Love Triangle: Six Books of Torn Desire

by Willow Winters

  “You didn’t get the D last night.” Gray eyes—same as mine—squint at me over her shoulder.

  I had two chances to get laid. Final score 0-2. Man, I suck. But she only knows about the one.

  “You don’t know what happened.” I finish off the coffee with a couple of aspirin.

  “You woke alone and grumpy.” She prepares two plates of eggs, bacon, and toast. “I know what didn’t happen.”

  “I’m always grumpy before coffee.”

  “Not if you got the D,” she sings and casts a glance at Angel, who glowers from a shadowed corner in the hallway.

  “I wasn’t impressed with the guy you picked.” I might’ve jumped on the other D, if he weren’t such a… Well, a dick.

  “Eat.” She slides a full plate in front of me. “And tell me what happened.”

  “Mm.” I grab a fork and shovel in a fluffy scrambled bite of eggs. “Another guy happened.”

  She chokes around a mouthful of bacon. “Anuffer guy?”

  I hop onto the counter and gesture at the watchful silhouette in the hall. “You gonna feed the little person?”

  “Angel already ate.” Bree wipes a paper napkin across her mouth. “What other guy?”

  I launch into the story, starting with Mark’s arrival, his groping, and Marlo Vogt’s appearance. As I reach the part about the casino owner trespassing in my house, a noise from the hallway distracts me.

  Angel sits with her back against the wall and hugs her knees to her chest. With her head tilted down, she stares up at me, whispering something under her breath.

  I try to ignore her. “Trace Savoy bought Bissara and offered me a job with a pay raise.”

  As I explain the terms of the contract, Angel’s indiscernible muttering grows louder.

  “Jesus.” I set my plate aside. “She’s really distracting.”

  “She’s practicing her alphabet.” Bree smiles at her daughter. “Aren’t you, sweetie?”

  “Mm-hmm,” Angel says without moving her judgmental gaze from me.

  The whispers begin again. I strain my hearing and don’t detect a single recognizable syllable.

  “It sounds like Latin.” Not really, but I love to give Bree shit about Angel’s disturbing personality. “Are you sure she’s not knee-deep in demonic possession?”

  “Stop with the demon references, Danni. I’m not okay with it.” Bree puts her plate in the sink a little too roughly. “You’re giving her a complex.”

  Can a sociopath get a complex?

  “Anyway…” I finish walking through the events of the prior night and end on a sigh. “Trace left with that stupid scowl on his face.

  Bree blows out a breath, her expression pinching. “Sounds like Cole.”

  “Cole never scowled.”

  “Except when his temper flared, which was all the time. And he was always on you about locking the door.”

  “What’s your point?” I slide off the counter and pour another cup of coffee.

  “Can you separate business from pleasure? I don’t want you to…I don’t know, to get involved with this guy just because he reminds you of Cole.”

  She was never a huge Cole fan. He was too mysterious and rough around the edges for her tastes.

  “I’m not doing anything, Bree.” I stir cream into the coffee as a twinge stabs in my chest. “Trace is nothing like Cole, and I’m not accepting his job offer.”

  “But you need the money.” Her voice is soft and motherly, scraping on my nerves.

  “I’ll find other jobs.”

  “Paying jobs?”

  “Yep.” I sip the coffee, relishing the bold flavor.

  “Are you going to Gateway today?” She pins me with her school-teacher glare.

  “Of course.” I go to the homeless shelter every Saturday. What’s the big deal? I turn toward the demon-whisperer in the hall. “You want to go dance at the shelter with me?”

  “No.” Angel hunches into a ball, peering at me over her bent knees.

  “You can wear one of my tutus.”

  Her eyes widen with interest. Got her.

  “No way.” Bree steps in front of me, hands on her hips and blocking my view of Angel. “You’re not taking her downtown.”

  “It’s good bonding time.”

  “Whenever you bond with her, she comes home with bad habits.”

  “Is that true?” I ask Angel.

  “Redrum,” she whispers in a fiendish voice, curling a tiny finger in front of her face like she’s holding an imaginary finger puppet. Exactly how I taught her.

  Laughter snorts past my nose. “Come on, Bree.” I yank her ponytail. “It’s funny.”

  “Whatever. It’s time to go, Angel. Give Aunt Danni a hug.”

  “Nuh-uh.” She jumps to her feet and spins away, arms folded across her chest.

  “Angel,” Bree says sternly. “Give your aunt a hug. With arms.”

  “No thanks.” I mimic Angel’s pose. “I don’t want forced affection.”

  Bree makes an irritated noise in her throat. “Fine.”

  I walk her out, rubbing the chill from my arms and bouncing in place as she helps Angel buckle up in the backseat. With her bent over and leaning into the car, I can’t resist jabbing my toe into the back of her knee and forcing her leg to bend.

  With a huff, she straightens and steps around to the driver seat. “Grow up, Danni.”

  “That sounds horribly boring and lame.”

  She rests a hand on the open door and looks at me over the top of the car. “What are you going to do about the meeting at the casino tonight?”

  “I’ll go if I feel like it.” I shrug. “I have a counteroffer that’ll make his ass clench.”

  Her disapproving glare rolls off my shoulders. “You have no idea what you’re doing.”

  “Not knowing what I’m doing is kind of my superpower.” I grin.

  “Yeah, that’s what I’m afraid of.”

  Chapter Five

  PRESENT

  “Look at all those smiles.” Father Rick Ortez leans against the wall beside me, his own grin twitching his gray mustache. “I’m always amazed at how many of them you can get on the dance floor.”

  It’s not easy. No one at a homeless shelter has a reason to dance or smile. But I’m persistent, because when they finally give in and participate, they focus on learning the steps and laugh at their fumbling feet. In those small moments of levity, they forget about the tragedies that thrust them onto the streets.

  Rick runs the shelter, and he doesn’t wear his white collar here, so it’s easy to forget he’s a priest. Which is the point. He wants all people to feel welcome, no matter their religion, race, or background.

  On any given night, there are about fifteen-hundred homeless people in St. Louis. Since Gateway’s occupancy permit only allows seventy-five beds, the shelter is always maxed out.

  I recognize some of the faces tonight. Those I’ve never seen before are the hardest to coax into dancing. They don’t know me, don’t trust my intentions, and I don’t blame them. But I have a strategy that works.

  Line dancing. Anyone with two working legs can do it. I always start off alone, traveling through the steps and explaining each movement. After I draw a crowd, I cajole the most enthusiastic ones into joining me. Eventually a few more jump in. Then more and more.

  I’ve been at it for hours, but they’re finally warming up and letting go.

  “Don’t you have to dance at the restaurant tonight?” Rick runs a hand over his bald head, watching twenty people of various ages and dress teeter through the Cupid Shuffle.

  I don’t know what time it is, but my seven o’clock meeting with Trace Savoy is probably nearing. Or passed. I rather enjoy the thought of him waiting.

  “My schedule changed.” I guzzle the remainder of my water bottle. “Don’t worry, Rick. I’ll still be here a couple of times a week.” I wish I could donate more time, more money.

  “You have a good heart, Danni.”

  Good and
broken. But no one here knows my background. I came to Gateway after I lost Cole, and I always move the engagement ring to my right hand before walking in. No questions. No past.

  Two years ago, I started in the kitchen, hoping the volunteer work would direct my focus to other people’s misery instead of my own. The line dancing lessons evolved from there. I figured if my goal is to put smiles on troubled faces, I’ll find my own happiness in the process. It mostly works out that way. Sometimes I leave here feeling sadder than ever, but those times are rare.

  I slide back into the dance line, rolling my hips and grinning at the elderly woman beside me. She’s stiff and hunched over, her weathered complexion knitted with a lifetime of hardship. But her toothless smile makes my heart soar.

  “Look at you.” I touch the paper-thin skin on her elbow, guiding her through a turn. “You caught on quick.”

  “Oh, I…” She sidesteps, staggering and laughing at herself. “I don’t know about that.”

  With my music player set on repeat, the Cupid Shuffle loops two more times before my phone vibrates in my back pocket. I stay in the line, twirling through the steps as I glance at the screen.

  Unknown: You’re late

  According to my phone, it’s only 7:01 PM. A grin lifts my cheeks. If Trace had to pull my number from my website, I bet it really puckered his scowl to do so.

  I step out of the dancing line and add his number to my contacts list. Not that I intend to talk to him after tonight. But I might be in the mood to make prank calls.

  Flexing my hand, I type a response.

  Me: Well-timed lateness is an art.

  Trace: Punctuality is a professional courtesy.

  Me: You’re scowling, aren’t you?

  Trace: Where are you?

  Me: Between here and there.

  Trace: Your here better be in the casino.

  He types fast, his texts pinging within seconds of mine.

  Me: What do I get if it is?

  Trace: A job.

  Me: Oh right. The one that objectifies me. Tempting.

  Trace: Tell me what you want.

  Me: A smile would be a good start.

  A heartbeat later, the ringtone on my phone plays Try by Pink, and his name flashes on the screen.

  Oh man, he’s persistent, and damn if that doesn’t make me feel all bubbly inside.

  I accept the call. “911. What’s your emergency?”

  After a moment of silence, his deep voice growls through the line. “What’s that noise?”

  I hold the phone toward the portable speakers for a few seconds and put it back at my ear. “Recognize it?”

  “No.”

  “How do you not know the Cupid Shuffle?”

  “The Cupid—? Never mind.” His voice sharpens. “You’re late.”

  “You already said that. Don’t be tedious.”

  “This is fucking—” Something thumps through the connection, and he blows out a breath. “You’re testing my patience.”

  “You’re being presumptuous.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You assume I agreed to this meeting.”

  “Get. Your ass. In my office.” His low even tone might lend power to his command, but it only makes me want to push all his buttons.

  “Hmm.” I sashay back into the dance line, synchronizing my steps with the song. “How about you try that again with professional courtesy?”

  He sniffs and clears his throat on a heavy exhale. “Can I expect you this evening?”

  “Much better. You can expect me later.” I disconnect the call and dance through three more iterations of the shuffle before saying goodbye to my new friends.

  Thirty minutes later, I leave my phone and keys in a hidden pocket beneath the driver’s seat of the Midget. Then I make my way through the parking garage of The Regal Arch Casino and Hotel and step into the lobby.

  Bright bursts of electronic sound and color assault my senses, and the stale scent of smoke tickles my lungs. An industrial theme dominates the decor, accented by numerous steel archways that curve and stretch overhead. Painted black and pinpricked with light, the domed ceilings twinkle like starry skies over thousands of glowing slot machines.

  Tinkling, clinking, beeping noises clash in a battle of conflicting melodies. It’s the discordant song of desperate people stuffing Trace Savoy’s pockets with money.

  As I stroll around the flashing machines, no one socializes or glances my way. Row after row, the gamblers lean back, bend forward, and puff on cigarettes. Brows grooved in concentration. Hands poised to punch a button or pull a lever. It’s mesmerizing. And kind of sad.

  A path of swirly-patterned carpet leads to a bank of silver elevators on the far side of the gaming area. Instead of heading to the 30th floor, I wander toward the restaurant on the opposite end.

  Slipping inside the vacant dining room, I sidle around piles of construction materials and plastic sheeting. The overhead lights are off, the workers gone for the day. If this is Bissara’s new location, Trace didn’t waste time starting the renovations. When a small round stage at the center comes into view, I know I’m in the right place.

  I stride toward the platform, circling the eight-foot diameter. It rises to chest level without steps to climb on. So I kick off my flip-flops and hoist myself up to stand on the dark acrylic surface.

  Glass walls separate the restaurant and gaming area, dampening the blaring beeps and tinkles of slot machines. But I can see them—the kaleidoscope of neon lights illuminating the serious faces of addicts doing what they need to do.

  That’s six million patrons strolling through my doors and resting their eyes on the art you create through movement.

  The stage is certainly visible from the most active gaming areas, but gamblers aren’t looking around at the scenery. They sit in a trance, focused on their drug, determined to win. None of them would notice a belly dancer in the restaurant.

  “Are you lost?” An unfamiliar masculine voice drifts from the shadowed corner near the entrance.

  I turn and spot a dark figure reclined at one of the tables. “Nope. Are you?”

  “I work here.” The man stands and walks toward me, dressed in a white collared shirt, black pants, and black vest. “I’m a blackjack dealer.”

  He nods at the casino tables beyond the glass, where men and women wear uniforms like his, their hands busy with cards and chips.

  As he approaches, I lower to the edge of the stage and dangle my legs over the side.

  Dark hair, slim build, and trimmed beard, he’s neither ugly nor handsome. But I don’t trust that smile. It’s too assertive and greasy.

  “I’m James.” He holds out a hand.

  “Danni.” I clasp his clammy fingers and pull back, keeping the exit behind him in my periphery. “Shouldn’t you be working?”

  “I’m on break.” He licks his lips as his eager gaze sweeps over my skinny jeans and pauses on my shoulder, which is bared by the wide neck of my slouchy shirt.

  Dancers aren’t shy about showing skin, and I’m no exception. James can leer all he wants if he keeps his hands to himself.

  He bends closer, resting a hand on the stage beside my hip. “This might come across as a little aggressive…”

  “It’s only aggressive if you have something aggressive in mind.”

  “Go out with me tonight.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Well, you’re a beautiful woman.” He leans a hip against the platform. “It just so happens I have a thing for beautiful women.” His smile twists suggestively. “I get off work in an hour. What do you say we get to know each other?”

  A smart girl would tell him to get lost, but I’m a glutton for mischievous conversation. “What would getting to know each other involve?”

  His eyebrows jump up, and he quickly smooths his expression. “Dinner?”

  “I already ate.”

  “Drinks?”

  “Then what?”

  He r
ubs the back of his neck. “Uh…”

  “Tell me exactly how you imagine getting to know me, James.” I trap my bottom lip between my teeth and release it. “Or are you afraid to say?”

  A shadow moves at the edge of my vision. It’s out of focus, but I make out a tall silhouette in the doorway behind James. I don’t shift my gaze. I don’t have to. The sensation of being lividly and intensely glared at tells me exactly who lingers at the entrance of the dining room.

  “I have lots of ideas.” James scratches his beard and scrutinizes my body with slimy intent, oblivious of the casino owner standing behind him. “I don’t know if I should say—”

  “You better spit it out before my employer gets here. He hasn’t had sex in years, and it’s turned him into an intolerable, angry ogre.”

  “You work here?”

  “Nope. What happens after drinks, James?”

  “Okay, so I’m thinking…” He fiddles with his necktie. “I’ll take you home. And kiss you. And touch you. And make sweet love to you.”

  I don’t even try to hide my cringe. “Boring.”

  “What? Which part?”

  “Make sweet love? Dude, you can do better than that.”

  “I don’t know wha—”

  “Do you like anal play?” Knowing Trace is listening makes it damn hard to keep a straight face, but somehow, I manage it.

  James sucks in a breath and flattens a hand over his heart. “Yes! I mean, what man doesn’t?”

  “Your rectum, James. Not mine. Have you ever been pegged by a thirteen-inch dildo?”

  “No.” A flush rises up his neck, and he retreats backward a step. “Fuck, no.”

  “That’s too bad. We could’ve had something beautiful together.”

  “Enough.” Trace appears beside James, his murderous glare trained on the other man.

  Recognition widens James’ eyes as Oh-Jesus-I’m-fucked contorts his expression.

  “You’re fired.” Trace bares his teeth, towering over James. “Gather your things and—”

  “Stop it.” I poke a toe against Trace’s rock-hard thigh then lean toward James, whispering loudly around the cup of my hand. “He can’t get it up. Makes him unbearably bad-tempered.”