Page 5 of Ruthless Savior
But not quite.
Later, after Alicia has gone home and Mom has fallen asleep, I sit in the living room surrounded by boxes and try to work up the courage to make the call. I reach for my purse, pulling out the card. It’s poor quality, which is the first warning sign, not that I really needed one. I’m well aware that whoever this is, they’re a loan shark. Someone I would never, under normal circumstances, do business with. Just the look on my boss’s face when he handed me the card made my skin crawl.
But these aren’t normal circumstances. And I’m out of options.
I reach for my cell phone and dial the number before I can lose my nerve.
Someone picks up on the second ring, a rough, impatient voice. “Hello?”
"Hi, um, I'm calling about a loan? My boss, Richard… Richard Brooks, he gave me your number?—"
"Brooks. Yeah, I know him. You need money?"
“I—” It’s alarmingly to the point, but what did I expect? I imagine everyone who calls this number is in a place where they don’t have any other choice. It’s not like I’m calling for conversation, and I’m sure this guy knows it. "Yes. For medical bills. My mother, she's?—"
There’s a snort on the other end of the line. "I don't need your life story, sweetheart. How much?"
I swallow hard. "Thirty thousand. For an initial loan—after I pay it down, I might need to take out more."
There's a pause. "That's a lot of money.”
My chest tightens with alarm. "I know. But I have a good job, I can pay it back?—"
"We'll see about that. You free tonight to talk about it? Meet me at Flanagan’s Bar. I’ll be there until about midnight.”
"I—yes, I can do that." My heart is beating so hard it hurts. “I can be there within an hour.”
"Good. And sweetheart? Don't bring anyone with you. This is between you and me."
The line goes dead, and I stare at my phone for a long moment, wondering what I've just gotten myself into. Not anything good, I know that. Iknewthat, already—but this is worse than what I expected. The way he talked to me made that perfectly clear.
I get up, shoving my phone into my pocket, and heading to my room to change. I don’t want this guy to get any ideas, but I figure it can’t hurt to look good, so I throw on a pair of dark,tight jeans, a black top with a low neckline and hook-and-eye closures down the front, and a leather jacket and boots to finish it off. I yank my hair out of the ponytail it was in, trying to comb through the crease left in it with my fingers. When that doesn’t work, I throw it up in a messy bun, figuring that looks sexier.
The bar is further downtown than I realized, and in a neighborhood that I would never choose to go to alone at night. Wincing, I call an Uber; the price tag on it for a Friday night is something that I know I can’t afford. But if I try to take the bus, I’ll be late, and I can’t afford that either.
I check to make sure my mom is asleep and grab my keys, shivering in the cold as I stand on the curb and watch for the Corolla that’s supposed to be picking me up. The snow is coming down harder now, and I wish I were in a mood to appreciate it—the first snow of the winter. It sticks to my hair and my jacket, and it would be magical if I didn’t feel like I was going to my execution. Boston in the winter always is, but right now, nothing seems beautiful.
The Uber drops me off right in front of Flanagan’s, the driver giving me a look that’s clearly concerned before he shrugs and drives off as soon as I’m out of the car. I look at the front of the bar and wince. It’s seen better days, and from what I can see through the greasy windows, the inside isn’t much better. It looks dim and smoky and like it’s frequented by the kind of guys that I should stay far, far away from.
A neon Budweiser sign flickers in the window, casting an eerie red glow on the sidewalk, and the smell of stale beer and cigarettes hits me as soon as I open the door. Every conversation stops when I walk in. I feel like I have a target painted on my back as I make my way to the bar, hyperaware of the way the eyes of the men in the room follow me. I smooth my hands down my jeans, feeling a nervous quiver rising in my stomach. I thought it was a good idea to look somewhat attractive for themeeting, but now I feel like a piece of steak hung out in front of a pack of dogs. I wish I’d worn something shapeless, something that could hide what they’re all clearly staring at.
"You looking for someone, honey?" A man at the end of the bar leers at me, his words slightly slurred.
"I'm meeting someone," I say, trying to keep my voice steady. I fight the urge to lick my lips—the last thing I want is anyone here staring at my mouth.
"Lucky guy."
I ignore him and approach the bartender. He's a mountain of a man with arms covered in tattoos and a scar running from his left ear to his jaw. Despite his intimidating appearance, he’s not staring at me like he wants to devour me, and he doesn’t look completely like an asshole. Instead, he’s looking at me almost—sympathetically.
Like he sees how out of place I am here and knows why I’m in this bar.
"You here to see the boss?" he asks before I can even say a word.Fuck. I guess I really do stick out.
I swallow hard. "Yes."
He jerks his head toward a door off to the right side of the bar. I figured it led to the bathroom, but maybe not. “In there. Neil is waiting for you. And, honey—” He leans his elbows on the bar, lowering himself to my level and lowering his voice. "You sure you want to do this?"
The question catches me off guard. The last thing I’d expected, walking in here, was for someone to look almost—worried about me. "What do you mean?"
