss my old clothes into the locker and slam it shut before heading back out to the main bar. Its modest size means it’s just Vince and me running the show, even during the peak hours. Small space, small crew, big headaches.
By 10 PM, we’re open for business and customers slowly trickle in. 2 AM and I’m dead on my feet but we still have an hour to go. At least it’s a slow night, being the middle of the week and all. But that also means my tips tonight are going to suck. Can’t win.
Thirty minutes to closing, I’m wiping down the bar when the door opens, and I start my usual closing-time spiel: “We’re closing soon, so we can’t—” The words die in my throat as I look up and see him.
Holy mother of sin.
An aura of danger oozes off him like sweat in the summer heat, and it’s not just the tattoos covering his muscular frame.
He carries himself with the entitled nonchalance of a man who has never heard “no”—wealth and power in human form. The custom suit should scream civilized, but not on him. If anything, it only emphasizes the raw danger beneath, like a tiger trying to pass itself off as a house cat. And no one’s fooled. His hair is shaved on both sides, leaving a thick mass of dark blond curls on top, surrounded by dark lines of tattoos.
The inked lines stretch down from his skull to the back of his neck, his muscled throat, and disappear into the crisp white collar of his shirt. Drool pools in the corner of my mouth when he shoves curls off his face, revealing more of the cryptic patterns inked on the sides of his skull. I squint as I try to make sense of the scribbled lines and words, but my brain short-circuits somewhere between “art” and “Jesus Christ, that’s hot.” So I move on.
Gold studs wink from his earlobes, matching the piercing in his brow and the gold circle in his nose. By looks alone, he’s the living, breathing cliché of every stereotypical bad boy teenage girls crush on.
Except this is no teenage fantasy. This is a grown-ass man who could probably snap me in two without breaking a sweat. And fuck me, if that thought doesn't make me clench…
I’ve never seen a more handsome man in my life.
As if sensing my appreciative stare, he turns his full attention on me. Pale blue eyes, sharp as icicles, knock the breath clean out of my lungs. Fuck, it should be a crime to be that gorgeous. No, really . His beauty borders on angelic.
He’s getting closer to the bar, and I can feel my brain turning to mush, my heart stumbling over itself, and— lord have mercy —little pools of liquid leaking from my core.
I squeeze my thighs together and quickly look away from him before I can embarrass myself. A surreptitious swipe across my cheek confirms no actual drool, thank God. But still, I keep scrubbing the same spot on the bar over and over, hyper-aware of his gaze searing into me as he closes the distance.
Shit. Shit. What do I do? What do I say ? ‘Hi, welcome to the bar I can’t even pretend to manage because I’m too busy picturing you naked’? Hell, no.
Then his scent hits me, and my whole thought process goes up in smoke. He smells like dark chocolate, bergamot mixed with cigarettes, and sinful nights. It’s dizzying... It’s delicious. I inhale deeply, greedy for more of it, even as more arousal dampens my panties.
“Hi, there.” The rich baritone of his voice is the final nail in my coffin.
I make the mistake of looking up, and those striking eyes capture me completely. The slight quirk of his lips—not quite a smile—sets off fireworks in my stomach. And suddenly I’m desperate to see what a real smile would look like on that beautiful face. Dangerous, probably.
My pulse kicks into overdrive and I go stock-still, hardly daring to breathe, when he reaches out to tuck an errant strand of hair behind my ear. His warm fingers barely graze the shell of my ear, but I shudder. My breath hitches, and he notices. Oh, he definitely notices.
His eyes kindle with amusement, but that maddeningly restrained smile doesn’t budge. Damn it.
“Bree! What are you doing?” Vince’s grating voice, far too close, jolts me out of my trance. Literally. I jump a little, heat flooding my cheeks as I realize how blatantly I’ve been staring. Ducking my head, I scuttle away from the handsome stranger and escape to the other end of the bar, putting as much distance as possible between me and him.
What the hell is wrong with me? It’s not like I haven’t seen a hot man or two in my lifetime. I’m not some bumbling virgin, for crying out loud.
From the corner of my eye, I see him lean over and say something to Vince that I miss while attending to another customer. Whatever it is, it has my boss rolling his eyes as he stalks over to me. “He wants you,” he mutters, jerking his head back towards my handsome stranger.
My heart skips at his choice of words. He wants me. Could a man like that really want someone like me? No, don’t be ridiculous. He looks like he could have any woman. All he’d have to do is snap his powerful, tattooed and ringed fingers, and panties would drop—mine included.
“Did you hear me?” Vince barks. “Go take his order. And be quick about it.”
My feet are moving on autopilot, taking me back to him—back into his orbit. I have to force myself to meet his gaze, instantly getting lost in his electric blue eyes again. “What–what would you like to order?”
He tilts his head just the slightest bit. “What are you offering?”
I freeze. Is he… flirting with me? No, no way. I clear my throat, trying to maintain some semblance of professionalism. “You can, uh, check the menu if you’re not sure what you want yet.”
“What if I want you? Would you give me yourself?”
My core clenches, nipples pebbling beneath my bra. Fuck . He’s definitely flirting with me. This glorious man is hitting on me . Is this a joke? A dream? Did I slip in the shower and crack my head open? Because no way this is happening.
I stare at him awkwardly for a moment, trying to remind myself of rule number three—or was it number four? Never make any meaningful interactions. Don’t let anyone remember you.
Just walk away Gianna. Tell him to fuck off. Do not engage.
Except…
Except when else will another god in a suit hit on me like this? Fuck it. I’m leaving tomorrow anyway. Might as well have some fun on my way out.
I put on my best coy smile. “Trust me, baby. You wouldn’t be able to handle me.”