7. Elle
ELLE
I stare at the stack of cash on the laminate counter. It sits next to a half-empty box of generic cereal. Eight thousand pounds. This pays my rent for ten months.
I pick up a bundle and thumb through the notes. They feel crisp. Fintan Keane tossed this away. He didn’t blink. To me, it changes my entire year. I don’t like that he knows how desperate I am. I let him watch me come for this. I watched him back and earned more.
The dark, horrible part of me tells me there is an opportunity buried in here somewhere. The sensible part—more sensible part—tries to get me to push it away.
His direct question hurt me.
It’s a question I avoid at all costs, even from myself.
No one needs to know I dropped out of school pregnant and had an abortion that mentally nearly killed me.
It’s no one’s business that my parents threw me out, and I had to find my way at fifteen.
It definitely isn’t Fintan Keane’s business that this was just the easiest way out when I turned eighteen, even though it’s ended up an absolute nightmare for the past six years because I don’t even earn enough taking my clothes off to pay my rent.
It’s no wonder more than half the girls I work with take “extras” to make ends meet, and why people like Tia exist.
I’m not stupid. I know I don’t put any effort into it. I should. I’d make more if I smiled and flirted and did lap dances, or more.
But every time I talk myself into it, I just can’t. I just go back to that place where the Maths teacher took advantage of me and then left me high and dry with his wife and two kids, a nice house and a family dog.
I can’t even have sex for pleasure, let alone money.
My skin prickles. I want to feel disgust at Fintan, his brothers, the man who betrayed me, my parents. Instead, I feel wired. He didn’t kill me. He didn’t even touch me. He just watched me.
I shove the money into a drawer under my towels. I hide it deep. If the landlord sees this, he raises my rent. If a neighbour hears about it, they rob me. Fintan fixed the lock, but the danger remains. He brought a different kind of threat into my flat.
I walk to the window and peek through the gap in the curtains. A black Range Rover is parked halfway down the street. I know it’s his. People on this street don’t own Range Rovers. They don’t know people who drive Range Rovers.
“Go away,” I mutter. I drop the curtain, move away from the window, and pick up the stack of bills.
Flicking through them one by one, I add up how much I need to clear this debt.
Four hundred and fifty pounds. I have it.
I can go down to the post office now and pay them all off.
Making the decision, I move back to the drawer with the notes and count out five hundred pounds.
I’ll stop at the shop on the way back for something hot to eat.
I grab my coat and shove the five hundred pounds deep into my inner pocket, zipping it tight.
My heart races; it won’t settle. I check the window again and see that the Range Rover has gone.
I leave my flat, make it down the stairs, and push through the front door. The lock Fintan fixed feels solid now. It clicks shut with a heavy, expensive sound that doesn’t belong in this dump. I keep my head down and walk toward the main road.
The post office is a ten-minute walk. I spend every second of it imagining a car door opening or a hand grabbing my arm.
When I finally reach the counter, the clerk looks at my stack of final notices with a bored expression.
I count out the cash, the crisp notes looking alien against the scratched plastic of the counter.
The sound of the stamp hitting the paper is the most satisfying thing I’ve heard in years.
I walk out of the post office with a lightness that hasn’t been there for months. The stack of stamped receipts in my pocket feels like a shield. For the first time in forever, I don’t have to dread the sound of the letterbox or the heavy knock of a debt collector.
I stop at the supermarket on the way back and buy a whole rotisserie chicken, actual butter, fresh bread and a bottle of wine that costs more than five pounds.
It’s a reckless indulgence, but I need something to dull the sharp edges of the day.
The bag feels heavy in my hand, a physical manifestation of my new reality.
As I turn onto my street, the damp mist turns back into a steady drizzle.
I duck my head, pulling my collar up. I’m half a block from my building when a dark car pulls alongside me.
My heart stops. It isn’t the Range Rover.
It’s a sleek, black Mercedes with windows so tinted they look like obsidian.
The back window slides down with a mechanical hum.
“Get in.”
It isn’t Fintan. This voice is deeper, more cultured, and carries the weight of a direct command.
Lorcan Keane. I recognise that icy tone. I stand on the pavement with my plastic bag of groceries in my hand. The chicken is warm against my leg through the thin plastic. Rain hits the black paint of the car. I look around the street. It is empty. No one is coming to save me.
“I’m going home,” I say. My voice doesn’t sound strong.
“Don’t make me ask twice, Miss Langley,” Lorcan says. He doesn’t look at me. He just waits.
I think about the cash in my drawer. I think about the lock Fintan fixed. None of it matters. These men own the city. The back door opens, and I stare at it. The interior is leather and silence. I slide onto the seat and keep my grocery bag on my lap. The door closes with a soft thud.
The car moves immediately.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“To have a frank conversation.” He looks at me. His blue eyes are sharp. He scans my face and then looks at the bag in my lap. “You can make me dinner.”
“Oh, can I?” I grit out. I clutch the plastic handles until the skin on my palms turns white.
“I don’t take orders,” I say.
Lorcan doesn’t look impressed. He sits back in the leather and stares out of the window. “You’ll find that everyone takes orders from me eventually.”
I gulp as the car stops outside my block of flats. Lorcan opens the back door and climbs out, holding it open for me to slide across the seat and step into a puddle he apparently avoided. I curse under my breath and shake my shoes off as Lorcan takes the bag from me.
“Lead the way, Miss Langley.”
“You called me Elle last night,” I say. “Why so formal?”
“Last night was different,” he states and leaves it at that, waiting for me to lead him to the front door.
I let him in, wondering if he knew his brother fixed the lock.
We head up the stairs in silence. I feel his silent judgement but ignore it.
I’m not defending this place to him. He can swivel.
I stop at my door, and my hand shakes, making the metal jingle against the lock.
Lorcan stands behind me, his presence a heavy, suffocating pressure that makes the hallway feel even narrower than it is.
I get the door open and step inside, not even bothered about kicking off my wet shoes this time. I just want this over with.
He follows me in and places the grocery bag on the counter, right next to where the cash was sitting only an hour ago. My heart hammers against my ribs. Did Fintan tell him?
“Nice place,” Lorcan says. The sarcasm is so thick I can almost taste it. He doesn’t wait for an invite. He moves to the middle of the room, his expensive wool coat looking all wrong in this dump.
“I’m sure it’s a palace compared to where you spend your time,” I snap, heading for the kitchen area to grab two plates. I need to keep my hands busy.
He turns, his gaze tracking my every movement. “Do you know who I am, Miss Langley?”
“Everyone knows who you are,” I say, pulling the chicken out of the bag, followed by the rest of the contents. “Is that all? You can go now.”
His gaze bores into mine. “Not even close. What you walked into last night… tell me how you got in.”
“I already told you. I was looking for a private party. I got lost. The doors were unlocked.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“Do I look like I can pick a lock on a massive steel door? Hmm?”
The corner of his sexy mouth turns up as his gaze slides over every curve. I guess I asked for that.
“No,” he says, eventually. “I just want to know if you saw anyone?”
“No one. Why?”
“So I know who to kill.”
I snort, but when he gives me a blank stare, I stop, my palms sweating. He’s fucking serious. I turn back to the chicken and focus on carving off slices. “How hungry are you?” I croak.
“Hungry enough,” he says and pulls out one of my two chairs, turning it backwards and sitting astride it.
I keep my eyes down and slice the chicken apart, laying pieces on a plate. My hands have stopped shaking, which surprises me. The domestic action of making food helps. I feel less like prey when I’m carving up a cooked bird.
I drop bread onto a second plate and cut the butter open.
The simple smell of a warm meal fills the flat.
I’m acutely aware of how small this space is with him in it.
Lorcan Keane takes up space in a room. It has nothing to do with his physical size and everything to do with the weight of his presence.
I set the plate in front of him and take mine to the opposite side of the table. He looks at the food, then at me, then picks up the bread and takes a bite. I wasn’t expecting that. I expected him to sniff at it or ignore it entirely.
“What are you really doing here?” I ask after a few bites.
He finishes off the bread and leans over to grab the tea towel off the counter to wipe his hands on. “You walked into something that was meant to be kept a secret.”
“A secret from every person in there?” I ask, scrunching up my nose.
He smiles. “Everyone in there knows the cost of the secret.”
“You hit a man.”
“I’ve hit many men.”
“Is he okay?”
“He’ll live. The question is, should he?”
I nearly choke on my chicken. “Why?” I whisper.
“He crossed me. It’s never a good idea.”
“Is that why you are here? To threaten me with a beating if I say what I saw?”
He stands and moves next to me, lifting my chin so I have to look at him, not my food. His touch is light, but there’s nothing gentle in his grip. “I’m not here to threaten you with a beating, Elle.”
Back to Elle. “Then why?”
“I want to know what you’re going to do about what you saw.”
“Nothing,” I say. “I’m going to do nothing. I’m going to eat my chicken and forget I ever found that place.”
He studies my face with those ice-blue eyes, searching for the lie. I hold his gaze and try not to blink too fast. My chin is still in his hand. His thumb presses lightly against my jaw. It’s barely anything, but it makes my pulse scatter.
“You’re not afraid enough,” he says.
“I’m terrified.”
“Then why aren’t you acting like it?”
“Because acting strong makes it easier to deal with.”
“That sounds…” He pauses, and the intensity of his stare increases. “Who hurt you?”
I lower my gaze. He tilts my head back in response, and my gaze finds his again. “No one you have any business asking about.”
“I’ll kill him.”
I choke on my saliva. “Is that your response to everything?”
“Mostly. It solves a lot of problems.”
“And you get away with it?”
He smiles. It’s icy, but I can’t tear my stare away from his lips. “I get away with it. Do you know why, Miss Langley?”
“Because you bribe the police?”
He lets out an amused sound. “Sometimes. Mostly because I’m very good at what I do, and no one questions the billionaire in the room when there are a thousand other suspects that can be dredged up and placed in a precarious situation.”
My heart thumps at that. It’s more horrifying than if he had threatened to kill me. “You’re telling me you frame people.”
“I’m telling you I’m thorough.” He releases my chin and moves back to his chair, dropping into it with the ease of a man who has never once felt cornered in his life. He picks up a piece of chicken. “Eat your food, Miss Langley, and then pack a bag.”
I stare at him. He stares back, waiting. I don’t ask why. I pick up my fork and push a piece of chicken around the plate.
“Do you know a man called Alex Snowden?” he asks suddenly.
The name means nothing to me. “No. Should I?”
“The man watching you last night with more interest than men like him usually pay to a stripper.”
I didn’t notice anyone watching me last night except Lorcan and Tiernan, and I was actively trying not to notice them. “I wasn’t paying attention to the audience.”
“He was paying attention to you.”
“Lots of men pay attention to women who take their clothes off and finger fuck themselves on command. It’s the whole point.”
His eyes heat up. I notice that. “This man is different.”
“Different how?”
“He wants what I want and will stop at nothing to get it.”
“And what is it you want, Mr Keane?”
That smile tugs at his lips again. “Eat and then pack a bag, Miss Langley.”
“Why?” I ask. “Where am I going?”
“Somewhere where I know you won’t talk and where Snowden can’t get to you.”
“Which is where?”
“A penthouse in Mayfair.”
I blink and process that.
“Hurry up, Miss Langley, or I will pack for you.”
I stare at him for a few more moments and then shove a piece of chicken into my mouth just for something to do while my brain nearly short-circuits.