“Where would you like to see this displayed?” The interior designer stands in the middle of the first room at Delta. He looks me up and down, blowing his longish hair out of his face. “How about the entryway? Or maybe the VIP area on the balcony?”
I arrived ten minutes ago to check the progress made by the construction crew so far. The fire damage was limited to the bar area in the first room, but I used the downtime to refresh and update the rest of the place. The crew I hired took their sweet time, charging by the hour, but it looks like we’ll be back in business by Friday.
“I don’t know what the fuck you’re holding, and you’re asking me where I want it displayed? Which one of us is the decorator here? Figure it out.”
The guy steps back, setting what resembles a giant copper dildo on the floor, then combs his long, blond hair with his fingers, fucking up the hap-hazard behind the ear tuck he had going on. He’s a spit-shine replica of Nick Carter of the Backstreet Boys. Though judging by how often his eyes fall to the inseam of my trousers, I’m betting his sexual orientation does not match Nick’s.
“It’s a sculpture. A very expensive one at that, made by a world-renowned artist. It has been a part of my personal collection for years, but I feel, given your profession, it belongs here.”
“What exactly do you think I do for a living? This isn’t a male strip club. We don’t need a giant dildo here.”
His eyes widen as he glances between me and the so-called sculpture. “This is not a dildo! It’s a bullet.” He clicks his tongue, pulling the duh! face. “A nitro express bullet, to be precise. They are mostly used—”
“In large-bore hunting rifles,” I say. “Don’t teach your grandma how to suck eggs.” I inhale a calming breath. A glass of whiskey would work faster. A clip of my gun emptied into the ceiling even quicker, but it’d delay the re-opening. “Why is it here?”
“It’ll make for an interesting feature and add character to the…” he scrunches his nose, “…bland space.”
Hold me, or I’ll gut the guy.
The main entrance opens behind my back before I have a chance to comprehend the gibberish and word a reply.
“Wow, someone’s been busy!” Jackson’s words echo in the empty space. He turns his head in all directions so fast I think his head might come off the hinges. “When are we opening?”
The decorator rolls his eyes with a sigh, mocking the hopeful note in Jackson’s voice.
“I didn’t ask for permission,” I say, watching her plump lips.
She clicks her tongue and rolls her eyes, sending a wave of desire traveling throughout my nervous system. I’ve been here for ten seconds. She hadn’t even opened her mouth yet, but I’m already so fucking hooked on this girl. The bartender sets a tall glass in front of her, and she holds out her money, eyes fixed on the guy.
Little Miss Independent.
I like her attitude, and I hope it’s not just an act.
“Will you introduce yourself, or will you just gawk at me all night?” she clips, closing her full lips on the straw.
God, where the hell was this girl all my life?
A low blow to my ribs brings me back from Layla land.
“Did you hear me?” Jackson asks, eyeing the bullet with one eyebrow pulled into a question mark. “Man, what do you need a huge dildo for?”
Mic drop.
“It’s a bullet, not a dildo,” the decorator retorts.
“I don’t know where you buy your bullets, but this one doesn’t look like any of those I use.”
I smirk under my breath when the guy turns pale at the sight of the gun tucked in the holster under Jackson’s jacket. “Get this out of here.” I motion at the sculpture. “Have you seen pictures of this room from before the fire?”
“I wouldn’t call the previous interior design classy…” He examines his fingernails and smacks his lips before lifting his gaze to meet mine. Has he any idea how much he gets on my nerves? “I can’t picture any VIPs gracing this place with their presence. No finesse, no glamor.”
“You’d be surprised what kind of VIPs this club’s hosted over the years. Nevertheless, this is a club for the masses, not just selected individuals. Recheck the photos and get to work. I want Delta to look exactly like it used to, and I want it ready by Friday morning.”
His mouth falls open in an exaggerated manifestation of deep shock. “But that’s three days away!”
“Yes, I can count. We’re opening on Friday.” I emphasize each word. “Now, get out of my face.”
He blushes, lifts the dildo with visible strain, and leaves as instructed. Such a good boy. I light a cigarette, pointing my chin to the rolled-up papers in Jackson’s hand.
“Ah, right.” He smacks them into my chest. “Grace’s profile. She’s alright. Nothing out of the ordinary. Deceased father, an alcoholic mother, and a two-year-old brother. She’s been working at the cleaning company for three months.”
I know all that. She told me about the car crash her father died in and the years of her mother’s downward spiral into the addiction. She also told me she’s been sofa-surfing at her friends’ houses for months, saving every last cent for a deposit to rent a flat. I hired her to clean my house every day, so I could get to know her better. She’s punctual, well-organized, and thorough.
Layla left a massive hole in my life. The burning desire to care for someone almost fucking chokes me every day. There’s something about Grace—and I pretend not to have the slightest idea what—that stops me from turning a blind eye and leaving her in the swamp she found herself in.
That something is vulnerability.
The same kind Layla sported: a helpless kitten aura hidden under a mask of self-sufficiency.
“So? Can I let everyone know we’re opening on Friday?” Jackson wanders around the room like Delta’s a museum jam-packed with exhibits. “Are the V brothers coming? Julij?”
“I’ll see Julij tomorrow. Let the V brothers know, update the website, and send an invitation to the usual VIP crowd.”
He signals that he understood, glaring at bare walls, pulling the faces of an art connoisseur. “Here.” He points high above the ground. “It’s fucking crooked.”
Madhouse. One walks around the club with a dildo; the other looks for imperfections ten feet above the ground.
I leave him to deal with the workers while I drive home to offer Grace a job as my maid. She’s scrubbing the kitchen sink, her dull-red hair in a bun, hands dressed in a pair of rubber gloves.
“Oh, hey. I didn’t expect you back so early.” She bares her teeth in a full-blown smile.
She’s refreshing. Smiles for no reason and acts like cleaning my house is a godsend. As if life can’t get any better.
I shrug out of my jacket and pop the two top buttons on my shirt. “We need to talk. Make yourself a cup of coffee and join me in the living room.”
“Is…” she bites the inside of her cheek, no longer smiling. “Is something wrong?”
“No. Everything’s fine. Don’t worry.”
“Um… okay. Give me two minutes.” She tucks the cleaning products back into the cupboard under the sink.
I leave her be and round the bar to fetch a drink. There’s no vodka left in this house, so whiskey on the rocks it is. My wristwatch shows four p.m., but with zero plans for the rest of the day, I’ll start obsessing about Layla again. I need to get drunk and numb enough not to fucking care. Grace joins me at the bar a moment later, an uncertain, somewhat anxious look on her face. She cups the mug with both hands, eyes on the glass standing before me.
“Can you cook?”
“Not really. I can make simple dishes, but nothing special.”
“My housekeeper left a week ago. I like you, Grace. You’re eager and thorough. I want you to work for me. You’ll need to learn how to cook proper meals, but an evening class should take care of that. I’ll rent you an apartment, you’ll get a car, and we’ll find a nursery for your brother somewhere nearby.”
I say I’ll cover the cost of her apartment and the nursery and tell her how much she’ll take home every month.
She lunges forward and wraps her arms around me tightly, weeping into my shoulder. “Thank you. You’ve no idea what this means to me. Thank you.”
I pat her on the back, stiff all over, before I push her away. “I’m off to New York tomorrow. One of my people will sort everything out for you over the weekend.”
