Page 1 of Filthy February

One

VALENTINA

What does one wear to a meeting like this? Certainly not something slutty or my typical Bohemian style. Matronly. That’s the look I need.

In the floor-length bathroom mirror, I swivel my hips, scanning my navy sweater dress. My matching dark blue hair flips forward when I slip on black boots to cover my long legs. Maybe I need stockings. Mothers would wear something to cover themselves for modesty, especially in the winter. I sling a faux Coach bag over my shoulder like it belongs on me. The look is so preppy it hurts my eyes.

They can’t know the real me. That I’m twenty-four and a complete mess. On the verge of not having anything to eat in two days because there’s no money left in my bank account. That I sleep on a pile of smelly blankets on the floor, but it’s better than being in the bed.

With him.

I flip the lock on the door and hurry out to the living room, hoping he won’t notice. With his back turned to the front door and gaming headset on, I think I’ve made a clean getaway. Just as I pass the back of the sofa, he swiftly turns and snatches my wrist, holding me in place.

His chestnut eyes scan my body with vehemence. “Where the fuck are you going? And why are you dressed like that?”

“I told you. I have a job interview at the lodge.”

A deep wrinkle forms between his thick, black eyebrows. He scoffs a breath and says, “Yeah, right. You got fired from there, and they won’t take you back.”

I bite my lip to keep from blurting out that he is the reason I’m not allowed back there. That my permanent termination was because of his outrageous jealousy and storming into my job and destroying the store when he found out I was earning money behind his back.

“Th-they said they’d allow me to apply as a ski rental stocker. I’d work in the back, so I wouldn’t be near anyone else. Not even men...” Despite the five years we’ve had together, I’m still no better of a liar than the day we met.

“Are you that fucking stupid? What did I say? I said?—”

“No woman of yours should work.” I finish his sentence for him, but stick out my lip before I can stop myself. “But I’m not yours, remember? We aren’t married. You don’t take care of me and I broke up with you.”

The grip of his fingers on my arm tightens until I cry out. He twists the appendage while standing up and sliding over to me. “You’re not going anywhere, and we’re never breaking up. You aren’t good enough to marry, yet. Also, you look like a whore in these clothes. Take them off and go to the bed.”

I spin, so I don’t have my arm yanked from its socket, and face him. With a proud chin, I say, “No, Malik. I’m leaving.”

It’s expected, but still shocking, when his palm slaps me across the face. The sting of its habit more painful than the hit itself. With a careful dive across my bottom lip, my tongue checks for any damage. There’s no blood, so hopefully the people I’m meeting don’t notice.

We stare at each other for a long moment. Then I grip his shoulders and shove a knee into his groin. As he doubles over with a groan of anguish, I rush past him and snatch his keys from the rack. Flinging the door open, I give him one last look and spit in his direction, then slam it shut.

In my hurry, I forgot my coat. Of course… The winter winds whip across my throbbing cheek as I shuffle across the apartment parking lot and jump into his car. I’ll probably pay for taking it later, but I need this job. My life depends on it.

Not only that, but this is something I think has a higher merit to it. I’ve never been someone. The product of a man in prison and a woman who couldn’t stop drinking, I had to raise myself. And I didn’t do a good job. All I want is to have a higher purpose, and I think I found it, if I’m accepted.

It would mean I’m worth it. And could save someone else.

My fingers dig out a tiny slip of paper, marked with the address I memorized. Malik constantly goes through my phone, so I had to delete all messages and emails as soon as I read them. The drive is familiar to me. Crystal Frond is pretty small, and I think I know of the place, but the people who go there are well above my station in life.

Hopefully, I fit in.

Valets line the front of the establishment, and I awkwardly hand over Malik’s keys with a smile. A white-gloved door attendant waves me in and doesn’t seem like he’s judging me. With every inch closer to the front, my heart rate speeds up.

The entryway of the old club doesn’t give much away, with three solid mahogany doors blocking what lies beyond. A suited man stands at a podium, with a row of coats lining a rack behind him. His wiry eyebrows raise at the sight of me when I waltz in, shaking my head back like I belong.

“Are you meeting someone, miss?”

I swallow and say, “Carson and Juliet Cash.”

His bald head shines in the dim light when he nods toward the right door. “This way, please.”

Fortunately, the room isn’t as open as I envisioned. Private booths line the main sitting areas, their little alcoves covered with stained glass doors. At the third on our left, he pauses and slides one open, and my stomach twists into knots.

I think about turning around and running out of here.

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