Page 175 of Sinfully Savage Mafia

I clear my throat. “The reason I pulled you out here was just to let you know that I need you to keep an eye on those two tonight. If either one of them starts anything, I’ll make sure they never headline again.” Good God, sometimes I feel like a glorified babysitter keeping these girls in line.

I let out a deep sigh as Ashleigh hurries back into the dressing room after giving me a quick salute. So many hormones, so many ruffled feathers…and I’m not talking about costumes either.

I deserve a raise. A big one.

And hot new shoes with a handbag to match.

I think I’ll go up to my office and email a list of demands to my brother.

Yes, something to focus on other than Sergio and his big…ego.

I square my shoulders, pushing through the sweaty, writhing throngs of people grinding against each other in one of the rooms off the main club area.

At what point in my life did I ever imagine I’d become the manager of this pussy parade?

I bite down on the inside of my lip.

Then again, let’s be realistic.

I never thought I’d live long enough to see my twentieth birthday after that disaster raged back in Miami years ago. I dig my fingernails into my palms as I stomp toward my office, the only place where I can get any bit of peace and quiet. It’s not in the basement like Nate’s. Mine is upstairs, tucked away from the rest of the club, and the only way you can get to it is by using a hidden staircase. I force a smile for the patrons guzzling expensive liquor and champagne, swaying into each other, drunk, high, and without a single care in the world.

I wonder what that feels like.

Freedom.

I wonder if I’ll ever know.

I unlock the door leading to my private staircase, kick off my heels, and stagger up the steps barefoot. I reach the top and slink into my office, the plush carpet thick and warm beneath my toes. I cross the room and collapse on the large leather sofa, my eyes on the plasma screen hanging on the wall across from me, my reality show du jour looping on the screen.

I am a reality television junkie. I think it’s because I’m so fascinated by the fact that these people openly welcome millions of strangers into their lives, for better or for worse. Good decisions, bad decisions, they let it all hang out.

They hold nothing back. They are exposed and vulnerable for the whole world to see.

Must be so liberating, to not give a fuck what people think, to not worry about who’s watching, to be on perpetual display.

It’s a luxury I will never be able to afford.

I watch the people on the screen bicker about the best way to sell some insanely expensive mansion in the Hamptons, and I allow myself to be swallowed up in the shallowness of it all. It sure beats the hell out of worrying about our cover being blown to bits.

That’s always the biggest threat that looms over us on a daily basis.

It’s one that Nate doesn’t usually acknowledge, at least in front of me. He keeps so much to himself, never really trusting anyone around him. He has no friends because the closer people get, the more they see, the more they hear, the more they ask. He has a crew but they don’t know who he really is, what we did, and how the hell we ended up in the middle of the desert sitting on a cash cow of epic proportions. Our last name is different now, which is the only thing that gives me any peace at all, but realistically, how long can we really hide? Is a different last name going to give us the protection we need to survive?

I have my doubts, but I keep them to myself. I’m sure Nate shares them but we’ve just learned to peacefully cohabitate with our big ass pet elephant.

I let my eyes flutter shut, crossing my legs at the ankles as the reality show drones on in the background. It’s not loud enough to drown out the police sirens, or the screaming, or the gunfire that loops through my mind on forced repeat, though.

Because I have zero control over the darkness that consumes my brain when I drift off, far away from my new reality, however temporary it may be. When my eyes close, it’s like an open invitation for the wounds that afflict my heart and soul to burst open, exposing the grief, guilt, and panic like a nerve.

I bury all of those useless emotions, the ones that perpetuate weakness, down deep, way below my sharp-tongued, prickly exterior. It makes people less likely to want to peel back my layers. I may look like one of the club’s dancers, but I can give a better beatdown than all of the bouncers put together.

My personal defense mechanism has served me well for the past few years. Nobody gets close because I simply don’t let them.

They have no choice.

I make the rules, strict ones that weren’t made to be broken.

They were made to keep me…us…alive.

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