The Best Friends' Curvy Temptation (A Silver Lake Instalove Romance #4)

Prologue

Madelyn Graves

The Dive Bar reeks of stale beer and cigarette smoke that’s seeped into the walls despite the smoking ban.

It’s two-thirty in the morning, and I’m bone-tired as I wipe down the last table.

My feet throb in my cheap sneakers, my lower back aches from hours of carrying trays, and all I want is to go home, take a scalding shower, and sleep for twelve hours straight.

“Night, Maddie,” Carlos calls from behind the bar where he’s counting the register.

“Night,” I call back, already heading for the employee exit. The back hallway is dimly lit, the fluorescent bulbs flickering like they’re about to die.

The night air hits me, cool and damp, carrying the smell of garbage from the dumpsters and exhaust from the highway a block over. I’m halfway down the alley when I realize my purse isn’t slung over my shoulder. Shit.

I pat my pockets uselessly, knowing my keys aren’t there. I must have left my purse in the office when I clocked out. Everything I need is in there, and I can’t get into my apartment without it.

I turn back toward the bar, exhaustion making my movements sluggish. The employee entrance is still unlocked, thank God. I slip back inside, the door closing behind me with a soft click.

That’s when I hear the voices, coming from Frank Vega’s office at the end of the hall.

I freeze, my hand still on the door handle.

Vega never stays this late. He usually leaves right after the dinner rush, letting Carlos and me close up.

But that’s definitely his voice, that smooth, cold tone that always makes my skin crawl.

I should leave. Come back tomorrow for my purse. But I need my keys. Just be quick. Grab your purse and get out.

I move down the hallway as quietly as I can, my sneakers barely making a sound on the stained linoleum. The voices grow louder as I approach. There’s a thin window in the office door, the kind with wire mesh embedded in the glass. The blinds are partially open.

I shouldn’t look. I know I shouldn’t. But I do.

Through the gap in the blinds, I watch Frank Vega standing in the center of the office, his expensive suit jacket draped over the back of his chair.

He's rolled up his sleeves, and something dark stains his hands.

Bruno and Sal, the guys who camp out in the corner booth every night, nursing whiskey and never ordering food, flank him on either side.

Tied to a chair in the middle of the room is Tommy Ricci. My stomach drops.

Tommy came in earlier tonight, around nine.

I'd served him a beer and wings. He was nervous, sweating, his leg bouncing under the table while he kept glancing toward Vega's office.

When Vega finally emerged and jerked his head toward the back, Tommy followed like a man walking to his execution. Now I know why.

Tommy's face is a mess. Blood streams from his nose, his lip is split, and one eye has swollen shut. His head hangs forward, chin against his chest, breathing coming in wet, ragged gasps. The front of his shirt is soaked with blood.

"I told you, Frank," Tommy slurs, his voice thick and desperate. "I just need more time. Two weeks. I can get you the money in two weeks, I swear."

Vega's fist connects with Tommy's jaw with a sickening crack. Tommy's head snaps to the side, and he cries out.

I clap my hand over my mouth to keep from gasping. My heart pounds so hard I can hear it in my ears, a frantic drumbeat drowning out everything else.

"You've had six months, Tommy," Vega says, his voice calm. He flexes his fingers, examining his knuckles like he's checking for damage. "Six months of excuses and promises. I'm done being patient."

"Please," Tommy begs, and the desperation in his voice makes my chest tighten. "Please, Frank, I've got a kid. A little girl. She's only five. I just need?—"

"You should've thought about your kid before you borrowed money you couldn't pay back." Vega nods to Bruno, who steps forward and drives his fist into Tommy's stomach. Tommy doubles over as much as the ropes allow, retching and gasping.

I should leave. But my feet won't move. I'm frozen, rooted to the spot, watching this nightmare unfold through the gap in the blinds.

Vega reaches into the waistband of his pants and pulls out a gun, a black semi-automatic, the metal gleaming dully under the harsh office lights. He checks the chamber, then levels the barrel at Tommy's chest.

"No," Tommy whispers, his voice breaking. "No, please, Frank, please."

"This is what happens when you don't pay your debts," Vega says. His voice is so cold, so devoid of emotion, that it sends ice flooding through my veins.

He pulls the trigger. The gunshot is deafening in the small space, a sharp crack that makes my ears ring. Tommy's body jerks violently, his chest exploding in a spray of red. He gasps, and blood pours from the wound, soaking his shirt, dripping onto the floor.

Vega fires again. The second bullet hits Tommy in the chest, just inches from the first. Tommy's head lolls forward, his body going slack against the ropes. Blood pools beneath the chair, spreading across the floor in a dark, widening puddle.

I can't breathe. I can't move. I can't think. Tommy Ricci is dead. Frank Vega just murdered him in cold blood, and I watched it happen. My stomach heaves, and I have to swallow hard to keep from throwing up right there in the hallway.

"Get rid of him," Vega says, tucking the gun back into his waistband. He pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and wipes his hands, his movements calm and methodical, like he's just finished a routine task. "Make sure no one finds the body. And clean up this mess."

"You got it, boss," Bruno says, already moving toward Tommy's lifeless form.

I need to leave. Now. Before they see me and realize I'm here.

I take a step back, my legs shaking so badly I'm not sure they'll hold me. My sneaker squeaks on the linoleum, just a tiny sound, barely audible, but in the silence of the hallway, it might as well be a gunshot. I freeze.

Inside the office, Vega's head snaps toward the door. "Did you hear that?" His voice is sharp.

My heart stops.

"Hear what?" Sal asks.

"I thought I heard something. Check the hallway."

Run. The word screams through my mind, shattering the paralysis. I spin and bolt down the hallway, sneakers slapping against linoleum, breath coming in short, panicked gasps. Behind me, the office door slams open. Sal's voice cuts through the air, "Hey! Someone's out here!"

I hit the employee exit at a dead run, bursting through the door into the parking lot. Cool night air slaps my face, but I don't stop. I sprint down the alley-, hands shaking so badly I can barely control them.

Shit, shit, shit. I still don't have my keys. They're in my purse. In the office. The door bangs open behind me. Heavy footsteps pound across the pavement.

"Stop!" Sal yells. "Stop right there!"

I don't stop. I run.

I cut across the parking lot and vault over the low chain-link fence separating the bar from the alley beyond. My hands scrape against the metal, but I don't feel the pain. All I feel is terror driving me forward.

I hit the alley at a sprint, lungs burning, legs screaming. Behind me, Sal curses as he struggles to climb the fence. He's bigger than me, slower. I have a head start.

I just need to keep running.

I tear down the alley, sneakers splashing through puddles, breath coming in ragged sobs. I don't know where I'm going. I just know I need to get away, need to disappear before they catch me. Because if they catch me, I'm dead.

I burst out of the alley onto a side street, nearly colliding with a passing car. The driver lays on the horn, shouting something I don't hear. I keep running, cutting through a parking garage, weaving between cars, my heart pounding so hard I think it might explode.

Finally, after what feels like hours but is probably only minutes, I stop. I'm in a residential neighborhood now, blocks away from the bar, hidden in the shadows between two houses. I press my back against the wall, gasping for air, my whole body shaking.

I strain to listen, but I don't hear footsteps. No shouting. Just the distant hum of traffic and the pounding of my own heart.

I slide down the wall until I'm sitting on the ground, knees pulled to my chest. My hands shake so badly I can barely hold them still. I can still see Tommy's face, the blood, the way his body jerked when the bullets tore through him. I can still hear the gunshots, sharp, final.

Frank Vega killed him. Just like that. No hesitation, no remorse.

And if he finds out I witnessed it, I'm next.

The realization crashes over me like a wave, cold and suffocating.

My life as I know it is over. I can't go back to my apartment, Vega knows where I live.

I can't go to the police, Vega has half the cops in this city on his payroll.

I can't call anyone, can't reach out, because anyone I contact becomes a target.

I'm completely and utterly alone.

I pull my knees tighter, tears streaming down my face. Then another thought slams into me, sharp and terrifying.

My purse. My keys. My ID. My phone. My wallet with every credit card and the three hundred dollars in cash I pulled from the ATM yesterday. Everything I need to run is sitting in Vega's office, on the desk, right next to where Tommy's body is cooling.

"No, no, no." I press my palms against my eyes, trying to think through the panic. I can't leave without it. Can't get into my apartment. Can't drive anywhere. Can't access money. I'm completely fucked without that purse.

I have to go back. The thought makes bile rise in my throat. Go back to the bar? Back to where Vega just executed a man in cold blood? It's insane. Suicidal. But what choice do I have?