Page 71 of Wicked Sinner

There’s a snort on the other end of the line. "I don't need your life story, sweetheart. How much?"

I swallow hard. "Thirty thousand. For an initial loan—after I pay it down, I might need to take out more."

There's a pause. "That's a lot of money.”

My chest tightens with alarm. "I know. But I have a good job, I can pay it back—"

"We'll see about that. You free tonight to talk about it? Meet me at Flanagan’s Bar. I’ll be there until about midnight.”

"I—yes, I can do that." My heart is beating so hard it hurts. “I can be there within an hour.”

"Good. And sweetheart? Don't bring anyone with you. This is between you and me."

The line goes dead, and I stare at my phone for a long moment, wondering what I've just gotten myself into. Not anything good, I know that. I knew that, already—but this is worse than what I expected. The way he talked to me made that perfectly clear.

I get up, shoving my phone into my pocket, and heading to my room to change.

I don’t want this guy to get any ideas, but I figure it can’t hurt to look good, so I throw on a pair of dark, tight jeans, a black top with a low neckline and hook-and-eye closures down the front, and a leather jacket and boots to finish it off.

I yank my hair out of the ponytail it was in, trying to comb through the crease left in it with my fingers.

When that doesn’t work, I throw it up in a messy bun, figuring that looks sexier than the ponytail it was in.

The bar is further downtown than I realized, and in a neighborhood that I would never choose to go to alone at night. Wincing, I call an Uber; the price tag on it for a Friday night is something that I know I can’t afford. But if I try to take the bus, I’ll be late, and I can’t afford that either.

I check to make sure my mom is asleep and grab my keys, shivering in the cold as I stand on the curb and watch for the Corolla that’s supposed to be picking me up.

The snow is coming down harder now, and I wish I were in a mood to appreciate it—the first snow of the winter.

It sticks to my hair and my jacket, and it would be magical if I didn’t feel like I was going to my execution.

Boston in the winter always is, but right now, nothing seems beautiful.

The Uber drops me off right in front of Flanagan’s, the driver giving me a look that’s clearly concerned before he shrugs and drives off as soon as I’m out of the car.

I look at the front of the bar and wince.

It’s seen better days, and from what I can see through the greasy windows, the inside isn’t much better.

It looks dim and smoky and like it’s frequented by the kind of guys that I should stay far, far away from.

A neon Budweiser sign flickers in the window, casting an eerie red glow on the sidewalk, and the smell of stale beer and cigarettes hits me as soon as I open the door.

Every conversation stops when I walk in.

I feel like I have a target painted on my back as I make my way to the bar, hyperaware of the way the eyes of the men in the room follow me.

I smooth my hands down my jeans, feeling a nervous quiver rising in my stomach.

I thought it was a good idea to look somewhat attractive for the meeting, but now I feel like a piece of steak hung out in front of a pack of dogs.

I wish I’d worn something shapeless, something that could hide what they’re all clearly staring at.

"You looking for someone, honey?" A man at the end of the bar leers at me, his words slightly slurred.

"I'm meeting someone," I say, trying to keep my voice steady. I fight the urge to lick my lips—the last thing I want is anyone here staring at my mouth.

"Lucky guy."

I ignore him and approach the bartender.

He's a mountain of a man with arms covered in tattoos and a scar running from his left ear to his jaw. Despite his intimidating appearance, he’s not staring at me like he wants to devour me, and he doesn’t look completely like an asshole.

Instead, he’s looking at me almost—sympathetically.

Like he sees how out of place I am here and knows why I’m in this bar.

"You Leila?" he asks before I can even say a word. Fuck. I guess I really do stick out.

I swallow hard. "Yes."

He jerks his head toward a door off to the right side of the bar. I figured it led to the bathroom, but maybe not. “In there. Neil is waiting for you. And, honey—” He leans his elbows on the bar, lowering himself to my level and lowering his voice. "You sure you want to do this?"

The question catches me off guard. The last thing I’d expected, walking in here, was for someone to look almost—worried about me. "What do you mean?"

He straightens, his expression clearing. “Nothing. Just—be careful.” He gives me a once-over, but it’s not the kind of hungry look that I’ve been feeling like grease on my skin since I walked in here. “Neil’s not an easy man to deal with. Especially for a pretty girl.”

“I—thanks,” I manage, feeling my hands start to shake a little. “I’ll be fine.”

I don’t sound nearly as confident as I wish I did.

I cross the room to the door that the bartender indicated, still feeling all of those eyes on me. I knock once, firmly, and a cigarette-hoarse voice comes from the other side. The same one I heard on the other end of the phone, earlier.

“Come in.”

The man that I see as I open the door—Neil, I suppose his name must be—isn’t exactly what I expected.

I’d expected a balding man with a potbelly, but he’s younger than I thought—maybe mid-thirties—with a full head of dark hair slicked back with way too much gel and a lean frame that borders on skinny.

He’s wearing a suit that’s just a touch too big for him, but it still looks out of place here—too fancy for the cramped space I step into in this trashy bar. .

His office, I guess, if it could really be called that.

It’s small enough that I’m standing way too close to him from the moment I step in.

He’s sitting behind a small desk that’s seen better days.

Boxes of alcohol and flats of beer are stacked around the edges of the room, and it smells like sweat and mold in here.

"Leila Murphy." He doesn't stand up, doesn't offer me a seat, although there’s a folding chair in front of his desk. His eyes rake over me appraisingly, and I fight the urge to cross my arms over my chest. "You're prettier than I expected."

I don't know how to respond to that, so I don't.

"Sit," he says finally, and gestures to a chair across from his desk.

I sit, trying to project more confidence than I feel. Everything about this, from the moment I made that phone call, screams mistake. But what the hell am I going to do? I’ve come this far. I need this, or I wouldn’t be here at all. I’m desperate, or I would never have called that number.

I’m sure that’s the case for everyone who finds themselves in this cramped, musty room.

I draw in a slow breath through my mouth. "Thank you for meeting with me."

"Right to business. I like that." He leans back in his chair, studying me like I fascinate him. "You said you needed thirty grand. To start.”

I swallow hard. It sounds like such a huge number. It is a huge number. I’m no idiot—I work in finance. I know how heavy of a burden that kind of loan from a reputable institution is, and Neil is the furthest thing from reputable that I can imagine. "That's right."

"For your mother's medical bills."

I nod tightly, feeling that prickle of desperation over my skin. "Yes."

He tilts his head slightly, appraising. "And you can pay it back."

"I can pay it back," I confirm, though the words feel hollow. We’re stretched so thin as it is, I don’t know how I’m going to scrape together regular payments. But maybe they won’t be that high. Maybe I can handle it. Maybe—

"What kind of work do you do, Leila?" Neil’s voice breaks through my thoughts, and I refocus.

"Financial analysis. I work for a consulting firm downtown. You know my boss, I guess—he gave me your card. I told you on the phone… Richard Brooks?”

“Ah, right.” Neil eyes me. “You make good money?”

Something about him makes me not want to tell him anything about how much money I make. But I’m sure he needs information about my financials, just like a bank would.

“Good money for my age,” I say finally. “I’m just out of college. I make a little more than the average, I guess.”

He nods. “Alright. Here’s how this works. I’ll wire you the thirty thousand. Your bank is probably going to freeze it temporarily, so I hope you don’t need it for a week or so. You’ll pay me back a thousand a week, plus interest. You bring the cash here once a week, on Sundays. Understood?”

My lungs feel tight, and I try to regulate my breathing. “How much interest?”

He doesn’t miss a beat. "Thirty-five percent."

My stomach drops. Thirty-five percent is over another ten thousand in interest on top of the loan. And I doubt this is the last loan I’ll need from him. I feel dizzy at the thought of how much I could end up owing this man, how long I could be on the hook for weekly payments.

I feel sick. My mom worked hard, sacrificed all her life, so I could go to a good college without student loans.

I worked hard to get scholarships to offset the burden, and I got such perfect grades that, between that and her savings, I graduated debt-free.

The kind of dream that most people in this country can’t even fathom being a reality.

Now I’m going to have to sink myself into worse debt than that.

“That’s… a lot,” I manage.

"That's the price of doing business with someone who doesn't require a credit check or collateral." His voice is calm, matter-of-fact. "You don't like the terms, you can walk away right now."

Except I can’t. Not really. There are no other avenues for me to get this money. No way for me to make sure my mom gets the treatment and care that she needs.

And he knows it. I can see it in the gleam in his eyes, in the patient way he waits for me to respond, like he’s just waiting for me to catch up. To agree to a loan that will compound until I don’t know how I’ll ever shake it off.

But the alternative is just as unthinkable.

I feel myself nodding before the words come out of my mouth. “Alright,” I manage, my voice thick. “Where do I sign?”

Neil smiles, reaching into a drawer. He slides a contract in front of me.

It looks official— legal. I’m sure it would hold up in court—not that a man like him probably uses legal means to collect.

I try to read it, but my thoughts are racing too fast for me to really retain any of the words on the pages.

“What happens if I fall behind on payments?” I look up at him. “If I’m late, or if I miss a week?”

“Interest goes up to forty percent on a missed payment. After three missed payments—” A predatory look is in his eyes. “I’m sure we’ll be able to work something out.”

My mouth goes dry. I can only imagine what that means, and I can’t let myself think about it for too long. I won’t miss any, I tell myself. I’ll eat cheap ramen every day for years if I have to. I’ll make sure Mom is taken care of, that she gets well, and I’ll pay it off.

I hold out my hand, and Neil drops a pen into it. I can feel the satisfaction vibrating off of him; another rabbit caught in his snare. When I sign my name, it feels like I’ve signed my death warrant.