Page 20 of H E R

“Shit, that asshole!”

“Not so concerned about his privacy now, are you, Jas?”

She ignores my snide comment, her bewildered expression haunting. “What happened next?”

“I don’t know. I ran out of there, just as Bridget did. But I did get enough data on my camera. This pedo is going down, Jas.”

She breathes a sigh of relief. “I don’t know what I would’ve done if something happened to you. Let’s go find Bridget.”

I nod, and she takes my hand. We emerge from the smelly closet and warily look around.

“Hey, Melanie, where’s Bridget?”

Melanie calls us over like she wants to tell us a secret. “Where have you two been?” she hisses.

“We were with Drunk Guys Fifty-Two.”

Melanie nods and accepts Jasmin’s explanation. I have no idea what she just said, but I nod like I do.

“Bridget’s gone home. She wasn’t feeling good. Gerald took her, and I’m not sure she’ll be coming in tomorrow.”

“Oh, okay. If you see her, tell her I have her money.” Melanie arches a brow in question and Jasmin sighs. “We take part in money pools, and her number came up. I’m sure she needs her cash. Just tell her to sweep by my place anytime.”

This, I know, is true. A few people enter a pool of savings. Each person gives fifty dollars every week for three months. At the beginning of the draw, every person has a number which refers to the order in which you get your money. It’s sort of like a savings—money that you’re stowing and aren’t touching until your number comes up. I never knew Bridget entered them, because usually, only the person in charge of the drawing knows the details.

Melanie nods but looks deep in thought, far away, and I’m sure I know what she’s thinking. She’s wishing the rag her hands are wringing was thecerro’sneck. Hell, I wish that!

Jasmin pulls me toward the table upstairs with a bunch of drunken men our age. “This group is Drunk Guys Fifty-Two. We usually name our repeated guests.”

Right when she’s explaining, one of the guys throws a deck of cards in the air and they fly around, making them all laugh hysterically, and they signal us over. Jasmin smiles at them, then turns to me and rolls her eyes. “Hence fifty-two. They throw a deck of cards in the air and have us pick them up so they can stare at our asses. God, I hate my job. Come.”

I follow her and she’s all goddess, Aphrodite, vixen, and siren, all in one.

“We’re back,” she says in a sing-song voice I definitely do not recognize. “Shall we pick these up again?”

Oh, me? She’s talking to me. I smile awkwardly and drop to my hands and knees with her. The guys are all roaring and hooting and somehow I get it. Her words connect to the explanation she gave Melanie. Drunk Guys Fifty-Two are all so wasted, they’ll confuse the time frame and become my alibi. Oh, my best friend is so smart.

“They’re going to lavish your waistband with wads of cash. Donotswat their hands away, Justice.”

As she whispers this to me, I feel three rough hands on my ass. My first urge is to turn around and kick them off their stools, but Jas’s warning halts me. It takes all my muscles to coil and retreat. I breathe out as I pick up the last two cards. We stack them on the table neatly and discreetly stow the cash into our aprons before it falls.

We spend the rest of the night with them and even walk them to their cab. I’m relieved to know none of them will crash due to their intoxicated states, and we wave them off. In my backpack is a gallon-sized bag fat with money.

“We’ll catch a ride with Howard. He lives in the lot following ours.”

We turn and freeze. Leaning against the exterior brick wall ofRibbonsis Dylan. He shoots us a glare and saunters toward us, and my eyes scan for a way out. Fuck, these damn heels, I know once I make to run off, I’ll fall flat on my fucking face.

Jasmin reaches for my hand and squeezes and we watch Howard’s pickup truck drive away slowly behind Dylan.

Fuck, fuck, fuck!

7

Justice

Dylan’s towering stance reaches us and fills my space with his leathery scent. It activates my senses, and suddenly I’m fully aware of the beast of the man before me. He’s over six feet, covered in tattoos, and I don’t doubt that if he took off his shirt, they’d invade his entire torso. He’s angry, but I don’t know why.Do I even want to know?

“Stalking is illegal,” I blurt out. And Jasmin almost breaks my fingers in her grip.

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