Page 14 of Devil’s Candy

It’s a picture of one of the hotel hallways, a single figure walking down the hall. He’s tall, well-muscled, graying at the temples.

His T-shirt reveals thickly muscled arms, with tattoos dancing down them. I gasp in a breath, worried I might faint.

Because I didn’t imagine anything. Last night was real.

My super-hot hookup.

It was Sver…

I blink several times, just trying to focus. When I can finally see, I meet Angel’s gaze, his stare narrows, and I know that he knows what I’ve done.

I slept with the man who is the Smiths’ enemy.

Who is Angel’s enemy.

There is no way I’m keeping my job at the whorehouse. And it’s the one place in the city I was safe…

CHAPTER SIX

Candy

Three months later…

I smile at the drunk prick currently waving his glass at me as he leers at my chest.

I hate this job. Honestly, I was happier waxing whores’ kitties.

But even when Angel fired me, he helped me find a job that would support me and keep me out of sight.

I’m a waitress at a high-end bar full of rich pricks.

The idea…

This is a place Marco and his cronies would never look for me. It’s not the worst plan. But I felt way safer with Angel and his brothers. Even Rock.

“Can I get you anything else?” I ask, my face frozen in a polite expression.

“Yeah.” He licks his lips. “I’d like a taste of you.”

Ugh. Gross.

“Sorry. I’m not on the menu,” I say with a little laugh. Like that’s going to make it better.

All his friends, with their sweaters tied around their shoulders, laugh at my joke, but he scowls. “You could be. For me.”

My smile widens and grows brittle. How do I nicely tell this guy he’s not my brand of asshole. If I’m going to date a selfish jerk, I want him covered in tattoos and marked by the kind of trouble that breaks bones. I don’t need a spoiled weenie with a credit card. “It’s against club policy,” I say with a wave of my hand. “Another round?”

I leave the table with a drink order, sighing as I go. Just what those guys need. More liquor. Maybe it’s time to move. Leave the city and start over.

My attachment to New York isn’t healthy. It’s just the place I came when I was a sixteen-year-old runaway.

And honestly, when I had no one, I had the city…

It just feels like home. But that isn’t enough reason to stay. Not anymore.

I give my drink order to the bartender and start for another table.

But that’s when I catch the gaze of three men sitting in the corner.