Page 3

TWO

THE DEVIL’S PLAYGROUND

NICOLETTE

S omeone is stalking me.

I hate that I know the signs. I hate that I’ve lived a life that I don’t even need actual evidence to know that I’m right. When my gut goes off, the shivers running down my spine, and I hear that bastard’s whisper in my ear even though it’s been nearly three years since I saw him last… more than anything, I hate that he can still affect me after all this time.

I don’t know if it’s Kieran. That’s the worst part. Whoever it is is being very careful. In spite of the five separate cameras I have watching my home, I haven’t been able to catch anything out of the ordinary.

Of course, that just tells me that—from the outside—whoever is watching me is acting very ordinary. It’ll be someone passing by my street, covering their face so I don’t get a glimpse of it. Or… or parking their car just out of the range of my cameras.

Do I know that I sound fucking paranoid? I do. I can’t help it, though. Having spent eight years in an abusive relationship with a controlling partner who swore before I left that he’d never let me get away from him, believing he could be out there, watching, waiting… I need to be paranoid to stay safe.

But that level of high alert, of watching my cameras on my laptop, of checking my phone obsessively every time the doorbell camera goes off, is keeping me safe. I’m vigilant and wary, and because of that I’ve found a way to make it through day-to-day life.

I have to. Because if I didn’t?

I’d go fucking insane.

I won’t let him beat me down again. I absolutely refuse to let this faceless stalker turn me into the shell of Nicolette I was by the time I finally had enough and escaped Springfield the first time.

I thought it was for good. I should have known better. With my mother and her most recent husband—before their divorce early last summer—still living in Springfield, I think I always know I’d be dragged back here. I lived my first twenty-four years in this city, trading it for a small town six hours away where no one could find me, but when Mom got into her accident in August?

I never planned on coming back. Then again, my mother probably didn’t plan on getting hit by a car, either.

It was a freak accident. A hit and run. She lives on a slow street in the quieter downtown area of the city. No one ever pays attention to the posted speed limit signs, and some idiot clipped her when she was bringing her groceries in one morning. Seems like he took a turn too fast, sent her flying, and my Mom ended up with a broken hip.

At least, that’s how she explained what happened. She barely even saw the car before impact, none of her neighbors were around to witness it, and—at the time—she didn’t have cameras on her house.

I moved back in September, as soon as she got out of the hospital. The plan was to help her with everything she needed while she recuperated and recovered from surgery, then I could disappear to Willowbrook again. If I was smart and kept my head down, Kieran never needed to know I came home.

But because I’ve never forgotten what kind of man Kieran Alfieri is, I put cameras up my first weekend back.

I had no choice. Everything that happened when I was kid… maybe she missed the signs, but that’s because I willfully hid them. I couldn’t blame her for mistakes I made, and, these days, she doesn’t have anyone but me. Lance booked it to Europe once the no-contest divorce was signed, my Aunt Therese lives in Florida with her kids and she couldn’t fly up to help Mom recover, and that left me.

I planned on being gone by October. But then Mom had a set-back, I was running out of cash, and I got a job. After a month, I traded that job for another, and maybe Mom thought that I was settling in because, at the beginning of the year, she announced that she was feeling up to visiting my aunt in Florida for an extended stay.

She left the first week of January after begging me to house-sit. I’d watch over her house in Springfield, wouldn’t have to pay rent, and could leave again when winter was over and Mom returned.

I already sensed that someone was watching me. Here… at the Playground… I couldn’t really explain it and sound sane, but I couldn’t shake the feeling, either. Part of me knew I should tell Mom forget it. I couldn’t do it.

But, damn it, she’s my Mom. And not having to pay rent for a few months might be a blessing in disguise for me after ending the lease I had in Willowbrook. So I agreed, and it’s been a month and a half since she left me alone in her house, and as I pull my curtain back, peering out onto the empty street in front of me, I wonder how much longer I can stand it.

If Kieran finds me…

No. I shove the black-out curtain back into place.

It can’t be Kieran. Whoever I sense out there… they’re careful. When it comes to me, Kieran’s always proved that he’s the opposite of careful. If he found me, if he figured out that I’m not only back in Springfield, but that I work for the Sinners Syndicate? He wouldn’t be watching me from a distance.

He doesn’t have the patience. He doesn’t have the self-control, either.

He’d walk right up to my door, expect me to let him in, and in no uncertain terms remind me that I’ve always belonged to him. He might laugh. He might smirk.

He might backhand me across the face and, when I’m down, start kissing me before it leads to more… but he sure as fuck wouldn’t be silent specter that watched over me without making a move.

And that makes the sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach so much worse.

Because if that’s not Kieran out there?

Who the hell is it?

The worst part is that, even when I go to work, I can’t escape the eyes.

At least at the Devil’s Playground, though, I know to expect it. The uniforms the serving girls wear are designed to catch attention. From the low cut, tight black shirt with the Playground’s name splashed in teal across the front of it, to the eentsy weentsy tiny shorts we wear, and the smile slathered on our faces no matter what, our customers expect an experience here—and they tip well to get it.

I need money. That’s the truth of it, and like so many of the girls who work at this nightclub, I teeter on one side of the line between slinging drinks and slinging pussy to make ends meet.

Literally, considering this club is owned by the local mafia—the Sinners Syndicate—and the entire top floor is dedicated to giving clients the full experience.

Not me. When I first interviewed, the suave yet aloof manager who talked to me explained that, for a small cut of the profits, I could rent a bed upstairs to entertain ‘wallets’ with the Sinners’ protection. It wasn’t necessary to get the waitressing job, but the option was there. I politely declined, and since November, I still make triple what I did serving at Mama Maria’s.

That doesn’t stop some of the Playground’s customers from trying, though. I consider it a good night when I only get propositioned once or twice instead of a dozen times. Luckily, since this is a Sinner’s property, the wallets take rejection very well. If a girl says no, the answer’s no, and if they try to push?

The devil of Springfield steps in.

Technically, my boss is the same manicured, gorgeous blond who interviewed me. Royce McIntyre—who everyone knows as “Roll” because of his prowess at gambling—runs the Devil’s Playground. My immediate manager is a tall, leggy redhead named Jessie, but when it comes to who rules the West Side of Springfield?

That’s Lincoln “Devil” Crewes, and if I never have to confront that scary SOB, I’ll be happy.

But while nearly everyone in Springfield is afraid of him and what he’s capable us, that doesn’t mean that some of the customers here don’t try to… convince us with a little more emphasis than necessary.

I have a handful of my own. I’m one of the more recent waitresses to sign on so it could just be that I’m new meat. I have to prove myself, stand firm and tell them to back off.

Most of them get that, but I do have have in particular who thinks that, for the right price, he can change my mind—which is why, when Britney snags me on my way to refill a scotch on the rocks and a gin and tonic for a cute couple on a first date, I’m not surprised with her message.

“Hey, Nic. Real quick, babe. Miles Haines was asking after you again.”

Ugh. Miles Haines. A thirty-something, toothy bastard who flashes his cash like that means his shit don’t stink. I went under his radar for my first few months here, but lately? It’s like he’s parked at the poker tables, roulette wheel, or slots during every shift I have, and he just won’t stop with the come-ons and the heavy-handed persuasion.

It’s not bad enough that I’ve thought about going to Jessie yet. I definitely won’t go to Rolls. He might be my boss, but the gambler doesn’t just run the Playground because—apart from the brothel upstairs and the dance floor that makes up most of the nightclub—it’s the biggest casino in Springfield.

Nope. He runs the Playground because he’s a high-ranking member of the Sinners Syndicate, second only to Devil himself.

Besides, the other night, I’m pretty sure I finally found a way to get Miles to understand that I’m not interested.

He thinks I have a price. I gave him one.

“Unless he has ten grand, cash in hand, I don’t know why he’s wasting his time,” I tell her.

Britney giggles. She thinks I’m kidding.

And I am… but only sort of.

“You know,” she says, “you could just tell him no instead of throwing out numbers like that. At the Playground, guys understand the word no if you’re direct with them.”

Maybe. But Kieran spent ten years training the word out of me and it’s a hard habit to break. I find it easier to just make ridiculous demands and hope like hell I’ll be left alone.

“And if you don’t want to say no and can get that bag?” Britney bumps her hip against mine. “It’s not as bad as you’d think.”

She’s talking about fucking the clients for money. Her sly expression tells me that, despite her comment, she’s absolutely sure that I would never take one of the wallets up on their offer, though she does when the mood strikes.

Britney’s wrong. Not about selling herself the same time as she sells whiskey, but because I do know sex work’s not as bad as people make it out to be. Why?

Because I’ve done it myself.

Unlike a certain sect of Bohemians from the ‘90s, I don’t have the luxury of not paying rent. Sometimes, when it comes between having no roof over my head and no food in belly or accepting a hundred bucks for fifteen minutes work… you say yes and hope like hell they get it over quickly.

But that was when I was starting out in Willowbrook and I was desperate to survive. Anything was better than returning to Kieran. Those days are over, though. If some cocky asshole wants in my shorts, ten grand is my price.

Hey. It’s not like the wallets here can’t afford it.

When I don’t say anything to her comment, Britney shrugs her shoulders, her impressive tits bouncing with the motion. I think she’s going to continue on her way back to the floor, but I should’ve known better. An overly friendly brunette with a tendency to gossip, she’s not going to let me get away now that she had a reason to stop me.

Her hands lands on my upper arm, and if she notices the way I stiffen under her touch, she pretends she didn’t. My impression of Britney is sweet yet ditzy, so she probably has no idea that she’s causing me to grit my teeth behind my smile.

“I almost forgot! Did you hear who’s in tonight?”

I shake my head.

Her dark brown eyes brighten. “The Devil himself.”

My stomach tightens.

Look. I know bad men. Being Kieran’s property for so many years… I’ve met my fair share, and all of them pale in comparison to the rumors I’ve heard about the leader of the Sinners Syndicate.

Six feet tall and built like a damn linebacker, with dark eyes, dark hair, and a dark scowl, I’ve only ever caught glimpses of the man when he was sitting in a private booth, usually with Rolls McIntyre. And, okay, maybe I was sneaking peeks of the golden-haired, blue-eyed Adonis sitting with him more than the powerful mafia leader, but something about the way he sat in the shadows, lording over the whole club for his corner reminded me of the Phantom from The Phantom of the Opera .

I must have made a face because Britney nods in agreement. “I know, right? He’s one hell of a scary bastard. I mean, I know he signs our paychecks, but, yeesh. Thank fucking god he got married. Can you imagine if he decided he wanted one of the girls here to belong to him like some of the other Sinners?”

Not really, though I wouldn’t mind if one of them decided to make me theirs…

No. Bad Nic. The last thing you need is to get involved with one of Kieran’s rivals just to piss him off. Because eventually he’ll find me—if he hasn’t already—and… yeah. As much as I have eyes for one of the Sinners in particular, I need to keep that to myself.

Especially since Rolls McIntyre hasn’t shown any interest in me since he concluded my interview and offered me the job here…

Don’t think about Rolls. Britney is bringing up Devil?—

Lowering my voice, I tell her, “I heard, when he was just starting out with the Sinners, he ripped a guy’s head right off his neck.”

That’s one of the horror stories that Kieran told me to stay away from the West Side of Springfield. In my early twenties and beginning to lash out at the control he had over me, I thought about running away, hoping that the Sinners might takes me in… and then he would remind me what the devil of Springfield was capable of.

I wait to see if Britney will tell me I’m being ridiculous.

She doesn’t. Instead, bowing her head in case she thinks one of our co-workers is listening in over the thump-thump-thump of the bass, the clanking of the silverware, ice, and drinks, the roar of the crowd when one of the gamblers hits it big.

And then, with a confiding smile, she says, “I know. I believe it, too. Last summer, when I was working the floor, someone bumped into the girl he was with… the one he ended up marrying… I swear, he beat the shit out of him for just touching her. Blood everywhere. It was crazy .”

You know what? I should be disturbed by that. I should… but when I spent nearly half my life as the property of a gangster who equated violence with love, and who kills for the head of the Libellula crime family on the East End of Springfield?

Maybe… maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to have a man love you so much he’d go after anyone who hurt you.

It couldn’t be worse than the one who claims to love you being the one who actually does hurt you.