I shove the chocolate lava cake out of my fork’s reach and cradle my stomach. It’s the final dish of an eight-course dinner, and if I eat another mouthful, the zipper on my dress is going to give up trying.
“Sure.” Matt says it in a dull tone that suggests he hasn’t heard a word I’ve said. He’s too busy staring at his crush, who I now know to be called Anna. She’s sitting three tables down with a group of friends, and none of them have touched a single course. “Okay, how about this. When she goes to the bathroom, you go too. And then pretend to be on the phone and talk about how big my cock is or something.”
I give him a few seconds to smile or laugh, anything that shows he’s joking. It doesn’t come.
“Do you think that’ll get you the girl?”
His gaze slants. “Girls like big dicks, right?”
“Jesus Christ, Matt.” I tug the cake toward me again. Just one more bite. “Why don’t you just go and talk to her?”
“Have you smacked your head? She’ll think I’m a weirdo.”
I choose another mouthful of gooey goodness over pointing out the obvious. Chocolate tastes better than the truth. Hell, sometimes rat poison tastes better than the truth.
Darkness arrived somewhere between the scallops and the lamb: now tiki torches, red heat lamps, and the warmth of a love story cast a hazy glow over the clearing. The low, easy beat of the mini orchestra has picked up tempo and introduced a saxophone. As shiny stilettos move onto the dance floor and reluctant leather loafers follow, the night crackles with a good time.
A server refills my champagne. I turn to thank him, but my eyes are drawn to a dark figure over his shoulder. Raphael Visconti is leaning against the bar, yet another woman buzzing around him like a fly on shit. They’ve been coming and going all evening—different dresses, different hairstyles, but the same bone-cringing behavior.
Like all the women before her, her gestures are large and her laugh is loud. In contrast, Raphael is still and suave. He cocks his head to listen to her monologue; runs a thumb over a well-mannered smile.
Raphael Visconti is the perfect gentleman.
He’s also the perfect liar.
The word liar buzzes on the tip of my tongue like sour candy. Call it instinct, or call it common sense; my gut knows that gentlemanly act is nothing but smoke and mirrors.
As if he can suddenly feel the venom in my thoughts, Raphael’s gaze lifts up from the floor and locks onto mine. It flashes with dark amusement, and the way he says Penelope, by stretching out all four vowels in a cashmere drawl, whispers in the wind.
Heart racing, I spin around in my chair in an attempt to save face. I’ve really got to stop looking at him, because he’ll start to think I’m jealous, or something. And I’m definitely not jealous.
I focus on a couple doing a drunk waltz on the dance floor. “Hey”—I kick Matt under the table to get his attention—“tell me what you know about Raphael Visconti. Asshole, right?”
He frowns, then glances over my shoulder. I know he sees a handsome man talking to a woman under a romantic glow, because his face melts into a shit-eating grin. “You gonna try your luck?”
“No.” I pop the top button of my coat and Matt’s gaze drops to the opening.
“Thought you were cold?”
I swat him with my purse. “Answer the question. Tell me what you know about Raphael Visconti, or else I’ll tell Anna you’ve got crabs.”
My threat doesn’t dent his glee, because he parrots my earlier advice in a squeaky voice, which I assume is meant to mimic mine. “Why don’t you just go and talk to him?”
I don’t know why I didn’t tell Matt about Rafe’s rudeness earlier. I guess it’s for the same reason I didn’t tell Nico about us having met before; I’d then have to explain the whole swindling thing. Matt doesn’t know anything about that, and as my only friend on the Coast, I’m going to keep it that way.
Besides, for some odd reason, I like being the only one to know Raphael’s secret.
Before I can tell my friend I’d rather jump off the top of Devil’s Dip cliff when the tide is out, the scrape of a chair makes his head snap to a ninety-degree angle. Both our eyes trail Anna as she gets to her feet, smooths down her dress, and totters in heeled boots over the dance floor toward the bar.
I can’t explain why my throat gets tighter with every sultry sway of her hip.
Matt’s tone drops the humor and picks up panic. “No, seriously. Go talk to him.”
As if timed to precision, Anna slips into the gap beside Raphael, half a second after the other girl vacates it.
My hand curls into a fist around a chocolate-stained napkin. “Why? Worried he’ll steal your girl?”
“Of course I’m worried, fucking look at him.” Reluctantly, I do, and at the most unfortunate time. Something Anna said was funny, apparently, because he tilts his head up to the twinkling veranda and laughs. Not just a polite laugh either, but the type that comes from deep within the hard walls of his stomach. The type that’s hard to fake.
I suppose he’s a better liar than I thought, because for a crazy second, I almost believe it.
Jesus, I must be drunk.
“You didn’t answer my question. He’s an asshole, right?”
Matt looks surprised. “Rafe? An asshole? Hell no. As much as I’d like to say he’s a dickhead, because a man that good-looking needs some flaws, he’s not. His scholarship program pays for a hundred disadvantaged kids to get a full ride to Devil’s Coast Academy every year. He funds the hospital’s Make a Wish foundation, and remember when that weird blizzard blew through Dip four years ago?” Reluctantly, I nod. “He paid for all of the repairs and damages out of pocket. Must have cost him millions. He’s a good guy, unlike some of the other Viscontis…”
I follow his pointed gaze to the other end of the bar, where Benny is attempting to impress a blond by pouring butane fluid from his Zippo into the palm of his hand. He makes a fist, holds the lighter underneath it, and then he blows.
Matt barks out a curse word as a fireball lights up the night sky, its vicious flames dancing way too close to the girl’s eyebrows for comfort.
“What about that? Does arson get girls?” he mutters, tone laced with sarcasm.
A sharp gust of wind brings over a loud laugh, wiping the humor clean off my lips. Matt leans closer, nudging me with his thigh, and like two heads of the same snake, we glare as Anna giggles and coos over something Raphael says. The laugh shakes her lithe silhouette so violently that she staggers backward, and when Raphael’s arm slides around her waist to steady her, we both hiss like snakes, too.
I bury mine under another mouthful of chocolate cake.
“I’m actually begging you now. Please go break them up.”
“Not a chance.”
“Just ask him for a dance—”
“There’s no way in hell—”
“I’ll give you a hundred bucks.”
The offer gives me pause. I mean, I’m very fucking broke right now. Eating ramen that’s been sitting in my cupboard for over three years kind of broke.
Last night, as I inhaled the tangy leather strap of Raphael’s watch, I was high off the dollar signs. But now I’ve come back to earth and realized I’ll probably have to leave the Coast to sell a Visconti watch, because the chances of a pawnbroker risking their life to accept it here is next-to-none. And who knows when I’ll land a job?
“Make it two hundred.”
“Aw, come on. I’m a teacher.”
“Boo-hoo,” I snap back. “You teach in a school with a forty-grand a year attendance fee. You’re not exactly scraping pennies together to buy your own Crayolas, are you?”
Matt pauses. “Fine. One-seven-five.”
“One-seven-five and you get rid of your welcome mat.”
“Dammit. Two hundred and I keep it.”
“Deal.”
We seal it with a handshake, but the triumph skating down my spine is followed by thick, sticky dread. Typical. I was too blinded by the money to see the task at hand, and now I have to go over to Raphael Visconti, voluntarily, and strike up a conversation with him. The man who specifically told me he’d rather slam his cock into the door of an automobile before he talks to me again.
Matt’s loafer nudges my ankle. “Move.”
“Shut up, I’m going,” I hiss. I empty my champagne flute in three gulps, partly to drown out the butterflies that have no business loitering in my stomach, and partly to give me an excuse to head to the bar.
The table breathes as I rise to my feet. Fuck, I’ve drunk too much too quickly and I don’t know why. It’s not like I need liquid courage, because I have luck.
Luck. Right. I’d forgotten about my luck.
Rolling my shoulders back, I touch the four-leaf clover around my neck and shake off the nervous energy. He’s just a man, for God’s sake. And this is just a paid gig.
With a fresh wave of confidence, I stroll toward the bar, my eyes trained on my target. Maybe he can hear the determined stomp of my heels heading his way, or maybe he’s developed a sixth-sense for trouble overnight, but his eyes slide up from his glass as I approach. Even back-lit by the bright lights of the bar, I can see his gaze roll over my black heels, up the parting of my coat, and come to mine. Something within it flickers to life, and strangely, I feel it in my own pulse.
Anna’s anecdote dissolves on my arrival, and her lust-filled expression hardens into something that would scald me if it were tangible. She’s unnervingly beautiful. Midnight-black hair, feline features, and a body I’m sure makes anyone with eyes do a double-take.
“So sorry, babe. Do you mind?”
She stares at me. “Mind what?”
“If I steal Raphael for a few minutes.”
She shows no signs of moving, until Raphael’s silky tone slices through the tension.
“It was great to catch up, Anna.”
A heady thrill zaps through my body like an electric current. Even an idiot could take the hint, and Anna stalks off. I’ve definitely made a new enemy on the Coast, which is a shame, because I’d like to have made friends first, but I’ll worry about that later. Right now, I’m too focused on trying to pretend I can’t feel the crackle of Rafe’s presence as I order a drink.
“You know; I’m starting to think you have a crush on me.”
My jaw tightens, and I keep my eyes trained on the bartender’s swooshing ponytail as she fixes my vodka and lemonade. “What on earth would give you that idea?”
“Because you can’t seem to leave me alone.”
Irritation, embarrassment, and something more vibrant, tingle in my face like pins and needles. It’s ridiculous, I know, but knowing there’s no way he talks to other women like this makes a thrill buzz under my skin.
Pathetic. Because of course he talks like this to me—I stole his fucking watch.
“Or maybe I just want to see you shut your dick in a car door.”
“Or maybe you just want to see my dick.”
I freeze, then snap my head around to glare at him. When I allow a beat of stunned silence to pass, Raphael’s lips tilt before disappearing behind a lazy sip of whiskey. He thinks he’s won. My cheeks grow hotter than the heat lamp above my head, and I let out a sardonic laugh.
“Odd. Everyone seems to think you’re quite the gentleman, but talking about your dick so much isn’t exactly a gentlemanly habit.”
The only thing that moves is the muscle flexing against his jaw. And then with the same reluctance one has when getting out of bed in the morning he drags his gaze to mine.
“And you? What do you think?”
“I think I’m not so easily fooled.”
His eyes fall to my lips, a slow, devilish smirk spreading across his own. Although his smile is cold, it creates a warmth in my core, which drifts like a summer breeze between my legs.
“And you, Penelope? Are you a lady?”
I don’t like the mocking edge to his tone. The silk marred with sarcasm gets my back up. I tilt my chin and harden my stare. “Yes.”
He runs a hand across his face, wiping off a hint of amusement. “Ah.”
“Ah what?”
“I’m not so easily fooled, either.”
His tone is low and soft, as if designed for my ears only. A nervous energy rolls over the planes of my shoulders, and I press my palms onto the bar to bear the brunt of it. Of course he doesn’t think I’m a lady. I’m not. No lady wears dresses with the security tags still on, nor do they make a living by tricking men out of watches on a Thursday night.
I let out a shaky huff of breath and Raphael’s gaze narrows on the puff of condensation floating between us. “What was it you wanted, again? To play another of your tacky games?”
“If you’re brave enough.”
I don’t know why I say it—I’ve gone straight—but it’s out of my mouth before I can stop it. A knee-jerk reaction to an insult, I suppose, embedded deep within me like the rest of my flaws.
“No.”
Raphael’s tone is clipped and punctuated with a sip of whiskey. He turns his attention to the space above my head, as if looking for someone else, anyone else, to talk to.
He’s given me an easy out, but I’m too proud to take it. “Scared you’ll lose again?”
“What makes you so certain you’ll win?” he drawls, amusement softening his edges again.
“Because I’m lucky.”
His smile holds its shape, but I don’t miss the ripple of displeasure that passes through his gaze like an undercurrent. Three heavy beats of silence pass. He scratches his throat and glances up to the starless sky as he sinks the last of his whiskey. With a sharp flick of his wrist, he slides the empty tumbler across the bar and basks me in the warmth of his attention.
“Do you have a game in mind?”
“Yes.” Nope. But if three years of doing this dance have taught me anything, it’s that you have to be the one in control. If I allow him to choose a game, my odds of losing increase a hundredfold.
I take a slow sip of my drink, buying the time to rake through my mental list of bar games. It takes longer than usual, because it’s hard to concentrate over the voice screaming at me to walk away. Just like the quiz, it needs to be something safe, rather than flat-out cheating. I select one from my roster and place my glass on the bar with a satisfactory thud.
“Ready?”
Raphael holds up a palm. “We haven’t settled on a wager.”
“If I win, I get that watch, too.” I nod to the Seamaster on his wrist. The thought of conning Raphael Visconti out of two of his timepieces makes my mouth water.
“And if I win?”
The sudden thickness to his tone raises the hairs on the back of my neck. I glance up from his wrist to his face and immediately wish I hadn’t. I wasn’t prepared for the danger that dances between the walls of his irises.
I swallow the lump in my throat, suddenly all too aware of my nipples tightening under the thin fabric of my bra. He’s only a man. He’s only a man. He’s only a man.
“Well, what do you want?” I whisper.
He holds my eye for a beat too long. He licks his lips, and the tiniest glimmer of something very ungentlemanly passes through his green gaze. Just when I feel like the tension might suffocate me, he gives a small shake of his head. “For you to leave.”
I blink. “What?”
He smirks at my surprise. “I’d like to enjoy my brother’s wedding in peace, without you nipping at my heels.” His eyes land on something behind me, and he lets out a wry breath. “Somehow, I don’t think your date will mind.”
I follow his eye line to Matt. Within the last five minutes, he’s somehow managed to grow a pair of balls and move to Anna’s table. He sits opposite her, sandwiched between two friends, and is staring at her with the intensity of a serial killer. I glance back at our own table and see four empty shot glasses neatly lined up on his place setting.
Figures.
“Deal,” I say breezily. Fuck it, I’m not going to see him after tonight. He’ll hop back on his private jet and return to Vegas, then maybe make an appearance around Easter, or something. I’ll be long gone by then—hopefully.
One more swindle. Just one…and then I’ll go straight like I said I would.
I order two large glasses of water, then look up at Raphael from under my false lashes. “What’s your favorite drink?”
“Whiskey, of course,” he says, amused.
I nod to the bartender. “Three shots of Sambuca, please.”
My cheek warms under his soft chuckle. It’s delicious and easy and I suddenly understand why women laugh so loudly around him.
“Okay.” I line the two waters in front of me, then place the three Sambuca shots in front of him. “I bet you I can drink these two huge glasses of water before you can drink those three shots.”
Raphael palms his jaw, his narrowed gaze sizing up my water and his shots. “There’s no way you can do that. What’s the catch?”
“All I ask is for a head start. It’s a hell of a lot of liquid, isn’t it?”
Suspicion sparks in his eyes. “How much of a head start?”
“Um, let’s say, one glass?”
He considers it for a few seconds, then shrugs. “Seems fair. Rules?”
“Just one: no touching each other’s glasses—you know, knocking them over or removing them. Ready for me to start?”
Watching me carefully, he nods.
I gulp my first glass of water in quick, easy chugs. I love this game for two reasons. The first is that slamming all this water is a great way to dodge a hangover. The second is that it’s such a simple trick, yet nobody ever figures it out.
The head-start frees up one of my glasses, and the second Raphael starts drinking, I’ll put the glass upside down on one of his shots. He won’t be allowed to move my glass as per the no-touching rule, and I’ll happily sip the second glass of water with a smug smirk on my lips and a new six-figure timepiece on my wrist.
Wiping my hand over the back of my mouth, I set down the empty glass and turn to Raphael. “Thanks for the head start,” I say sweetly.
“Anytime.”
“Ready?”
His gaze sparks. Staring at my wet bottom lip, he nods slowly.
But what he does next is much faster. It’s so smooth and efficient that my liquor-fueled brain takes a while to catch up. He pushes all three of his shot glasses together, so their combined circumference is bigger than the rim of my empty glass. Before I can reach for my water in a last-ditch attempt to win this game fairly—impossible, of course—there’s a flash of metal, a clunk and a plop, and then I’m staring at a gun submerged in water.
My water. His gun.
My pulse leaps in my throat and I stagger backward. As I stare at the weapon, with its barrel bobbing among the ice cubes and its grip resting on the rim I was about to put my lips on, everything in my peripheral dims.
I’ve been this close to a gun twice in my life. The first time, it was lifting up the hem of my dress in a dark alleyway, and the second, it was pressed against my temple.
Hiss. Click.
Do you know how lucky you are, kid? You’re one in a million.
The jaunty sound of the orchestra fades and my heart grows louder. Its beat resonates in the hollow of my chest under a cloak of numbness.
I couldn’t move if I tried.
The gun moves in a flash of citrine and silk. I regain enough composure to follow the weapon as Raphael pulls it out of the glass and wipes it down with his pocket square. His suit jacket swishes open, and, just like that, the threat is gone, disappearing behind the velvet-clad curtain.
He rests a forearm against the bar and diverts his attention to something on the horizon.
When he speaks, there’s a calmness in his voice that does little to thaw the ice in my blood.
“You see the issue with luck, Penelope, is that it has an awful habit of disappearing when you lean on it.” His dice cufflink winks at me as he sinks a shot. “You should consider relying on something a little sturdier.” Another shot, another thud. “Like intelligence, or knowledge.” His gaze drops to my lips. “Or, if you don’t have either of those, perhaps that beautiful face of yours.” He slams the last shot glass onto the bar and wipes his smirk away with the back of his hand, before sauntering forward until he’s shoulder-to-shoulder with me.
I try to ignore how the heat of his arm burns through my coat, or how the fiery licorice scent of his breath taunts my loss. Instead, I focus on the liquor wall behind the bar, trying to control my breathing.
He stoops low, his sharp, cold cheek caressing mine. “The exit is to your right.” Then he slides a large hand around my wrist. It’s hot and dominant and, I swear, I can practically hear my skin sizzle where he grips me.
I swap trying to control my breathing in favor of not breathing at all.
“Be careful in the woods, Penelope.” His grip slips from my wrist, and his fingertips burn a slow trail down the length of my palm, before releasing me. “Bad things hide where you can’t see them.”
And then he’s gone, camouflaging himself among the sea of suits.
I don’t hang around. Although struggling to remain calm, autopilot takes control of my body, and I spin on my heels and snatch my purse up from the table. I can’t bring myself to look at Matt, and I hope he doesn’t notice me leaving, either.
Breaking into a half-run, I disappear between the trees and into the shadows. The security thins and the brush thickens, until the darkness is all-consuming. The lively timbre of the orchestra finally melts away, and the silence is an eerie reminder I’m all alone.
My groan slices through it, painting the night gray.
I’ve been lucky since the night that lady stepped out into the alleyway and gave me her necklace. Lucky to the point where it’s practically my only personality trait. I was worried it had left me when I got caught in Atlantic City, but I chalked it up to being a stroke of misfortune. After all, I was lucky enough to make it back to the Coast with all the money I had left, and then secure a six-figure watch on the same night.
But maybe that was another stroke of misfortune too, because it led me to Raphael Visconti.
I’ve picked up pace without even realizing it. My lungs burn and my eyes prickle with tears I’m too stubborn to shed. As I brush my fingers over the rough bark of one tree and reach out for another, my foot catches on a root, rolling my ankle underneath me.
“Fuck,” I hiss out into the darkness.
How terribly unlucky of me.
Ankle screaming in agony, I hobble on. I don’t stop, not until the trees thin and a hazy orange glow cuts through the clearing. A few seconds later, a lone street lamp comes into view, and the ground hardens underneath my muddy stilettos. Now that I can see what I’m walking on, I pop off my heels and start a shaky descent down the steep hill, staying close to the edge of the winding road that leads back to the main town. When my feet get sore, I put my heels back on, which is a dubious improvement.
As the adrenaline coursing through my veins drops from a buzz to a quiet hum, it makes room for another feeling: unease.
Your sins will catch up with you eventually, Little P. They always do.
Nico’s words whisper at the back of my brain like a memory I’m trying to suppress. Maybe they had a deeper meaning, one even he wasn’t aware of. Maybe sinners don’t get to be lucky. Maybe, good luck happens to good people, and bad luck to bad people.
I haven’t been good since I was ten. Why should I be lucky? What have I done to receive good luck in this life, aside from swindle people and cheat them out of their money?
I’m so lost in the swamp of my own thoughts that I don’t realize I’ve missed the turn onto Main Street until a gust of salty air slaps me around the face.
I’m at the port. My teeth chatter as I sweep my gaze over the sudden clearing. Despite the time, it’s a hubbub of activity. In the foreground, trucks beep and reflective jackets wink in their headlights, and behind them, cargo ships bob and jerk over the rough waves of the Pacific.
My gaze drops to my shoes. They’re caked in slushy mud and I can’t feel my toes. The thought of trotting back up the cliff to my apartment makes me groan aloud, so I decide to rest against a stocky admin building for a few minutes.
I drop my head against the brickwork, emotion choking my throat as I watch men work. I’m not typically an emotional person, but I do tend to get a little teary when I’m tired.
I need someone to talk to.
I need a friend.
Fishing my burner from my purse, with frozen fingertips I dial the only number I know off the top of my head.
The line rings three times, then the voicemail clicks in.
“You have reached Sinners Anonymous, please leave your sin after the tone.”
I inhale a lungful of air; exhale it against the starless sky.
“Hey, me again. I know, I know. Two calls in less than twenty-four hours. Crazy, considering you haven’t heard from me in three years, right?”
I sniffle to nothing but static, blinking back tears. I open my mouth but close it again, realizing I don’t want my oldest and only friend to think I’m an idiot. Yeah, even if it’s only an automated hotline. Sighing, I stab End and drop my cell back in my purse.
“If this is karma for what I did to the Hurricane casino, then just give me a sign,” I mutter to the universe.
A sudden bright light passes over my face. I squint and cup a hand over my eyes, studying a large truck approaching the transit shed, its headlights on full-beam.
A beer-bellied trucker hops out of the cab and a port worker emerges from the transit shed, radio in one hand, clipboard in the other. Their conversation is peppered with confused glances at clipboards and lazy sips from insulated mugs.
Eventually, the worker claps the trucker on the shoulder and turns in my direction. The truck’s headlights glow like an aura behind him.
That’s the last thing I remember before the scalding heat and the deafening boom. The last thing I see before the night’s sky lights up orange, and then my world bleeds to black.
There’s my sign, I suppose.
