across black velvet, and it feels like something important is happening.
“You hoped the worst day of my past was the best day of my future.” The creativity of it makes me smile.
“I read that somewhere.”
“It’s good.” A police siren pierces the quiet, and I look over at her. “This is a terrible neighborhood. What are you doing here?”
“Trying to make ends meet. Something I’m sure you know nothing about.”
“I’ve told you. You don’t know about my past, Sin.” I glance at the corner, where I saw hoodie guy go. “You have my number. Call me if anything goes wrong. Or you feel scared.”
I can’t imagine her being afraid, but this time when she looks at me, the fire has subsided. At least momentarily.
“Thank you.” She steps away from the door, arms crossed. “I helped Court get a restraining order. Now we have a patrol car that drives by every night between ten and eleven.”
She seems very proud, and I don’t want to burst her bubble with how uncomfortable this makes me. “I’m available 24-7.”
“I’ll remember that.”
My hands are in my pockets, and I start for the stairs. I hate leaving her here, this way, but it’s what she wants. Just before descending, I pause. “I’ll need to see you Monday at eleven.” Sliding one hand up my waist, I squint. “Irritated my back chasing after you just now.”
“I’ll make an appointment and send you a confirmation.”
“Goodnight, Joselyn.”
I’m at my car when I hear the door slam and the lock click. Climbing inside, my phone buzzes with an incoming text. It has the letters TY and a little red heart in the Notes field.
Oh, Sin, if you think this is charity, you’re dead wrong.
Chapter 21
Joselyn
Mr. Santiago rebooked for Sunday afternoon.
He texted just as I was closing my eyes last night asking if I could see him today. Of course, I said yes, only mildly hesitant about appearing too available.
Hell, I need the work. Other than him, I’ve only got Spencer on the books for tomorrow morning.
I do have an interview at Court’s place tomorrow afternoon, but I’m not sure how soon I’ll get started or how much work it will be, or when I’ll get paid…
“So, you see, I am desperate,” I sigh to myself, scanning the office directory outside the elevators of the Member’s Mark building.
A chubby security guard sits near the glass doors staring at his phone. He doesn’t inspire a lot of confidence, but at least he’s here, he has a gun, and he nodded when I said I was seeing Mr. Santiago.
The bell dings, and I step inside the glass tube heading to the top floor.
We spent the weekend scouring Zillow for apartment listings and doing our best to keep things upbeat and normal for Oliver. Our nightly police drive-by has continued, which makes us feel a little secure, and Spencer’s offer has been burning a hole in my chest since Friday.
My heart is screaming I should have let him kiss me, but my head is a stubborn old nun saying I did the right thing. I won’t be used and tossed in the trash… although, I am a bit embarrassed about overreacting to seeing him with Heather.
Way to show your cards, Sly.
The elevator dings again, and I step out into a dim hallway. With all the office doors closed, the reception area is illuminated only by the emergency exit lights. If it weren’t five in the afternoon, it would be creepy.
I follow the directions to the third door on the left and tap lightly, “Mr. Santiago?”
The door slowly opens with a light creak, and lying before me on a table is an olive-skinned man without a shirt. He’s face-down, so I only see his back, and he’s not as defined as Spencer. Still, I can tell he works out.
The blinds covering the windows are closed, and the room is dim. He’d said in our text he had his own equipment, which is unusual but not unheard of. I didn’t question it. The less I have to carry, the easier it is to get out of here if I feel uncomfortable.
“Miss Winthrop, I’ve been waiting for you.” It’s a mid-level voice with a touch of an accent I can’t place, almost British.
A Bluetooth speaker is on the edge of the desk playing island music.
Shaking away my hesitation, I lower my bag into a chair. “Looks like you know as much about my job as I do.”
“I’ve spent time with massage therapists.” He doesn’t look up, and it’s