Chapter Two
Luna
I am not what most would call...graceful.
It is ironic to me because my childhood dream was to be a dancer. I love how expressive dance can be, how you can get lost in the beat or even the lyrics of a song, and how it moves you right down to your toes. Sadly, I stumble over my own feet too often to make a career of dancing.
Giving up a childhood dream is something we all do. We think our parents are superheroes, our friendships are everlasting, and our heart will never break. I had to learn that none of that is true.
Once my parents began a bitter divorce, I was little more than a pawn in their twisted game of chess. Friends I had known forever grew to be mere acquaintances before becoming strangers. All of that broke my heart in little pieces before the first man I ever trusted besides my father shattered the rest of it. In a double shot, he took the last friend I had left with him.
“Careful there, sugartits,” the brutish chef calls, eyes on the aforementioned tits of sugar. “Go, get this to those fellas upstairs.”
Wobbling on heels so spiked I could slice his jugular—and I kind of want to—I nod. I take the tray of champagne and caviar, bracing it on my shoulder. It weighs me down enough to send me stagging a few feet. Taking a calming breath, I paste on a smile as I head towards the stairs.
We’re at a swanky old theater, host of tonight’s reception for a big shot wedding. I saw celebrities dancing with criminals out on the dance floor tonight. It takes all kinds to make up the elite I suppose. Once upon a time, I was a guest at these sorts of shindigs. Before my father cut me off, throwing me out of his home and his entire life.
Mother handed me over to him after their divorce. All she wanted was the monthly stipend he promised her to stay away. He had control of her so I think he thought he would have the same control over me. I am a mess, but I am not enough of a mess to take demands from someone. Then again if I had allowed him some control, I might be in a better place now.
Tonight, I am slaving away catering to the rich and ridiculous. Yesterday, I came home from being fired after burning my boss with hot coffee to find my best friend banging my former boyfriend. Tomorrow, I have to drain my savings to find a hotel that will let me bring my kitten Hercules with me. The little ball of fluff is the last good thing in my life.
“Move it, hot stuff,” a voice calls as I stumble down a dark hall.
Blinking as a whirl of silver flies past me, I curse as I almost go down on the hellish heels. The big butt, big boob blonde smirks back at me with a wink. Part of me wants to throw the loaded tray at her. The other wants to fall to bits and call daddy to so he can take control of my mess of a life.
Thinking of my mother, of how weak I viewed her for my entire life, I shake that feeling off. No falling to bits. No calling my father to plead for an inch when I need a mile. I will not let someone else control my life. Not that I have any ideas of how to control it myself. All I can do is put one food in front of the other—even in these hellish heels—and get through it.
“Be better than her. That is all you need to do. Be better than a woman who abandoned her daughter in exchange for a life of leisure.”
Huffing as tears sting my eyes and make my affirmation wobble, I square my shoulders. I am better than her. Better than my father. I am a good person. I am a mess, sure. Sometimes we make a mess of things. They made a mess of me. That is why I struggle. Why I make a mess of jobs, of my friendships, and every other relationship in my life. Besides Hercules.
I am not sure I know who I am—and how I can be something to someone if I am no one to myself?
“Stop playing Dr. Freud. Sounding like a damn fortune cookie.”
Chuckling at myself, I reach for the door to the balcony. I gasp as my blasted heels tangle in the carpet runner. I go down hard, the tray sailing comically high in the air before crashing down on me. Sitting in the mess of the priciest champagne and caviar I have ever seen I curse a blue streak.
“Oh hell. Double Dutch and motherfuck!” I bellow, smacking at the thick carpet runner that was my downfall.
Pushing up on my knees, I take a moment to gather myself. It hurts where my backside hit the floor, but nothing I can’t survive. Leaning forward, I take a calming breath as I begin to clean up the mess I made. I stop when I see three sets of feet in my direct line of sight.
“Holy hell, who is this?” a deep voice with a slight accent mutters.
Sitting back on my haunches, I wait for it. To be yelled at. To be called a hot mess—because I am one. Or worse, for them to laugh at me. Make fun of the mess I made of myself, of my too-tight uniform, of the entire night. Tilting my head back, back, I gasp again. Because holy hell indeed.
Before me stands three of the hottest men I have ever seen. Not one. Or even two. Three of them tower over me as I stay knelt on the floor. It hits me out of nowhere how right it feels to be knelt in front of them this way. I wave that off as absurd as I stare up at them in complete awe.
“It's....holy hell, it’s her,” the middle guy states as he stares down at me, looking as stunned as I am feeling.
Blinking up at him, I cock my head. I turn to glance behind me. No one is there. To my left, to my right. No one. I am the her here, so what the hell does he mean? I frown as I glance down at myself. Flushing, I note that I am just about spilling out of the tiny dress they stuffed me in earlier. Down on my knees at a wedding with champagne flowing faster than some rapids.
Do they think I am here for them to play with?
Why does that have heat coiling between my legs. Am I just reacting to how hot they look staring down at me? I have seen handsome men. Men made pretty by surgeries or extensive diet or exercise regimes. This is...this is different. These three men...they’re a level of hot, of attractive, of alluring I have never witnessed before.
On the left, the biggest guy is dark—dark eyes, dark hair cut short on the sides but mussed long on the top. On the right, he is tall, slim, with intense eyes and a shock of copper hair. Mischief lights his eyes as they watch me. It is the man in the middle, the biggest man with the wide shoulders and light, green eyes, that I cannot take my eyes off.
“I... I am... what I mean is...who is her?”
Watching the middleman, I fall back a little. Because he moves fast, kneeling so we’re face to face. I smell his cologne, woodsy and spicy, and the feint scent of cigars. Also....I smell sex. Does he smell like sex? Because he sure as hell looks like it to me.
His dark brow quirks as he smiles at me, flashing a perfect smile. Oh. It sparkles because the canine is lined with gold and capped with a diamond. The thought of how it might feel on my tongue if we kissed runs through my head. Why am I thinking of kissing him? I am still mending a broken heart.
“You, babydoll. Her is you. Come here, let’s get you off your knees.”
“Not that you don’t look perfect on your knees, sweetness,” the darker guy hums as he bends to take my elbow.
They both touch me at the same time. It feels the same as when I wear my fuzzy socks and go to turn on the light. A bolt of electricity hits me. Not bad enough to hurt. Just enough to wake me up. To make me aware of them.
“That sounded dirty,” I answer with a shrug. I blink at the middleman again, tilting my head once more. Why does he seem so familiar?
“Par for the course with me, sweetheart.”
It is then I realize I am circled by the three men up on this empty balcony overlooking the party below. Music is thumping so loud it makes my heart quake. They could do whatever they wanted to me. No one would ever hear my cries. Would I scream? Or would I....would I let them do what they wanted?
“No one will hurt you, babydoll. I promise. Tell me your name.”
“Uh...I uh....” for a moment, I cannot recall my own name. “Luna. Luna Ritchie. I am not...no one sent me here to...I mean they did. For, not for that. I am a waitress. Well, no, I am not. Tonight I am. Yesterday, I was an intern at a record label. I spilled hot coffee on the boss. Now I waitress.”
All three men exchange a look. I frown, wondering if they plan to tell me whatever they just decided amongst themselves. The way they move with one another, the way their eyes speak without their mouths ever moving, it is obvious they’re close. They move closer still, moving as one unit.
“No worries about that mess out there,” the lighter one tells me.
“I make a mess anywhere I go. Kind of what I do. These heels,” I laugh at myself, kicking one heel up to show them how ridiculous they are. It is a bad idea. I stumble because of course I do, falling against the one in the middle again. He catches me, his big, warm hands sliding over my hips.
“A beautiful mess,” he purrs, his fingers digging into me, tugging me close to him.
I gasp because it is so forward, so unexpected I am stunned. I grasp his shoulders as I wobble on the heels. Another gasp sounds when a warm palm presses to the back of my thigh, forcing my leg to pop up. My eyes flutter as a big, rough hand takes off my left heel. Then they move to the other thigh and remove that heel.
“Let those pretty feet rest, sugar,” the golden one to my left husks.
For a moment, I smell their cologne, feel the warmth of them, hear how their breath accelerates. Blinking at the sudden intensity of the moment, I push at the massive chest of the man in front of me. I stumble back a few feet before they rush forward to catch me.
“Careful, babydoll. Can’t have you damaging the goods now.”
Again, I push his shoulders, even as my body goes soft against his. Tilting my head back, I glare up at him. Do they talk to all women this way? Babydoll, sugar, all this cute stuff? The idea makes me sick to my stomach.
“Oh, I get it. Big, hot, alpha male save stupid little damsel,” I taunt them with words dripping with sarcasm. “Enough. I am not here as a party favor to some backroom bad boys. I brough the champagne and caviar. I am wearing half of it because I am a mess which is...what did you say, big guy? Par for the course? That is me all day, big boy. Pardon me, I am going to go get fired—again—because I am a shit waitress.”
“Luna, let me apologize. I am Enzo. My partners, Mateo, Tomas. I am sorry. We were being too forward. Weddings tend to make us... crave things. You understand, don’t you?”
Blinking up at him, I nod. I mean, I might not understand at all, but I cannot say no to him. Something keeps drawing me forward, even after I pushed them off me in a huff. They circle closer too, giving me a little space yet sticking close to me.
“You came to a wedding looking for a bride?” I tease with a smirk. Enzo flashes his own grin and my heart titter-tats in my chest. Whoa.
“We came looking for something, Luna,” he hums as his fingers brush some fallen bangs out of my eyes. I flutter out a breath. I am lightheaded. Dizzied. Heart racing. Breath sawing out of my lungs. I am not well.
“I... I need to go get fired. Keep the shoes. Never fit me anyway.”
“Luna, before you go get fired,” Mateo is talking, his accent thicker than the others, his voice warm as fresh caramel. Turning back, I cock a head at him, waiting. He smirks, taking a few steps forward. “Find us here once you decide you’d let us save ourselves a damsel.”
Mateo holds a card out. I consider refusing whatever it is he is offering. Thinking better of it—because what else do I have to lose—I take it. It is crisp black with silver writing on it. An address on one side and a few words on the other.
Club Sin. Room One-Twenty-Eight.