Page 8 of The Devil's Playground

It can’t be Kieran. Whoever I sense out there… they’re careful. When it comes to me, Kieran’s always proved that he’s the opposite of careful. If he found me, if he figured out that I’m not only back in Springfield, but that I work for the Sinners Syndicate? He wouldn’t be watching me from a distance.

He doesn’t have the patience. He doesn’t have the self-control, either.

He’d walk right up to my door, expect me to let him in, and in no uncertain terms remind me that I’ve always belonged to him. He might laugh. He might smirk.

He might backhand me across the face and, when I’m down, start kissing me before it leads to more… but he sure as fuck wouldn’t be silent specter that watched over me without making a move.

And that makes the sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach so much worse.

Because if that’s not Kieran out there?

Who the hell is it?

The worst part is that, even when I go to work, I can’t escape the eyes.

At least at the Devil’s Playground, though, I know to expect it. The uniforms the serving girls wear are designed to catch attention. From the low cut, tight black shirt with the Playground’s name splashed in teal across the front of it, to the eentsy weentsy tiny shorts we wear, and the smile slathered on our faces no matter what, our customers expect an experience here—and they tip well to get it.

I need money. That’s the truth of it, and like so many of the girls who work at this nightclub, I teeter on one side of the line between slinging drinks and slinging pussy to make ends meet.

Literally, considering this club is owned by the local mafia—the Sinners Syndicate—and the entire top floor is dedicated to giving clients the full experience.

Not me. When I first interviewed, the suave yet aloof manager who talked to me explained that, for a small cut of the profits, I could rent a bed upstairs to entertain ‘wallets’ with the Sinners’ protection. It wasn’t necessary to get the waitressing job, but the option was there. I politely declined, and since November, I still make triple what I did serving at Mama Maria’s.

That doesn’t stop some of the Playground’s customers from trying, though. I consider it a good night when I only get propositioned once or twice instead of a dozen times. Luckily, since this is a Sinner’s property, the wallets take rejection very well. If a girl says no, the answer’s no, and if they try to push?

The devil of Springfield steps in.

Technically, my boss is the same manicured, gorgeous blond who interviewed me. Royce McIntyre—who everyone knows as “Roll” because of his prowess at gambling—runs the Devil’s Playground. My immediate manager is a tall, leggy redhead named Jessie, but when it comes to who rules the West Side of Springfield?

That’s Lincoln “Devil” Crewes, and if I never have to confront that scary SOB, I’ll be happy.

But while nearly everyone in Springfield is afraid of him and what he’s capable us, that doesn’t mean that some of the customers here don’t try to… convince us with a little more emphasis than necessary.

I have a handful of my own. I’m one of the more recent waitresses to sign on so it could just be that I’m new meat. I have to prove myself, stand firm and tell them to back off.

Most of them get that, but I do have have in particular who thinks that, for the right price, he can change my mind—which is why, when Britney snags me on my way to refill a scotch on the rocks and a gin and tonic for a cute couple on a first date, I’m not surprised with her message.

“Hey, Nic. Real quick, babe. Miles Haines was asking after you again.”

Ugh. Miles Haines. A thirty-something, toothy bastard who flashes his cash like that means his shit don’t stink. I went under his radar for my first few months here, but lately? It’s like he’s parked at the poker tables, roulette wheel, or slots during every shift I have, and he just won’t stop with the come-ons and the heavy-handed persuasion.

It’s not bad enough that I’ve thought about going to Jessie yet. I definitely won’t go to Rolls. He might be my boss, but the gambler doesn’t just run the Playground because—apart from the brothel upstairs and the dance floor that makes up most of the nightclub—it’s the biggest casino in Springfield.

Nope. He runs the Playground because he’s a high-ranking member of the Sinners Syndicate, second only to Devil himself.

Besides, the other night, I’m pretty sure I finally found a way to get Miles to understand that I’m not interested.

He thinks I have a price. I gave him one.

“Unless he has ten grand, cash in hand, I don’t know why he’s wasting his time,” I tell her.

Britney giggles. She thinks I’m kidding.

And I am… but only sort of.

“You know,” she says, “you could just tell him no instead of throwing out numbers like that. At the Playground, guys understand the word no if you’re direct with them.”

Maybe. But Kieran spent ten years training the word out of me and it’s a hard habit to break. I find it easier to just make ridiculous demands and hope like hell I’ll be left alone.

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