Page 3 of A Sixpence For Your Shoe (Revenge Brides #6)

CHAPTER THREE

Misha

I wake up and blink at my silver wristwatch, squinting to see the time in the dim morning light.

Five. It’s still early.

Thank goodness the whisky wasn’t that cheap shit I’m used to drinking at my local bar. It was the good stuff. Single malt and probably more expensive per glass than my weekly rent. The good stuff that doesn’t leave you with a raging hangover when you drink too much of it.

Vincent’s arm is wrapped around my waist and for a moment I contemplate snuggling closer to him. He’s still fast asleep and breathing deeply.

Oh, my word - the way he handled me last night - I’ve never had someone know exactly what I wanted before.

The harder I fought him, the more I was testing him, and he did not fail to impress me.

It’s the first time a man has made me orgasm during sex.

In fact, it’s the first time a man has ever turned me on that intensely - ever.

Perhaps I should wake him, and we could play one more time before I go.

Ugh.

No. Get up, Misha.

I can’t lie here all day being a good girl for some rich asshole. I have to go find a new job. And check in on my mom. And live in the real world - a world this guy clearly knows nothing about because he obviously just snaps his fingers and gets what he wants in an instant.

Even though I’m thirty-one, my mom still worries about me as though I am sixteen.

I guess I still look really young because I’m short and petite. Most men think I’m in my very early twenties. Twenty-two, twenty-three.

I don’t correct them. It’s better for my tips when I’m trying to keep a waitressing job.

I sit up carefully, sliding out from beneath Vincent’s thick, muscular arm.

My eyes trace over his gorgeous face. Damn, he really is sexy. The dark silver fox with an even darker twist to his personality. Just my type. And I didn’t even know I specifically had a type that suits me so well until I met him.

Damn - I really have some serious daddy issues. I suppress my giggle. At least I’m honest with myself.

Glancing around the bedroom floor, I can’t find any of my clothes. Oh. Right . They are all in the living room. The last thing I want to do is put that hideous waitress uniform on - ever again - but I can’t exactly leave here naked.

I hurry through his place and gather everything into my hands. Then I sit on the sofa and get dressed as quickly and as quietly as I can.

He has a really nice coffee machine in the kitchen. My eyes keep drifting towards it. Dammit, I would love a coffee now. And I didn’t even make any money last night because instead of doing that, I poured boiling oil over my boss and quitting the job I really needed. I roll my eyes at myself.

Ugh. I need to start being less reactive. That wasn’t the brightest move. Thank goodness I always sign up for these low-wage jobs with a fake surname. It’s like I know myself well enough to know I’ll cause trouble somewhere along the way.

I spot Vincent’s wallet on the kitchen counter next to his phone. Maybe I can get a coffee on the way home. Grinning, I tip toe over to it. It’s not like he would miss a few - holy shit. There are thousands of dollars of cash in here.

Who the hell walks around with this much cash?

I shouldn’t.

But I will.

I split the thick pile of money in half. At least I’m not taking all of it. I grin, musing over how nice I’m being. I shove half back into his wallet and the rest into my bra. It’s times like these that having bigger breasts comes in handy.

I return his wallet to where it was and quietly open the front door, bolting out of his apartment, Expecting to hear his voice behind me, I feel my heart beating heavily from the thrill of it all.

But I get down into the lobby and out onto the street without any incident.

I press my hand against my chest and smile again.

That’s more money than I would have made in over six months at that shitty waitressing job.

But I’ll have to lie to my mom about it.

I’ll hide most of it and just tell her I got paid out when I quit. Or something. I’ll figure it out. She knows not to ask questions, anyway.

On the way home, I stop at the grocery store and get all the essentials we need for the house, plus a few luxury items we never get to treat ourselves to, like chocolate and the better-quality coffee. Then I get onto the subway and head home.

All the time I am thinking about him.

Of course, it was a one-night stand - it was just a bit of fun for him.

And for me. I don’t have time for a relationship.

I have to get to work. I have to get my life together.

I have to stop getting fired so often. Closing my eyes, I rest my head against the seat and wait for them to call out my stop.

I didn’t get enough sleep last night. He kept me very busy.

Not that I’m complaining. I’m already regretting not taking his number.

But after my stunt with his wallet, I wouldn’t have been able to call him, anyway.

It’s early morning and most of the commuters are on their way to work, so I feel safe enough where I am, resting for a moment.

It’s not a long ride to the dodgy side of town where we live.

“Hi, mom,” I call out, pushing our door open with my hip as I carry the groceries inside. “Are you awake?”

Our place is tiny. Proper tiny. I set the shopping bags on the kitchen table and go about pulling the musty yellow curtains open and then pushing the windows wide to let some air and morning light into the apartment.

We’re up on the eighth floor and even though our apartment is in a dodgy area - I doubt a burglar is going to wall climb eight stories to break in.

“Mom, I told you to leave the windows open. It gets stuffy in here.”

“Misha - where were you I was so worried?” She hurries through to the kitchen in her grey pajama pants and an old T-shirt.

“I worked late and stayed over at a friend’s place in the city. It was too dark to come home alone.”

“I told you to message me when - oh wow, you did well last night.” She says, eyeing the shopping.

“I did. But they had to let me go. They paid me out a nice amount, though, so it will keep us going until I find something new.”

“Oh no, Misha. Did you get fired again?” She sighs loudly, her face strained with worry.

I laugh and pull her into a hug. The soft scent of rose perfume and the cigarette she sneakily had while hanging halfway out of the tiny living room window last night wafts over me.

“Are you smoking again?” I throw her a stern look.

“Did you get fired again?” She shoots back at me.

“So - how about some breakfast then?” I grin.

I sit on the high kitchen chair, unpacking the shopping, while mom puts the groceries where they belong.

She is beautiful for her age. She has always been beautiful.

I don’t know why she never found someone new after my dad died.

She has long dark hair and bright green eyes just like me.

She is petite as well and if she could stop frowning for more than two minutes, she would have a beautiful smile.

She deserves to be loved. Every time I bring it up with her, she lectures me all over again about how terrible men are.

I know how terrible my dad was. A drunken, violent asshole.

A lazy, selfish idiot who refused to work and beat the hell out of my mom every time she didn’t fetch his beer fast enough.

But just because he was an asshole doesn’t mean all men are assholes - although I’ve met a few really special ones myself.

My mom was only with my dad because she thought she owed him her life.

He saved her you see, after her ex before him left her for dead.

Some douchebag who she doesn’t like to talk about.

But what I don’t understand is that she was madly in love with that douchebag - and it wasn’t a relationship that could happen in reality.

Life wouldn’t let them be together. I think he was married.

So instead of breaking up with her - he killed her. Well, he tried.

It’s strange, but I get the feeling she still loves him. Or she fears him. Who can tell the difference?

Anyway - my father pulled her unconscious from the car that she was trapped in, the one her ex pushed off a bridge expecting her to drown in - it took her months to recover from what her ex did to her to render her unconscious in that car - and my father, the asshole, stayed by her side - and they got married and had me.

But then a few months after I was born my dad started showing his true colors and didn’t stop until the day he died.

I hate my father, and I hate the man who tried to kill my mother before him.

Why do they think they can get away with these things?

Why do they treat women, beautiful, precious women like my mother - as though they were toys to be discarded and abused?

Mom was so depressed she used to take sleeping tablets every night just to escape her life.

It broke me to watch her so lost inside herself.

While I was growing up, I often begged my mom to leave him.

I used to cry myself to sleep.

I hated him.

I hated her for staying with him and making me watch the things he did to her.

And then one day, when he decided, in a drunken sloppy mess - to crawl into my bed and touch me in ways I was not willing to accept - I killed him.

I was fifteen.

I made it look like he fell down the stairs.

The cops asked a lot of questions considering the bruises on my body from fighting him off and my skin beneath his fingernails. But they never managed to pin it on me.

And my mother was very careful about not asking me things she didn’t want to know.

Mom is a very gentle person. Maybe I could call her fragile - but would a fragile person survive the things she’s seen and experienced?

She doesn’t have it in her to do some of the things that it takes to live in this world. Although she is strong, and she’s been through a lot - I have to survive for both of us. She needs me more than I need her. even though I need her a great deal.

I take care of both of us.

I pull out two breakfast bowls and fill them with strawberry flavored instant oats, and mom hands me the milk and sugar, flicking the kettle on as she moves around.

“Did they drop off another dress for you to adjust?” I ask, glancing at the gorgeous silky dress hanging from the curtain rail.

She is a seamstress, and she’s damn good at it.

I think she likes the quiet and slow, steady work.

She doesn’t have to deal with too many people.

She gets to work from the comfort of her own space.

“They did. They said I did an excellent job on the first one.”

“That’s because you have the patience to work slowly - and you are a perfectionist.”

“If only some of my traits had rubbed off on my daughter.” She throws me a sly smile.

I grin and carry on making our breakfast while mom makes the coffee.