Page 22

After drying off, I find a fluffy towel hanging on the hook and cover myself with that, remembering that Sam said he would have clothes sent up for me. Whatever the other man who interrupted us wanted, it looked serious. I wonder what it is, and if it will take up enough of Sam's time that I won't have to be close to him again.

Being close to him is a confusing mess.

Whenever he’s near, my mind and my body seem to be wanting different things. My thoughts scream at me to keep my distance, to remember all the reasons why getting involved with someone like Sam is a terrible idea, but my body betrays me with every quickened heartbeat and shiver of anticipation. It's already exhausting, this constant battle between what I know I should do and what I desperately want to do.

As I open the door to the bedroom, I'm shocked to see a woman standing there, casually leaning against the dresser as if she belongs. Looking like something out of a social media ad or a perfectly curated Instagram post, she's wearing jeans that are fashionably baggy with a white top tucked into them, the kind of effortless outfit that actually takes hours to perfect. Her lips are painted a bold shade of red that makes her teeth look impossibly white when she smiles, and her blonde hair is swept into a low bun with artfully arranged wisps of curls framing her face in a way that seems both intentional and carefree.

"Hi," she greets with a friendly smile. "I'm Ana. Sam sent me." She gestures to the rack of clothes I failed to notice, brimming with a wardrobe larger than what's in my closet and dresser combined. The sight of so many designer labels and pristine fabrics makes my head spin.

I tug my robe tighter, feeling exposed despite being covered. "Hi," I squeak out. When Sam said he was sending up clothes for me, this is not at all what I thought. I'd expected maybe a few basic items from a department store, not what looks like an entire boutique.

"You're gorgeous," Ana comments, either unaware of my discomfort, or she doesn't care. She reaches forward, fingering a strand of my wet hair, invading my personal space with the casual confidence of someone used to handling reluctant clients. "What a nice color," she muses. "Sam guessed your size, so I brought a few different sizes. And I had to guess what your color profile would be based on his description, but I think I did a pretty good job. Oh! And food. He sent me up with this."

Ana stops talking for long enough to grab a plate filled with breakfast foods — eggs, bacon, hash browns, and fruit — and extends it to me. My stomach rumbles traitorously at the scent of the meal. "You eat while I pull out a few options."

I'm too hungry to argue, so I dig in while she flips through the rack before she finds whatever she's looking for, the metallic sound of hangers sliding against each other filling the room. Once I'm finished, she extends an emerald-colored dress to me. "Here, try this one." The silk catches the light, making the fabric shimmer like liquid.

I take the hanger from her, eyeing the piece with trepidation. This isn't something I would normally wear. I spend most of my days in yoga pants and old t-shirts, even before becoming a bar owner. On a rare night out, I would put on jeans and a "nice" t-shirt. One without a band logo or holes. Dresses are an evenbigger rarity for me. Reserved only for weddings and special occasions, and even then, I usually have to be dragged shopping by someone else.

I extend the dress back to her. "This isn't really my style."

Ana tilts her head, studying me like I'm a puzzle she needs to solve. "Okaaay." She draws out the word, still staring at me. "What is your style?"

"Comfort."

That makes her snort out a laugh, the sound both elegant and dismissive. "I can work with that, but you should probably try on the dress too."

"Why?"

Ana shrugs, her perfectly manicured nails drumming against a nearby hanger. "Sam said to make sure you have a full wardrobe, no expense spared. And he specifically mentioned dresses. Casual and formal."

"Formal?"

What in the world would I need a formal dress for? I'm his prisoner, not his date to some fancy gala.

Ana already has her back turned, skimming through the racks of hangers with practiced efficiency. "I can call my assistant and have her pick up some leggings, t-shirts, things like that. But in the meantime, try this." She pulls a pair of wide-legged black pants off the rack and pairs them with a simple white top. The outfit doesn't look basic or cheap. The materials seem too soft and luxurious; the kind of clothes I'd normally walk right past in a store.

Once I pull them on, I can't help but see someone else in the mirror, someone who's not me. "God, no," I mutter. I look like a fancy housewife, and I hate the feeling. The clothes fit perfectly, but they feel like a costume.

"Be a good girl." Sam's voice echoes in my head, and I remind myself that I need to get through today, and then he'lltake me home tomorrow. The thought feels hollow, but I cling to it anyway.

I swallow the lump in my throat and steel my spine, squaring my shoulders against my reflection.

I can do this.

It takes far longerthan I'd like for Ana and me to decide on a wardrobe that doesn't make me nauseous. I have jeans and comfortable tops, even if they're not old band tees. And leggings and plain t-shirts, which I much prefer. There're also more dresses than I've ever owned and I hope that they never get worn. But if Sam wants to waste his money, that's fine with me.

Ana is packing up the leftover clothes when I get hit with a longing for home. To be in my own space, wearing my casual clothes, dusting more cobwebs from my bar. The familiar smell of stale beer and wood polish seems like heaven in my current state.

And then I think of my mother. She calls me every day, and if I don't answer, her head goes to the worst places. It's been especially bad since I've moved here. My mother can't remember anything she used to love about New Orleans. The whole city is tainted with bad memories. Every time I speak with her, she sounds relieved to hear I'm alive, as if this city might eat me up and never let me go.

Considering I'm trapped in a mobster’s mansion…maybe she was right.

"What day is it?" I ask Ana. My internal clock is a little fucked from captivity, and I'm not sure how long I've been here, but it feels like a week.

"Sunday," she replies, continuing to put the discarded clothing back on hangers. She's completely unfazed while I realize it was Friday when I first saw Sam shoot that man… Two days of my life are completely gone.

Fuck. My mom is probably losing her shit.