8. Chapter Eight
Chapter Eight
HARLOW
The rest of the week passes in a blur. The days are short but peaceful and quiet. There are no more signs of Lynx. And Rhys doesn’t show his ugly mug at the club again.
If I were a naive woman, I’d be inclined to say things are back to normal.
But since that’s not the case and luck is never on my side, I know a storm is brewing. And that this is merely the calm before the lightning strikes.
Six. Five. Four. Three. Two. One.
Breathe.
“Here we are, miss,” the cabdriver chirps from the front seat. “Have yourself a lovely evening.”
Dom has already paid for transportation to and from the event for all the girls, so I tip the driver with cash I earned on my last shift, clamber out of the back of the sedan, and smooth my floor-length pink satin dress down my stomach.
Exhaling a controlled breath, I put one foot in front of the other and saunter up the marble stairs leading to the grand front entrance of the banquet hall.
If I could magically fast forward to the end of the evening when this godforsaken hospital gala comes to an end, I would.
But alas, I’m not a genie and I need the money.
Two men, both impeccably dressed in well-tailored black tuxedos, greet me inside the door. The taller one offers to take my jacket—a faux fur coat I picked up at a thrift shop a couple years back. The starchy lining feels cheap against my skin. But it looks expensive on the outside.
Isn’t that what this world is all about anyway? Pretending to be something we’re not?
I shrug out of my coat and hand it to him. He slips me a small ticket with a number before gesturing for me to pass through into the grand ballroom.
The moment my heels are over the threshold, a wave of unease crashes over me. I grip my small beaded clutch in both hands and breathe through the sensation.
Six. Five. Four. Three. Two. One.
Walk.
Steeling my spine, I make my way to the bar, ignoring the familiar heat of men’s gazes on my backside as I take a seat at the far end and order a martini.
A glass appears in front of me in the blink of an eye.
I thank the bartender, take a greedy gulp to ease my nerves, and glance around the ballroom.
Circling the rim of my glass with my middle finger, I scan the sea of tuxedos and elaborate ball gowns milling around me.
The theme of this year’s fundraiser is masquerade. It’s clear the committee spared no expense on the event because I’ve never seen so many sequins, feathers, and diamonds in all my life.
It looks like the eighteenth century threw up on the place.
And there are at least a few hundred attendees. All rich. All flaunting their net worth and privilege.
Feeling slightly out of my element, I flip my hair over my shoulder and continue on with my charade, smiling politely at anyone who passes by, all the while buzzing with a heady cocktail of adrenaline and anticipation.
It takes precisely six minutes from the time I walked through the doors for the storm I knew was coming to close in on me.
Because there, in the center of the room and surrounded by a crowd of people, is Rhys fucking Anderson. In the flesh.
Again.
What are the odds?
Just as when I spotted him at the club, my reaction is visceral. A shiver rolls down my spine. My gut churns. The scar on the inside of my left wrist tingles.
He glances at me, his eyes like two coals behind his black mask as his mouth hooks into a slimy grin. He licks his lips.
Now more than ever, I’m certain he recognized me at the club. And now he’s playing his favorite game of cat and mouse, toying with me until I finally submit and let him maul me to death.
Six. Five. Four. Three. Two. One.
Sip.
With a steady hand, I lift my glass to my lips and take a swig. The alcohol burns on the way down. But it does nothing to douse the ball of fire in the pit of my stomach.
As always, Rhys is the center of attention. He’s cracking jokes. They’re never funny but people are laughing anyway, placating him in hopes it’ll earn them extra brownie points.
When the MC announces the dance floor is about to open, I spin in my chair and give him my back. He always liked it when I’d play hard to get. Told me it turned him on when I made him work for it.
It didn’t matter that it wasn’t a game to me. I didn’t want it. But he’d take it anyway, then chastise me for being a dirty, filthy whore.
Six. Five. Four. Three. Two. One.
Relax.
Behind my disguise, I’m a jittering mess of nerves. But on the outside, I’m as cool as a cucumber and twice as calm.
I sip. I smile. I feign boredom, yawning and checking the clock and really putting on a show.
All while pretending to search for some male company for the night.
Rhys aside, the more men I can convince to visit the club and drop my name, the more money I’ll make and the sooner I can put all of this behind me.
But just as I’m stealing a peek over my shoulder to see if Rhys is still watching me, a familiar female voice slams into me from the other side.
“Reb? Is that you?”
I turn in my stool to face Sage.
Her eyes light with excitement when she says, “Wow. You look amazing.”
So does she, dressed to the nines in a pale green ball gown that’s working wonders for her boobs. The sweetheart top glitters beneath the chandeliers. Behind her silver sequin mask, her green eyes are bright and filled with joy.
She really is beautiful. And sweet. And naive as hell.
Keep a distance.
“So do you,” I tell her. “Now if you don’t mind, I’m working.”
I go to turn away again, but another woman approaches, stopping beside Sage. She’s petite and pretty with short brown hair. Like Sage, she’s all glitz and glam and looks amazing in her sapphire floor-length ball gown.
“Rebel. This is Trinity. My best friend of, like, a million years. She just got hired at the club. So I thought I’d drag her along so she can see what it’s all about.” She hooks her arm into Trinity’s and beams at me.
Trinity flashes me a shy smile, mutters a quiet “nice to meet you,” and averts her eyes.
It’s obvious her and Sage are complete opposites. Where Sage is chatty and outgoing, Trinity seems more reserved and introverted.
Unless she magically sprouts a backbone, she’ll never survive The Devil’s Den.
Just as I’m about to excuse myself and go skulk in the ladies’ room for a while, Sage’s eyes settle on something over my shoulder. She glances at me, a slight glimmer in her eye, then back at whatever—whoever—is approaching.
“Oh my god. It’s the head surgeon. He’s coming this way. And holy shit, he has his sights set on you,” she tells me in a screechy voice. “Go get him, tiger.” Then with a wink and a giggle, she shuffles off with her friend.
Six. Five. Four. Three. Two. One.
Breathe.
Bugs skitter down my spine as I turn in my chair and peer up at Rhys.
He’s standing close, gazing down at me with lust and ill intentions darkening in his obsidian eyes.
The smell of his pungent aftershave fills my lungs, making my stomach roil and tongue quiver.
Saliva pools in my mouth. I think I’m going to puke.
“Well, hello there,” he greets coolly, his eyes raking over my body. They settle on my chest briefly before wandering back up to my mouth. He props an elbow on the bar and leans in. “If I’d known they were going to hire models to fill empty seats, I would’ve donated more.”
He flashes me a veneered smile. There’s at least thirty grand in that mouth of his.
I want to pull each of those pretty white teeth out and shove them up his ass.
Instead, I giggle and swat the air, playing coy and feigning ignorance.
“My name’s Rhys. Rhys Anderson. Head surgeon.”
So that explains why he’s here at the gala. This asshat was hired as the head surgeon.
Oh, the irony of it all.
He offers me his hand. Reluctantly, I accept, feeling a little like I’m shaking hands with the devil.
“Sarah,” I tell him shyly, refusing to break character in case I’m wrong about him knowing my true identity.
“Tell me, Sarah, what’s a lovely young woman like you doing here alone?”
“The same thing you’re doing here. Supporting a good cause.”
I lift my glass to my lips and take a sip.
Little does he know I’m resisting the urge to pull my knife out—not my gun because it wouldn’t fit in my goddamn clutch—and plunge it into his thick, wrinkly neck.
“Dance with me,” he says out of nowhere, bending his elbow and gesturing for me to join him.
The thought of him waltzing me around a dance floor makes me physically ill. But if I’m going to leave this event in one piece, I need to play along. At least for a little while.
So despite the fact that all I want to do is slash his throat and watch him bleed out right here in the middle of the ballroom, I slide demurely off the barstool and link my arm in his.
He leads me onto the dance floor, spinning me around and resting his hand on my lower back. Even through my dress, I can feel the corpse-like coldness of his touch. I ignore it and push on as he leads me into a waltz, guiding me like the gentleman he pretends to be.
He leans down, his hot breath clinging to my neck.
“You’re a very beautiful young woman, Sarah. I’m not normally so forward,” he tells me. I almost snort because yes the fuck he is. “But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t think you were here for more than to simply support a good cause.”
I swallow. “Is that so?”
“Yes.”
“And what is it that you think I’m here for?”
His grip tightens. His tone turns menacing. “Don’t play games with me, Harlow.”
And there it is. The first crack of lightning.
I attempt to pull away. To put some space between us. But he drags me back into him and flashes me a vile look that leaves me speechless.
“When I saw you at the club the other night, I wasn’t sure if it was you.
But now I know. Tell me, Harlow, are you still the whore you always were?
” He scoffs. “Of course you are. Look at you. Taking your clothes off for money. I guess you never learned your lesson. Your poor father would be rolling over in his grave right now.”