Page 16 of Masked Sins
The sound of clapping stirs me out of my stupor, and I quickly turn and walk out of the box just as Layla and Siegfried hold hands and smile out into the audience.
I take the stairs two at a time to beat the crowd and am on my bike two minutes later. Waiting in a nearby alley for Layla’s white BMW to pull out, I pull my gloves on and grit my jaw against the cool breeze. I hate that she always walks to her car by herself, especially considering she has overzealous fans due to what she does. Carrying pepper spray won’t do much if she’s physically overpowered.
If I don’t watch out for her, who will?
I’m the only one here, though—so what does that make me?
About an hour later, the white SUV drives out of the parking garage, and I wait a few seconds before following her throughdowntown, three cars behind her so she doesn’t know it’s me. I don’t typically follow her like this, but today’s a special occasion. Zoe let it slip during our weekly munch—a meetup for people in the lifestyle—that Layla has a hot date tonight. I couldn’t ask where or with whom without arousing suspicion from Layla’s best friend, so I decided to find out for myself.
I was grateful for Zoe’s intelligence. She’d gotten married to Liam, my eldest brother, last year. We were close before they got together, seeing as the two of us were oftentimes in the same friend groups due to being into kink. She’s the reason I know so much about Layla’s life, and I willingly inhale every crumb and morsel she gives me about my stepsister.
Just after seven, Layla pulls into the valet line for The Angry Squirrel, a high-end restaurant in Santa Monica. Traffic was horrendous the entire drive over, and based on the way she scurries into the restaurant, I’d say she’s late.
I amveryinterested in seeing who she’s meeting.
Parking my bike a couple of blocks away, I lock my helmet up and pocket the keys, casually walking up to the host stand and skimming the restaurant. Layla is seated in the back, and across from her is some blond guy in a suit. I roll my eyes and turn to face the hostess.
“I don’t have a reservation, but I’ll give you a thousand dollars in cash if you seat me in one of the seats in the back,” I murmur, leaning in close to her and pointing at seats behind Layla. She won’t see me unless she turns around and actively looks for me.
The hostess’s eyes go wide as recognition sweeps over her features. “Of course. This way, Mr. Ravage.”
The one time I can use my name to my advantage.
Smirking, I follow her to the table and sit down facing Layla’s table, pulling the cash out of my wallet and discreetly handing it to the hostess before she walks away.
A female server asks if I’d like water or anything to drink.
And just like every other time I’m asked, I resist the urge to say, “Double whiskey, neat.”
Instead, I politely smile and say, “Sparkling water. Thank you.”
She returns a few minutes later with a large bottle of Aqua Panna. “What brings you to The Angry Squirrel, Mr. Ravage?” she asks while pouring.
“I was in the neighborhood,” I tell her quickly. The longer she’s here, the higher the chance Layla will get curious and look behind her. I need to be discreet and blend in.
“Can I please get some bread when you get a chance?” I ask.
The server nods. “Certainly. Whatever you want,” she practically breathes, lashes fluttering. After a second of uncomfortable eye contact, she turns and walks away, and I sigh in relief.
While waiting, I slowly sip my sparkling water and watch my stepsister flirt with a stranger. A completeimbecile,if I’m being honest. His smile is goofy, and his hair is too perfectly coiffed to be taken seriously. My eyes narrow when she laughs at something he says because I know her well enough to know thatthatlaugh was forced. I let my eyes drag over her tailored cream-colored trousers, matching vest, and blazer. The way her hair is still pulled into a tight bun at the back of her head tells me she didn’t have time to wash it. Her glasses sit perched on her nose. Her hands are clasped together on her lap, and she hasn’t touched her wine.
Of course she hasn’t. She hates wine, you asshole. Tsk, tsk.
Who is this guy, anyway? I bet he ordered the wine without asking her what she prefers.
When the server comes back with the bread, I thank her. When she doesn’t immediately move to leave, I lean forward slightly and give her a flirtatious smile.
“Can you please send a cosmopolitan to the woman in the cream blazer? Belvedere vodka if you have it. Don’t tell them I sent it,” I tell her, winking.
The least her date can do is provide a drink she’ll enjoy.
She nods, brows furrowed. That probably wasn’t what she expected me to say.
“Of course, Mr. Ravage.”
She scurries off, and I continue to watch Layla.
Her date won’t stop talking. She can’t seem to get a word in—not that she’s trying. No, she’s too polite for that. At the end of the night, she’ll thank him politely and probably never speak to him again. From what Zoe tells me, Layla has trouble connecting to her dates and hardly ever goes on a second date. My pride and arrogance bothfuckinglovethat fact, and I sit back and smile as a runner walks over to their table and sets the cosmo down in front of Layla.
