Page 1 of Savior

PROLOGUE

SLOANE

Bass thumps through my chest as I laugh at Myra. Her hand waves as she tells us how she’d embarrassed herself at yet another meeting at work. I’m not surprised by her inability to keep her smart mouth closed.

The club is packed, and a man bumps into the back of my chair, eyeing me oddly.

“Sorry,” he says, his New York accent heavy and his voice deep and resounding, even over the club’s noise.

I eye Myra after I turn back around, and she shrugs as if to say, ‘Men are fucking weird.’

I grin, agreeing silently.

She and I have been friends since elementary school. She was the girl with all the bright-colored, clean clothes, perfect hair, and an overly packed lunch, while I was the one with raggedy clothes that I stole from the Goodwill donation box, whatever food I could find to bring, and tousled hair that wasn’t always washed.

She and I bonded over the fact that our parents fucking sucked.

Even if her parents took care of her mostly, the things she had going on at home were less than ideal.

That bond we struck up in second grade never faltered. And even though I don’t like to go out or drink, I’m here. Here for Myra, on a night I could be dancing to make some extra cash.

She got pretty bent out of shape when I tried to tell her I was busy, reminding me I hadn’t been around much lately.

I haven’t been, but it’s because I’m so fucking tired after getting out of my massive stilettos at the end of my shifts that I usually sleep most of the day away. Before I know it, it’s time to go back to work.

My days off are spent sneaking into my mom’s house, cleaning up her drugs and booze, and making sure she’s still alive in the house I pay to keep over her head.

Since Dad killed himself, she’s gotten worse with her drug use, still selling herself to men who don’t mind that she’s unconscious beneath them.

“Take a shot with me,” Myra says in my ear as she lays her hand on my arm, motioning with her head toward the bar.

I glance at the other two, who happily ignore us, deep in drunken conversation.

I smile and slide off my stool, following her to the bar and taking up beside her.

The place is a hole in the wall, with many less-than-desirable people filtering through it. Even now, I feel the eyes of the man who bumped into my chair from the end of the bar. I try to ignore it, but it’s incessant.

“You really got his attention,” she says, and something in her tone piques my interest.

I’ve gotten used to reading people in my line of work, knowing who to steer clear of and who means no harm.

“What do you mean?” I ask her as she pays the bartender for our two shots of bourbon.

“He hasn’t taken his eyes off you since he knocked into your chair,” she says, motioning toward the man.

I look up, locking eyes with him. He’s tall, broad, and has a scar running along his cheek. His eyes are so dark I don’t want to hold their stare long.

“Yeah, well, he’s fucking scary, so…”

She laughs, lifting her shot glass for me to cheers hers. “I didn’t say he was handsome. I was just pointing out the obvious.”

I clink my glass against hers, drop it to the bar’s top, tap it once—something she and I have always done for good luck—and toss the shot back.

The burn is welcome after the week I had, and I don’t wince as I shove my glass toward the edge of the counter.

“What obvious thing are you pointing out?” I ask her.

She shrugs, tossing a tip onto the bar. “That you’re fucking gorgeous, Sloane. Look at you.”

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