Page 9 of The Devil's Playground

“And if you don’t want to say no and can get that bag?” Britney bumps her hip against mine. “It’s not as bad as you’d think.”

She’s talking about fucking the clients for money. Her sly expression tells me that, despite her comment, she’s absolutely sure that I would never take one of the wallets up on their offer, though she does when the mood strikes.

Britney’s wrong. Not about selling herself the same time as she sells whiskey, but because I do know sex work’s not as bad as people make it out to be. Why?

Because I’ve done it myself.

Unlike a certain sect of Bohemians from the ‘90s, I don’t have the luxury of not paying rent. Sometimes, when it comes between having no roof over my head and no food in belly or accepting a hundred bucks for fifteen minutes work… you say yes and hope like hell they get it over quickly.

But that was when I was starting out in Willowbrook and I was desperate to survive. Anything was better than returning to Kieran. Those days are over, though. If some cocky asshole wants in my shorts, ten grand is my price.

Hey. It’s not like the wallets here can’t afford it.

When I don’t say anything to her comment, Britney shrugs her shoulders, her impressive tits bouncing with the motion. I think she’s going to continue on her way back to the floor, but I should’ve known better. An overly friendly brunette with a tendency to gossip, she’s not going to let me get away now that she had a reason to stop me.

Her hands lands on my upper arm, and if she notices the way I stiffen under her touch, she pretends she didn’t. My impression of Britney is sweet yet ditzy, so she probably has no idea that she’s causing me to grit my teeth behind my smile.

“I almost forgot! Did you hear who’s in tonight?”

I shake my head.

Her dark brown eyes brighten. “The Devil himself.”

My stomach tightens.

Look. I know bad men. Being Kieran’s property for so many years… I’ve met my fair share, and all of them pale in comparison to the rumors I’ve heard about the leader of the Sinners Syndicate.

Six feet tall and built like a damn linebacker, with dark eyes, dark hair, and a dark scowl, I’ve only ever caught glimpses of the man when he was sitting in a private booth, usually with Rolls McIntyre. And, okay, maybe I was sneaking peeks of the golden-haired, blue-eyed Adonis sitting with him more than the powerful mafia leader, but something about the way he sat in the shadows, lording over the whole club for his corner reminded me of the Phantom from The Phantom of the Opera.

I must have made a face because Britney nods in agreement. “I know, right? He’s one hell of a scary bastard. I mean, I know he signs our paychecks, but, yeesh. Thank fucking god he got married. Can you imagine if he decided he wanted one of the girls here to belong to him like some of the other Sinners?”

Not really, though I wouldn’t mind if one of them decided to make me theirs…

No. Bad Nic. The last thing you need is to get involved with one of Kieran’s rivals just to piss him off. Because eventually he’ll find me—if he hasn’t already—and… yeah. As much as I have eyes for one of the Sinners in particular, I need to keep that to myself.

Especially since Rolls McIntyre hasn’t shown any interest in me since he concluded my interview and offered me the job here…

Don’t think about Rolls. Britney is bringing up Devil?—

Lowering my voice, I tell her, “I heard, when he was just starting out with the Sinners, he ripped a guy’s head right off his neck.”

That’s one of the horror stories that Kieran told me to stay away from the West Side of Springfield. In my early twenties and beginning to lash out at the control he had over me, I thought about running away, hoping that the Sinners might takes me in… and then he would remind me what the devil of Springfield was capable of.

I wait to see if Britney will tell me I’m being ridiculous.

She doesn’t. Instead, bowing her head in case she thinks one of our co-workers is listening in over the thump-thump-thump of the bass, the clanking of the silverware, ice, and drinks, the roar of the crowd when one of the gamblers hits it big.

And then, with a confiding smile, she says, “I know. I believe it, too. Last summer, when I was working the floor, someone bumped into the girl he was with… the one he ended up marrying… I swear, he beat the shit out of him for just touching her. Blood everywhere. It was crazy.”

You know what? I should be disturbed by that. I should… but when I spent nearly half my life as the property of a gangster who equated violence with love, and who kills for the head of the Libellula crime family on the East End of Springfield?

Maybe… maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to have a man love you so much he’d go after anyone who hurt you.

It couldn’t be worse than the one who claims to love you being the one who actually does hurt you.

THREE

JAKE

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