Chapter 3
Three
LULU
Ididn’t die today.
To be fair, it’s only eight in the evening, so there’s plenty of time for my status to change before midnight. I’m sure my father and his men are on the hunt for me. There’s no way they’re not. It’s been two days since I ran, and it’s not like I went very far.
Reno to Vegas is almost laughable.
But I decided to make it simple. Sure, I could have drained all my funds and spent a week on a godforsaken smelly bus to Florida or New York, but then I figured they’d probably expect me to go as far away as possible. They wouldn’t expect me to stay so close to home.
So I came to Vegas and checked into a motel using my new fake ID.
The motel is just on this side of sleazy, meaning there aren’t any bedbugs.
But the room hasn’t been updated since the 1980s, the carpet and drapes smell like cigarettes and pesticides—hence, no bedbugs—and I refuse to drink the water out of the tap.
I won’t even brush my teeth with it. I did see a housekeeper and witnessed them changing the sheets, so at least it’s relatively clean.
However, it’s on a shitty side of town. I got mugged this morning, and they took all the cash I had left, along with my burner phones.
I was stupid and put up a fight because it was everything I had left, so the two bastards kicked my ass.
Literally. They also managed to kick my ribs, and I’m so sore it hurts to breathe.
At least they didn’t hit my face. I already have a bruise on my jaw from my father’s farewell gift.
On the upside, before the mugging, I managed to buy a few items of clothing yesterday, and a few more staples like shampoo, a hair dryer, and makeup to cover my facial bruises.
The motel I could afford didn’t offer those amenities.
My room is only paid through the week, which means I have to figure out my financial situation within the next two days.
My father sold me.
My own flesh and blood fucking sold me, and even with my ribs singing and my money gone, that’s all I can think about.
Although I don’t respect or trust my father, I never believed he would have sold me as if I were an old car.
I know that arranged marriages are common in the Mafia, but he’s never uttered a word about it to me.
I didn’t even know that it was a possibility or a consideration.
I’m royally fucked. Stranded in Las Vegas, with no money and nowhere to go, I feel like I lost a fight with an MMA champion.
If I’m going to survive, I need a job. Now. Without money, I’m a sitting duck. I’m taking this one minute at a time. I can’t reach out to any friends to help me financially because I don’t have any friends. And even if I did, I wouldn’t trust them not to call my father.
With the hundreds of establishments on the Strip and in this city, someone will hire me on the spot.
I’m dressed in a pair of brown slacks with a cream blouse that I found at a discount department store.
I knew I needed something semi-nice for job interviews, and the jeans I ran away in wouldn’t cut it.
My dark hair was styled earlier, and if I tease it with my fingers, it’ll be okay.
Although I admit, I’m a mess. I’m shaky because I’m exhausted and hungry.
I don’t even want to know what my makeup looks like since I’ve been walking around the Strip aimlessly, trying to decide where to apply for a job.
I could start crying at the drop of a hat, but I don’t have time for that now.
If I keep my wits about me, I’ll survive the rest of this godforsaken day.
And hopefully end it gainfully employed.
Blowing out a breath, I look up and see a discreet sign.
RAPTURE.
I haven’t heard of this club before, but I like that it’s not over the top. There aren’t a ton of flashing lights around the name. It’s not … obvious.
Maybe they need a bartender. I can’t show my license thanks to having to use a fake ID, but I can make just about any drink under the sun. I’m good at it.
When I step inside the building, my jaw drops.
This is fancy. I know without a doubt that I’m way underdressed for this place, but I already like the vibe.
I push my hair over my shoulder and glance around.
The two men by the front door watch me, but they don’t kick me out on my ass, so I take that as a good sign.
I’m relieved when I find a restroom off the opulent lobby, because I need to freshen up before I speak to anyone.
The floors are gleaming gray marble, the walls black, and the club’s color scheme continues in the restroom, with gold light fixtures and finishes.
A quick look in the mirror has me cringing.
The makeup situation isn’t great, but after wetting a towel, I wipe the mascara from under my eyes and tidy my face up.
My hair is okay after I drag my fingers through the dark curls, but my outfit is rumpled after walking around most of the day.
At least I don’t have sweat stains in the armpits.
“Well, shit.” I smooth my hands down and then resign myself to having less-than-stellar clothes on.
I’ve learned how to hide my bigger body with fashion.
My father always hated that I’m curvier, with zero resemblance to the lean, statuesque women he wished he’d had on his arm in public, but after years of diets and exercise and hating myself, I realized that this is simply who I am.
I also learned to keep my makeup simple, so I didn’t draw the attention of my father’s soldiers. I hated it when they leered at me.
And what does it matter what he thinks of me? He no longer has a say in anything I do. And at twenty-three years old, it’s about damn time.
Squaring my shoulders, I push out of the restroom and approach a receptionist. I’ve never been in a club with a receptionist before.
“May I help you?” She’s tall and blond, with bright red lipstick and a perfect smoky eye, and she’s not wearing much of anything at all. Black leather straps crisscross over her body, strategically covering any of the bits that could get her arrested.
It’s actually pretty badass, and I wish I had the balls to wear that outfit.
“Hi, I was wondering if I could speak with a bar manager? I’m interested in a bartending position.”
Her eyebrows climb in surprise, and her pretty blue eyes travel up and down my torso, but she raises a walkie-talkie from her desk.
“Sure. What’s your name, honey?”
I start to open my mouth and then remind myself that I can’t give her my real name. Everyone will be looking for Eloise Rizzo.
“Lulu,” I reply. “Lulu Monroe.”
At least, that’s the name on my ID. I kept my nickname as the first name because I’ll need to respond when someone talks to me, and changed the last name altogether. Thank God my muggers left me the wallet. They just took the cash and then kicked me again because I didn’t have any credit cards.
Fuckers.
She raises the device and speaks into it. “Madam Loveland, I have a woman here to speak with you. She’s interested in the bartending position.”
The bartending position. Does that mean one’s available?
Maybe my luck is about to change after all.
A voice comes through the device. “I’ll be right down. Thank you, Scarlett.”
I smile at Scarlett, who smiles back at me.
“Can I offer you some advice?” she asks me, leaning just a little closer as if she’s going to tell me a secret.
“Sure.”
“Unbutton those top buttons, untuck the shirt, and tie it under your bra line. Show a little midriff.”
I lift an eyebrow in surprise. “Really?”
“Yes. Trust me on this.”
“I’m not too … curvy for that?”
“No way, you have a banging body,” she replies, and I can’t help but snort.
No one, not once in my life, has called my body banging.
But she works here, and she’s the expert.
Just as I’ve finished doing what she says, a door opens, and the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen in my life walks through it.
Scratch that. She doesn’t walk.
She … glides.
She has to be over six feet tall in those black stiletto boots. She’s in a tight white dress that shows off her hourglass figure and does little to hide her massive breasts.
Her glossy black hair is perfectly straight and falls over her shoulders, framing an angular face with sharp cheekbones, nose, and chin.
Dark chocolate eyes scan me from head to toe before she offers me her red-tipped hand.
“I’m Madam Loveland,” she says.
“Lulu,” I reply and shake the offered hand. “I’m hoping you have a bartender position open.”
“I see.” She nods once and turns away. “Come to my office, please.”
I glance back at the receptionist, who offers me a thumbs-up and an encouraging smile—I like her—and then follow Madam Loveland through the door, where I have to blink for my eyes to adjust to the dim lighting.
Sconces on the wall light the way, but they’re not bright, and the wallpaper is gray and black.
It’s … rich. The whole building feels lavish. Hell, it even smells extravagant. Like leather and whiskey, with a hint of citrus.
She leads me through yet another door, then closes it behind her and gestures for me to sit while she takes a seat behind the desk.
“Where did you hear about the position?”
“Oh.” I blink rapidly. “Honestly, I didn’t hear about an opening. I came in hoping there would be one available.”
Her eyes narrow, and I feel like I’ve done something wrong. Like she doesn’t believe me. “You randomly chose this establishment to walk into?”
“Yes.” I don’t drop my gaze. She might be the most impressive and intimidating woman I’ve ever met, but I learned a long time ago to keep my chin up in every situation.
Never let them see you sweat.
Her eyes drift down my body again, and she almost sneers.
“Where is your résumé?”
“I don’t have one on me.” I lean forward slightly. “I have experience. Show me a bar, request a drink, and I’ll make you the best fucking drink you’ve ever had. I can talk about just about anything. I’m not shy, I’m not a wallflower, and I’m also not a pushover.”
Her pink tongue pokes out to run along her bottom lip.
“But you don’t have a résumé with any references, and you walked in here looking like that.”
I lift an eyebrow and resist the urge to look down at myself. “Like what, exactly?”
“Listen, Lisa—”
“Lulu.”
“We cater to a very specific clientele. Elite. Wealthy. Important. They expect to be served by someone who looks … well, not like you.”
“Not like me in what way? They don’t like brunettes? Short girls? Green eyes?”
Yeah, bitch, I’m going to make you say it.
“Fat girls,” she finally replies, and although I was expecting it, it doesn’t sting any less.
But I keep my face bland.
“I see.” I nod and stand from the chair. “You could have told me that in the lobby, Madam Loveland.”
“I think that would have been rude,” she replies, making me laugh.
“Yes. That would have been rude.”
I shake my head and walk out, back down the dark hallway and make it to the lobby where Scarlett’s still operating the reception desk.
“How did it go?” she asks.
“She’s not interested in fat girls,” I inform her and watch her face transform into shock. “I know, right?”
I walk out the front door, keeping my integrity around me like a shield. Once I get to the sidewalk, I take a deep breath.
Well, fuck.