Chapter 9
Samantha
I toss off the bed sheet with a frustrated string of curses.
The drip drip drip from the bathroom sink is driving me insane.
Two weeks ago, I put in a request for the sink repair plus the air-conditioner, which is keeping the apartment at a balmy eighty-two degrees.
No one has bothered to respond to my request.
A loud thump hits the other side of my thin bedroom wall. Outside, the bleet of a police siren follows.
I drop onto the faded couch, lean my head back and stare at the water spot on the ceiling.
It looks like a Rorschach test. My eyes burn from lack of sleep as my gaze traces a particular area that looks like Rona’s pigtails.
She’s probably fast asleep right now. I wonder what she dreams about, if she dreams about me like I do her.
I wonder if she’ll have residual trauma from her short two years on this earth so far.
The spot blurs as I’m dragged back to the past. Back to when fate had me cross paths with the devil… her father.
Michael Barone is a six-two, dark-haired, dark-eyed attending surgeon and master of manipulation.
Highly intelligent, charismatic, and well-respected.
Of course, when I met him in my third year of surgical residency, I was completely caught off guard and flattered by his relentless pursuit of me, bordering on obsession.
I was twenty-eight and naive, having spent the last seven years of my life completely devoted to medical school and then surgical residency, working eighty-hour weeks, studying in my time off. No time for sleep let alone dating.
It began innocently enough in my mind. He was so attentive, so full of praise for how much I cared about my patients, how I was sharper, more focused than most of the interns.
The flattery evolved into subtle touching, holding longer eye contact, to confiding in me and letting me scrub in on special surgeries, complimenting me in front of his peers.
He made me feel seen. Made me feel special.
The first time we went out in public together was a dinner under the guise of mentorship.
But it quickly became promises over steak and champagne.
I wasn’t sure which was more intoxicating.
The alcohol or his attention. I will always remember him smiling down at me as he opened his car door at the end of the evening, saying, “You don’t know it yet, but I’m going to change your life, Samantha. ”
As someone who was eating ramen noodles and having nightmares about failing the board exams, this seemed like a lifeline. Like a miracle. I was smitten, enamored and completely fooled. And change my life, he did.
I knew nothing about love-bombing or how quickly that stream of oxytocin is replaced with shame when the praise turns into gaslighting, devaluation and control.
Because this is what sociopaths do. They spot your vulnerability, bait the hook with whatever you need, reel you in, tear you down until you’re so confused and no longer trust yourself.
Then you’re putty in their hands. I was in hell, and he was the fire burning my life to the ground.
I spent a year in his clutches, trying to convince myself I should be happy and confused as to why I wasn’t, when the “incident” happened.
I noticed something I shouldn’t have. A discrepancy on an invoice.
A homeless man taken to the morgue minus his kidneys and liver when his chart initially said gallbladder removal.
I had no idea I was sealing my fate when I took my concern to him.
A loud thud against the wall pulls me back into the present.
Muffled voices arguing next door grow louder.
It takes me a moment of deep breathing to calm my racing heart, to convince my nervous system that I’m currently safe from him.
Then with a sigh, I push my exhausted bones off the couch, dig in my bag for my earbuds and find a meditation video.
I’ve got to get out of here. I need money to do that. Which means I have to do whatever it takes to change Killian’s mind about hiring me. Tuesday is only two days away. I need to find a way to get in that line of dancers and audition.
***
Tuesday afternoon, I have my gym bag slung over my shoulder, sunglasses and baseball cap on as I stand in the shadows and watch the line of women grow in front of The Lucky Sinner.
The sleek, white yacht is anchored in a private dock near the Bayside Marina.
They’ve erected a canopy along the walkway to keep the women from baking in the sun.
One of Killian’s soldiers is handing out water bottles as he flirts with the women.
There’s an air of excitement buzzing around them as they chat and laugh, size each other up.
The petite blonde in the back catches my attention.
She’s keeping to herself. Her arms are crossed, her gaze trained on the ground, lost in thought.
There’s no enthusiasm, more like defeat in the set of her thin shoulders.
She doesn’t want to be here, but she obviously needs the money. I’ve found my target.
Pushing off the wall, I walk over to stand in line behind her. My palms are beginning to sweat. If this doesn’t work, I don’t have a backup plan.
She sighs softly, and I take that as my cue. I touch her arm gently. “Are you okay?”
Her head whips around, and she blinks at me. Her blue eyes are bloodshot, lids puffy. She forces a smile as her arms tighten against her body. “Oh, yes. Fine, thank you.”
I remove my sunglasses and give her a sympathetic smile. “I get it. Sometimes we have to do hard things to survive.”
“Yeah. Sometimes.” Her wary gaze runs over me, her shoulders stiffening. Not a woman who trusts easily. I get it.
“Can I be honest with you?” I ask, knowing that the only way to quickly win her trust is to be vulnerable myself.
She cocks her head, an equal amount of suspicion and intrigue flitting over her delicate features. “If you’d like.”
I glance around to make sure no one is listening.
Then lean forward and lower my voice. “I don’t have an appointment for tryouts.
But I need to get me and my daughter away from a dangerous situation.
Dancing is the only way I can make enough money fast enough to run.
” I hold her eye contact. “Is there any way I can convince you to let me take your place?”
“Oh.” Her gaze sharpens on me. The suspicion is giving way to sympathy, but she’s shifting on her feet, getting nervous.
I need to strike before she has time to get in her head instead of her heart.
Pulling out my phone, I show her a photo of Rona.
“This is my little girl. She’s two. We’re in hiding, but I’ve had to live separately from her to keep her safe from her father.
Neither of us will survive if he finds us.
” When her hand moves to her throat protectively, I keep going.
"I think he’s found me, and I really need to get us out of Florida.
Waiting tables isn’t cutting it.” God knows I can’t tell her I’m a doctor, working off the books for the mafia.
Her eyes are wide as she stares at the photo of Rona.
Then she bites her lip and glances up at me.
“I’m pregnant.” The words fall past her lips as a whisper.
The tears well up in her eyes as her hand presses on her still-flat stomach.
“I already feel like I would do anything to keep this baby safe, so I… understand.” She sighs and shoots a glance behind her.
“I probably won’t be able to dance very long before I’m showing anyway, so…
” she meets my eyes. “Okay, I’ll help you. ”
There’s determination in her eyes and something else that looks like relief. Maybe that this decision was made for her. I grasp her hand. “Thank you.”
She’s more animated now as she pulls a stack of papers from her bag. “You’ll need these. There’s a copy of my physical and a signed NDA. I don’t know how it’ll work using my identity as far as getting paid.”
I accept the papers. “I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.” What I’m hoping is that once Killian sees me dance, he’ll change his mind.
She hugs me, and I feel exactly how thin she is. “Good luck.”
“You, too.” And I mean it. Being a single mom in this economy is going to be a rough ride.
I flip through the paperwork as I wait. One of the pages has instructions for the tryout. We basically have three minutes… one song to impress Killian.
Almost two hours tick by. There are only three of us left in line. A short, stocky soldier in his twenties collects our paperwork and escorts us to the air-conditioned changing room on the bottom deck.
“Here you are, ladies.” He watches us as we file in. Then he writes down our names and which song we want to dance to. I’m last, which suits me fine.
“All right, go ahead and change. I’ll be back in a few for…” he glances down at his clipboard, “Ginger Garmin.”
“That’s me, sugar,” a curvy redhead says.
He winks at her, then closes the door behind him.
I take in the room, feeling nervous for the first time.
Not to dance but just because the stakes are so high.
There’s a black marble counter along the entire back wall with a mirror running up to the ceiling.
A row of black leather stools sit beneath the counter.
There’s also a rack to hang clothes, a black leather couch and two reclining chairs, lockers and an open door that I can see is a restroom.
It smells brand new. No lingering scent of perfume, hairspray, sweat.
The music is being pumped into speakers in the hallway. We all get ready in silence. I pull on a pink wig. The rest of my outfit includes a mask that frames my eyes and platform heeled boots that hug my legs just past my knees.