Starlet: A Dark Retelling - Cora Kenborn Page 0,11
smirk as she closes the space between us, leaning across the table as her finger curls around the money. I can’t help that my gaze goes straight to her chest again. I’m a man, and it’s involuntary.
That’s when she lets out a low laugh. “My mistake, cupcake.”
I’m so distracted watching her tongue dart out and drag across her bottom lip it’s only the sight of my money disappearing that shakes some sense back into me. Growling, I grab her wrist.
She’s practically draped over my lap as she hisses, “Let go of me.”
I release my hold and let her take it and walk away with an extra sway in her hips because what the hell, that was the most entertainment I’ve had in weeks. It also verifies my instinct about her.
Reaching into my pocket again, I pull out the creased picture, unfolding it with a calculated hand. “What do you know…” A slow smile spreads across my face as I glance from one fallen angel across the bar to another. “Milly was right after all. Once you stop looking for what you want, you really do find what you need.”
I found her.
I wait for Milly to respond to my text. Just when I’m about to type a few four-letter words, my phone lights up.
I still don’t think this is a good idea.
Of course, it’s not. I never said it was a good idea, but it’s the only one we’ve got.
Good thing I don’t pay you to think.
Three dots indicating active typing flash. Then stop. Then start again. What the hell? Is she writing a thesis?
Fine. What do you want?
To go back seventeen years and not get in that fucking SUV, for starters. But I don’t type that. Instead, I set something in motion that could very well bite me in the ass.
Build a blast with the headline: Alexandra Romanov found alive and well and living in Chula Vista, California.
I toss the phone face down on the table before she can respond. It’s not the catchiest grab, but then again it doesn’t have to be. It’s a guaranteed money maker. Regretfully, it’s at this girl’s expense, but we all can’t win in life. It’s not my fault I happened to be in the right place at the right time. Besides, it’s not like what I’m about to offer isn’t the opportunity of a lifetime for someone like her.
We all pay a price in life.
Show me a kid who dreams of growing up and airing people’s dirty laundry for a living, and I’ll show you a liar. But I’m not here to complain about labels when my life is on the line.
Minutes ago, my ship was sinking. Then she walked out from behind that piece of shit bar, saving the day, my ship, and my ass. The woman who, in moments of taking my last twenty bucks, just became the most important person in my life whether she likes it or not.
That cocktail waitress is my golden ticket. She’s everything I’ve been looking for. Perfect eyes. Perfect hair. Perfect charm. Perfect wit. Perfect puppet. The world wants an heiress, and I need them off my back.
It’s a no brainer.
People will sell their souls for a buck these days.
My own words come out of nowhere, drilling holes into what little conscience I have left. For half a second, I hesitate. This is a ball that once put in motion, can’t be stopped.
Fuck it.
I sold my soul a long time ago. Besides, if I don’t step up to the plate, someone else will. Why not me? Why not her? Once Angel hears what’s in it for her, I doubt she’ll have many objections. If she does, I’ll charm my way past them. Just because I’m an asshole ninety percent of the time, it doesn’t mean that ten percent isn’t lethal when I want it to be.
I can lay a little girl to rest as I lay a brand-new starlet at the world’s feet.
It’s selfish. It’s risky. It’s a gamble that could very well land both of us behind bars. But I’m likely headed there anyway, and if she’s desperate enough to try and scam me out of twenty bucks, she can’t be far behind.
And that’s when I make my decision.
I’m not leaving here without her.
I slide out of my chair, anxious to get the show on the road. I don’t have a tab to pay. The whiskey was on the house, and I already paid twenty dollars for a goddamn drink I didn’t even order.