After the GPS populates the address, I schedule a car for an hour and a half from now and close out the app.
Clock’s ticking.
My gaze lands back on the girl with the purple hair and resting bitch face standing behind the bar. “You got any more Jack back there?”
She doesn’t glance up as she swipes a rag across the bar. “Yep.”
“You plan on pouring it today?”
“Sure. I’ll serve it to you in the same place you keep your manners—the shitter.”
Swallowing the instinct to flip this girl off and walk out, I pull out a few bills from my wallet and toss them on the bar. “Look, lady, I’ve had a real bitch of a day, so if you don’t mind, put a lid on the comedy show and keep ’em coming.”
Her heavily lined eyes shift toward the crumbled bills and then slowly rise until they settle back on me. “You got a little something on your face.”
“A scowl?”
“A handprint. Unless you want another one to match, I suggest you kill the attitude.”
I suppose that’s meant to be a warning. Or hell, maybe it’s a come-on. With this girl, I have a feeling there’s not much of a distinction. I smirk and motion toward a table a few feet behind me. “You can send my drink over there.” I don’t wait for a response. Scooping my wallet off the counter, I shove it in my pocket to the sound of a muffled snicker.
Muttering to myself, I make my way to the table and claim a seat. Nobody cares I’m here because nobody knows my face. Unlike most of Hollywood, I’m all right with that. In fact, I’ve spent the better part of a decade ensuring I stayed out of the spotlight.
Until now.
“Goddamn it.” I pull out a pack of smokes and give it a shake, finding one last cigarette hiding in the corner. The damn thing is between my lips before I remember I promised Milly I’d quit.
Fuck it. I’ll quit tomorrow.
Flicking the lighter, I inhale slowly, making sure every bit of toxic smoke fills my lungs, but I’m so on edge even nicotine can’t settle me. I need to sober the hell up and figure out my next step. Which, if something doesn’t change in the next few days, will be bankruptcy.
Groaning, I scrub a hand down my face, days-worth of stubble scraping my palm. This whole Romanov scheme I’ve been running is nothing but a Hail Mary pass to an empty end zone. A last-ditch effort to save my own ass. Naomi Grecco was the fifth useless con to try and pass herself off as the missing heiress, and I’m not sure if I can stomach a sixth.
It’s turned into an obsession, and I don’t even know why. Is it still about the money? Hell, I don’t know anymore. I’ve done nothing but eat, sleep, and breathe Alexandra Romanov for weeks now. I’ve pinned my future on a faceless woman.
Well, not entirely faceless, a voice in my head says.
And therein lies the problem.
Reaching in my pocket, I pull out the worn photo. The ritual is far too familiar, and as I stare at it, I begin to wonder if I should just light the damn thing on fire and be done with it. But I won’t. As many times as I’ve studied it, I still haven’t found an answer.
How the hell is this girl going to save me when she couldn’t even save herself?
Letting out a rough sigh, I refold it and shove it in my pocket when a jolt of electricity pings down my spine. The minute I glance up, I see why.
The bar is crowded, but it doesn’t matter. This woman’s presence would render a room full of people invisible, a fact proven by the way my eyes track her every movement as she walks from table to table, those tight black shorts hugging her lush little body.
It’s only when she moves closer, and I get a better look at her face, that live wire snakes and twists around my neck. I can’t look away. Not from the messy, dark ponytail spilling down her back. Not from her straight-off-the-farm face. And not from, ugh, I roll my eyes, those ugly teal Chucks on her feet.
About as far removed as you can get from the type that usually captures my attention. But here I am, gawking at a waitress trapped in a shitty uniform and an apron.