Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 71616 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 358(@200wpm)___ 286(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71616 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 358(@200wpm)___ 286(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
I slip my arms through my coat sleeves, grab my purse, and leave the apartment, locking the three locks behind me. The hallway smells, as usual, of fried food, rot and old shoes. It’s gross but I hold my breath, hearing the sounds I’ve become familiar with. A baby crying. Televisions on full blast. Someone yelling. I walk to the end of the hall, down the stairs and out the double glass doors of the crappy apartment building only to stop short when, at the bottom of the stairs, I see a Rolls Royce idling.
My heart leaps to my throat. I nearly throw up when the driver’s side door opens and a chauffeur in full uniform steps out. He nods what I guess is meant to be a greeting to me. I stare, eyebrows high as, without a word, he opens the backdoor of the car and gestures for me to get in.
I force a deep inhale. Rain is pouring off his hat, down the long black leather trench. His face is cast in shadow by that hat and his hands are gloved. He’s tall, well over six feet.
“Miss,” he says when I don’t move. “Mr. Craven sent me to make sure you arrive safe and sound.”
Well. That’s unusual.
“Craven sent you to pick me up?” I ask. Maybe I didn’t hear right. Craven, or Creepy Craven as we call him, is the handsy manager of the handful of female servers at The Cat House. It used to only be men who performed the task of bringing drinks to the rich and horny. The women who are employed by the establishment offer a different sort of service.
The driver nods.
Craven is an asshole. I can’t wait to tell him as much once Ezekiel St. James pays up and I can get the hell out of New Orleans. There’s no way he of all people would care about me getting anywhere safe and sound.
I cock my head and study the driver. “Why would he do that?” I ask. If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the last couple of years it’s that you can’t trust people.
“Miss, I’m sure Mr. Craven doesn’t want you arriving at work drenched.” He gestures to the car.
Well, that’s a more selfish reason so it makes sense.
I glance at the bus stop across the street just as a car speeds past it, splashing the two people waiting in the shelter. My car, which stands in the far corner of the parking lot, is temperamental at best these days. I’d most likely be standing there with them if it weren’t for this guy, so, with a sigh, I walk down the stairs and peer into the backseat. It’s empty.
“Okay,” I say, and get in. “Thanks, I guess.”
The driver closes the door and climbs casually into his seat as if unbothered by the weather. As soon as he puts the car into drive, the locks engage. The sound weirdly makes me jump. I meet the driver’s eyes in the rear-view mirror and quickly look away, feeling embarrassed. I focus on putting on my seatbelt instead then settle into the comfortable leather chair. In front of me, on the back of the headrest is the IVI emblem engraved into the leather. I wonder if this is Craven’s personal car. No, it wouldn’t be. He wouldn’t get a company car. But maybe he has one at his disposal. He’s not a member of The Society, just staff. Like me. I’m guessing he signed the same NDA I did. But John Craven likes to put on airs and make sure we, the lowly female serving staff, know he’s a rung above us in the food chain. Did I mention he's an asshole? It bears repeating.
I shift my gaze to the road and try to relax even as something about this whole thing feels off. I look at the driver again and for a moment wonder if I’m being kidnapped. If I was stupid enough to walk right into some serial killer’s car. But we’re following the familiar road to the IVI compound. It’s fine. I’m fine.
My phone pings. I startle, then reach into my bag to get it. When I see it’s a notification about a deposit into my account, my stomach lurches. I’m not sure it’s excitement or anxiety, to be honest.
My heart thuds against my chest and I hold my breath as I log into the app to look at the account which up until yesterday had a whopping dollar in it.
Now, it has two.
“What the fuck?” I mutter. I bite my lip and feel the line between my brows deepen as I peer closer. It’s got to be some kind of mistake. But no, I’m right. A deposit of a dollar was made just seconds ago. And the reference accompanying it is a middle finger emoji.