The Bratva Beast’s Boo (31 Days of Trick or Treat: Biker & Mobster #39)

CHAPTER 1

Petal St. Clare

Stillness reclaims the space, my own breaths so slow and measured even the air around me is motionless. I count the beats of my heart as I inventory the undisturbed aura around me. I’m alone. I’m safe. I’m home.

After a mental count to five hundred, I finally allow myself to trust no one lies in wait in the darkness.

For three months, I’ve secretly lived in this storage garage.

I’m sure there are rules against it, but the alternative is sleeping in doorways and on park benches.

Been there. Done that. The risk of being followed by the storage lot manager and kicked out is scary, but not nearly as terrifying as sleeping rough has been.

Eventually, I’m confident enough time has passed that I can trust I wasn’t seen by management when I slipped through the gate after hours.

I pat my hand against the metal wall until I locate the light switch.

Casting my gaze around my meager piles of possessions, it’s a relief to see nothing has been disturbed while I’ve been out.

The next order of business is tucking a tattered blanket against the doorway to make sure no light seeps out and alerts passersby to my presence.

I fasten the padlock through the handle that opens the bay and relax for the first time in nearly ten hours.

Secure for the night, the weight of my life feels the tiniest bit softer.

More manageable. Today’s been a good day.

Honestly, every day since I had the brilliant idea to rent this storage bay and use it as a home base has been pretty damn good.

Way better than sticking around to be Jordan’s punching bag.

Way better than being constantly reminded my only value was being on my back for him and his drugged-out buddies.

Way better than watching him and those same buddies skim drugs from the men they were supposed to be dealing for.

I knew they’d be found out eventually and punished along with anyone stupid enough to be caught in the fallout.

And I hadn’t been down with being collateral damage in that mess.

Is this the life I envisioned when I snuck out of my mother’s house at seventeen, sick of being leered at by her husband and his creepy sons?

Of course not. But I have a locked door between me and the night, and there’s nobody knocking me around or taking what’s not freely given.

So I’m not mad about it. And one day soon, I’ll have enough saved to get a real place of my own.

Somewhere I can decide what happens and when.

My backpack’s stuffed with the laundry I just finished washing at the laundromat and a bag of trail mix from the vending machine that spits out dryer sheets and snacks.

I shake out the retro pinup-style dress I wear to the diner I’ve worked at for a few days and try to tug out any wrinkles.

Landing a job at Pete’s Pastries is my ticket to stability, and I’ll be damned if I let a wrinkled uniform stand in my way.

I’m as careful as a prom queen with her gown when I drape it over the collapsible wagon I’ve used to tow everything I own around town with me.

Exhaustion pulls at me, and I lie down on the pallet of blankets I had the foresight to grab as I fled Jordan’s apartment for the last time.

It might have been as hot as the surface of the sun when I escaped in July, but I’ve lived around here long enough to know I’d regret not having warm clothes come winter.

I thought I’d be on my feet before fall.

Still, here I am, grateful for summer me’s cynicism.

Because it’s nearly October, and on most days, it feels as if I’ll never be back on solid ground.

Sleep edges closer and closer as I work through a mental budget in an attempt to figure out how soon I might be able to scrounge up the deposit on an apartment.

Four a.m. is going to come real quick. I’ll need to be up and headed to work by then, if I want to catch fat tips from the early professional crowd when their breakfasts are served hot and fast. Every dime of every dollar gets me closer to my goals.

George, the grizzly old man who owns Pete’s, says if I prove my worth, he’ll let me pick up double shifts starting next week.

Hope unfurls in my chest, swelling and filling the space occupied by my empty stomach.

Sure, I could eat that trail mix now and buy a muffin at work tomorrow.

They’re fluffy and nearly as big as my hand, and every time I bring one to a table, it’s a fight not to bury face into it like a starving maniac.

But they’re also nearly six dollars. Which is five dollars and thirty cents more than the bag of trail mix I’ve got tucked away to eat tomorrow.

So, instead of ripping open the bag of peanuts, raisins, and chocolate chips, I let the nourishment of hope sustain me.

I’ve got a roof and four walls around me, a job with the promise of all the hours I can possibly work, and a plan.

Petal St. Clare is a survivor. And survivors survive.