Vicious (Sinners of Saint #1)

by L.J. Shen

  Rachelle’s eyes stopped at my fist. She untangled my fingers from the shoe heel I was holding and took a deep breath, closing her eyes. “I’ll glue this for you. Take the shoes in my locker and get to work. And smile big. God knows you need the tips.”

  I nodded, slapping a wet kiss onto her cheek. She was a lifesaver. I didn’t even care that she was fun-sized, three inches shorter than me, and that her shoes were two sizes smaller. I bolted for our lockers and slipped into my uniform—a cropped, tight red shirt that showed off my stomach, black mini skirt, and a black-and-red apron with McCoy’s name plastered across it. It was tacky, but the bar was frequented by Wall Street-types, and the tips were great.

  Pushing the wooden saloon doors open and marching to the dark stool-lined counter, I ignored the thirsty—and not for alcohol—looks men sent my way. I was twenty-seven. Seemingly, the perfect age for the meat-market New York had to offer. But I was too busy trying to survive to have a boyfriend. My policy was to be friendly with my customers without giving them false encouragement.

  “Hey, Millie,” Kyle greeted from behind the bar. He had slicked-back blond hair, studied film-making at NYU, lived in Williamsburg, and dressed like Woody Allen. Anything to disguise the fact he was actually from South Carolina.

  I smiled at him while the regular crowd at the tables, men and women in suits, scrolled through messages on their phones and traded stories about their days at work. “Busy night?”

  “Okay so far. Don’t freak out,” he warned, “but Dee is pissed at you for being late again. You’d better go take care of your tables.” He nodded toward the right side of the restaurant.

  Dee was one of the other waitresses who worked Fridays with me. I couldn’t blame her for being mad. It wasn’t her fault I was dealing with personal issues. I nodded and offered him a thumbs-up, but he was already engrossed in the book he was reading under the counter.

  It wasn’t that bad, working at McCoy’s. Our clientele spoke quietly and drank expensively, always tipping fifteen percent or more. Swaying my hips to “Baby It’s You” by Smith, I ambled to a table in the corner of the room. It was dark and secluded from the rest—my favorite spot because it somehow always lured the best tippers.

  I called it my lucky corner.

  Two men were sitting there, hunched and engrossed in a hushed conversation. I plucked the menus from under my arm and smiled at their bent heads, trying to grab their attention.

  “Hello, gentlemen. I’m Millie and I’ll be your waitress tonight. Can I get you anything while you—”

  Him. That’s where I stopped. Because the minute the man with the tousled black hair looked up, my heart flipped over and my mouth froze.

  Vicious.

  I blinked, trying to decipher the image in front of me. Baron Spencer was here, and to my dismay, he looked a hell of a lot better than I did.

  Tall, well above six foot, his long legs stretched to one side, with eyes dark like his soul and unruly raven hair that curled up at the sides, covering his stupidly perfect ears. High cheekbones—always rosy when touched by the sting of the cold—square jaw and straight nose. Everything about his face was composed and icy.

  Only the flush on his porcelain skin reminded me that he was still flesh, blood, and heart, and not a machine programmed to ruin my life. The color in his cheeks even gave his dark, brooding features a boyish glint.

  I wasn’t surprised to see the I-dare-you-to-fuck-with-me expression was still stamped on his face, like an old song I knew by heart. I also wasn’t surprised to see that, unlike me, his sense of style had matured with age. Impeccable, yet unpretentious. He wore dark-blue jeans, brown Oxfords, a white dress shirt, and a tailored blazer.

  Casual. Understated. Expensive.

  Nothing fancy, but enough to remind you that he was still richer than 99.9% of the population. I always changed the subject whenever my parents tried to fill me in on anyone from Todos Santos, and they never mentioned Vicious. Not in recent years, anyway. For all I knew, he woke up every day to do nothing except dress like a big-shot rich guy.

  I couldn’t look in his eyes, couldn’t even look in his direction. My gaze moved to the man who sat opposite him. He was slightly older—early thirties, maybe?—heavy-set with sandy-blond hair and the sharply tailored suit of a greedy Wall Street broker.

  “Anything to drink?” I repeated, my throat closing up. I was no longer smiling. Was I even breathing?

  “Black Russian.” Sharp Suit dragged his eyes along the curves of my body, stopping at my chest.

  “And you?” I chirped to Vicious, pretending to write down the drinks I would’ve remembered by heart anyway. My shaky hand scribbled blindly, missing my little notepad.

  “Bourbon, neat.” Vicious’s tone was indifferent, his eyes dead when they landed on my pen. Not on me.

  Aloof. Cold. Unaffected.

  Nothing’s changed.

  I turned around and wobbled back to the bar in my too-tight shoes, placing the order with Kyle.

  Maybe he didn’t recognize me. After all, why would he? It had been ten years. And I’d only lived at the Spencer estate during my senior year.

  I tapped the edge of the bar with the side of my chewed-up pen. Kyle groaned when he heard Sharp Suit had ordered a Black Russian. He hated making cocktails. I lingered, skulking behind Kyle’s shoulder, stealing another glance at the guy who used to make my heart stutter.

  He looked good. Lean-muscled and all man. The last ten years were kinder to him than they’d been to me. I wondered if he was just passing through Manhattan on a business trip or if he lived here. Somehow, I thought I’d know if he was living in New York. Then again, Rosie and my parents knew better than to share any information about the HotHoles with me.

  No, Vicious was only here on business, I decided.

  Good. I hated him so much it hurt to breathe when I looked at him.

  “Drinks are ready,” Kyle said behind my shoulder.

  I spun around. Placing the glasses on a tray, I took a deep breath and started back to his table. My knees shook when I thought about what I looked like in this skimpy little outfit. A cheap-looking cropped top and shoes two sizes too small.

  Shame inspired me to straighten my spine and plaster a big smile on my face. Maybe it was a good thing he didn’t remember who I was. I didn’t need him to know how I ended up being a broke waitress who lived off cereal and mac and cheese.

  “Black Russian, Bourbon.” I placed red napkins on the round black tabletop and set their drinks on top, my eyes darting to Vicious’s left hand, searching for a golden wedding band. There wasn’t one.

  “Anything else?” I hugged my tray to my lower stomach, summoning my work smile.

  “No, thanks.” Sharp Suit sighed, impatient, and Vicious didn’t even bother to acknowledge me. Their heads lowered back to the quiet conversation they were having.

  I moved on, throwing glances at him behind my shoulder and feeling my pulse everywhere, down to my neck and eyelids. Our encounter was anticlimactic, but that was for the best. We weren’t old friends or even acquaintances.

  In fact, I’d meant so little to him that, at this point, we weren’t even enemies.

  I focused on the rest of my tables. I laughed at my clients’ unfunny jokes, and I drank the two shots Kyle slipped across the bar when my customers weren’t looking. My treacherous eyes kept drifting to Vicious’s table, though. His jaw was clenched as he spoke to his companion. Vicious wasn’t happy.

  I leaned my elbows on the bar and watched them closely.

  Baron “Vicious” Spencer. Always providing the best show in town.

  I watched as he slid a thick stack of papers across the table, pointed at the first page with his index finger, sat back, and stared at the man, his eyes announcing victory. Sharp Suit reddened and slammed his fist against the table, snatching the papers and choking them in his hand as he waved them around, spitting as he spoke. The papers crumpled. Vicious’s cool didn’t.

  No. He remained calm
and unruffled as he leaned forward, saying something I couldn’t decipher, and the more the blond man got excited and heated, the more Vicious looked uninterested and amused.

  At some point, Sharp Suit threw his hands in the air and said something animated, his face as dark as a pickled beet. That’s when Vicious’s face brightened, and he propped one elbow on the table as he dragged his finger along what must have been a specific spot in the verbiage on the first page of the document. His lips were thin when he said something to the man in front of him, but Sharp Suit looked about ready to faint.

  My heart pounded too fast and my mouth dried. Jesus Christ. He was threatening him and, to no surprise to me, he wasn’t being shy about it.

  “Millie, take five.” Dee slapped my ass from behind just then. I jumped, surprised. She was back from her cigarette break, and it was my turn.

  I didn’t smoke, but I usually used the time to talk to Rosie on my cell. I wouldn’t be doing that tonight, but I was glad Dee had apparently put my tardiness behind her.

  “Thanks,” I said, making a beeline to the toilets. I needed to wash my face and remind myself that the day was almost over. I slipped past the sinks and disappeared inside one of the individual stalls where I leaned against the door and took long, steady breaths.

  I didn’t even know what would make me feel better. Getting my PA job back? No. I’d never liked it much. The accountant I worked for at the advertising agency was a walking, talking sexual-harassment suit just waiting to happen. Having Vicious recognize me? It would only make me more flustered and embarrassed. Having him leave? I was too intrigued by him to want him gone.

  I left the bathroom and was just about to splash some water on my face at the sink when the door opened, and he walked in.

  He. Walked. In.

  I wasn’t scared. Even after everything that’d happened, I knew he wouldn’t hurt me. Not physically, anyway. But I was intimidated, and I hated that I looked like a Hooters reject while he…he had an aura about him. When he walked into the room, no matter how dingy and small, you could feel the wealth. The status. The power.

  His eyes landed on the cherry blossom mural behind me before they leveled on my face, and my mind raced. His gaze told me he knew exactly who I was and that I was the one who’d painted the mural behind me.

  He remembered me.

  What he did to me.

  He remembered everything.

  His eyes met mine, and my stomach knotted. My heart fluttered in my chest, and an urgent need to fill the awkward silence slammed into me.

  “Have you come here for forgiveness?” The words left my mouth before I had the chance to swallow them.

  Vicious chuckled darkly, like the concept in itself was preposterous. He hadn’t made a single move, yet I felt his touch everywhere.

  “You’re a mess,” he said matter-of-factly, eyeing my hair. My lavender locks were all over my face, and a nasty bruise had bloomed on my forehead.

  “Nice to see you too.” I pressed my back against the wall, my hands against the cold tiles below the mural, seeking relief from the fire he’d lit in me the moment he walked in. “I see you successfully graduated from a bully to a tyrant in the span of a decade.”

  He laughed, a deep laugh that vibrated against my bones. I closed my eyes then opened them, drinking him in. A year of him being hateful toward me had trained me well. I stopped caring a long time ago that the joke was on me.

  His smile disappeared, replaced with a frown. “What are you doing here, Help?”

  He took a step forward but stilled when I held my hand up, stopping him. I wasn’t sure why I did it. Maybe because it hurt so much that he was seeing me like this. Helpless. Half naked. Poor and lost and small in this big city that chewed you up and spit out the remains once your hopes and dreams died. Filling the small meaningless shoes he’d created for me all those years ago. Becoming the help.

  “I work here,” I said, finally. Wasn’t it obvious?

  He moved my way again, his posture casual and relaxed. This time I straightened. I tilted my chin up. A waft of his scent—spicy, earthy, clean, and masculine—filled my nose. I inhaled and shivered. He’d always had this impact on me. And I always loathed myself for it.

  “Last I heard, you were working on a Fine Arts degree.” He arched a thick, devilish eyebrow, as if to ask, What went wrong?

  Everything, I thought bitterly. Everything went wrong.

  “Not that it’s any of your business, but I did get a degree.” I pushed off from the wall and moved past him to wash my hands. He followed me with his eyes. “A thing called life butted into my plans, and I didn’t have the luxury of working my way up on an art-intern salary, so I work as a PA. That’s what I did until about three hours ago when I was let go. I thought I was having a bad enough day when I walked in here, but”—my eyes swiped his body—“clearly, the universe decided to make it an all-out disaster.”

  I didn’t know why I was telling him all this. I didn’t know why I was speaking to him at all. I should’ve yelled or stormed out of the bathroom after what he’d done to me years ago. Called our bouncer and kicked him out of McCoy’s. But as much as I didn’t like to admit it, I didn’t hate him as much as I probably should have. A tiny sad part of me knew he wasn’t to blame for my current state. My choices were mine.

  I’d made my bed. Now I had to lie in it, even if it was full of fleas.

  He tucked one hand in his pocket, using his free one to tousle his unruly hair—even more perfect now that he was all man. I looked away, wondering how he’d spent the last decade. What he did for a living. Whether he had a girlfriend or a wife or maybe even some kids. I’d always made it a point not to ask or listen, but now that he was in front of me, curiosity poked me, begging my mouth to ask these questions.

  But I didn’t.

  “Have a nice life, Vicious.” I turned off the faucet, sashaying to the door.

  He grabbed my elbow and jerked me in his direction. A jolt of panic and excitement ripped through me. There was no point in shaking him away—he was twice my size.

  “Do you need help, Help?” he whispered in my face. I hated him for calling me that.

  And I hated me for responding to his gruff tone the way I did, even after all this time. Goose bumps prickled my skin, and a hot wave crashed inside my chest.

  I was breathing heavily, but so was he.

  “Whatever it is I need,” I said, my voice a hiss, “I don’t want it from you.”

  He pinned me with a wolfish grin. “That’s for me to decide,” he said, releasing my arm like it was dirty and nudging me to the door. “And I still haven’t made up my mind.”

  I turned around and bolted out of the bathroom, leaving my high school crush turned nemesis alone in the bathroom.

  I contemplated asking Dee to serve their table for the remainder of the night—knew she’d have probably said yes, seeing as they reeked of money—but my stupid pride made me want to see this evening through. It somehow felt important to show him, and myself, that I was indifferent to him, even though it was a lie.

  Around three rounds of drinks and an hour later, Sharp Suit stood up. He looked frustrated, annoyed, and defeated, feelings I knew all too well from my year in Todos Santos. The man extended his hand across the table, but Vicious didn’t shake it or stand up. He just glared at the stack of papers between them, silently urging Sharp Suit to pick them up. The man did, and left in a hurry.

  I rushed to place their bill on the table and turned around before Vicious had a chance to talk to me again. He paid with a credit card and vanished from what used to be my lucky corner. When I picked up the signed receipt, my hands trembled. I was scared to see how much he’d tipped me. Pathetic, I knew. It shouldn’t have mattered. But it did. On one hand, I didn’t want to feel like a charity case, and on the other, I wanted…heck, what did I want?

  Whatever it was, when I picked up the receipt, I knew it wasn’t this. My eyes flared when I saw what he’d written at the bottom:
<
br />   For your tip, go to 125 E 52nd. 23rd floor.

  —Black

  A crazy laugh fizzed from my throat. I fisted the note into a tiny ball and dunk-slammed it into the trash behind Kyle.

  “Lousy tip?” He looked up from his book, confused.

  “He didn’t leave one.” I motioned for him to pour me another shot.

  He grabbed the neck of the Vodka bottle. “Asshole.”

  Oh, Kyle, I wanted to say. You have no idea.

  PLOT TWISTS. GUESS THEY KEPT shit interesting.

  I’d be lying if I claimed I’d forgotten about Emilia LeBlanc. But I hadn’t expected to see her again. Sure, I knew she was in New York. New fucking York, the home of over eight million people who weren’t Emilia LeBlanc.

  I’d come to the city a week ago with the intention of doing one thing and one thing only—to make the jerk I’d met at McCoy’s drop his fucking lawsuit against my company. He had.

  Did I enjoy intimidating him? Yes.

  Did it make me a bad person? Probably.

  Did I care? Not even one bit.

  Sergio had caved, but not because I metaphorically squeezed his balls so tight his future children screamed in agony. He’d done it because I pulled out a detailed draft of a counter lawsuit, one I’d written myself the night before, on my flight from LA to New York. And I’d aced this motherfucker.

  Lawyers had the potential to make the best criminals. That was a fact. The only thing that separated me from being an outlaw was opportunity. I had plenty of those within the law.

  But Help wasn’t far off. I was a bad person, a good lawyer, and to some extent, yes, still the same asshole who made her senior year miserable.

  Sergio was going to drop the lawsuit, let us keep the client we allegedly “stole” from his firm, and all was going to be well. I was a partner in a company specializing in high-risk investments and mergers. The four of us—Trent, Jaime, Dean and I—had founded Fiscal Heights Holdings three years ago. They worked the money side while I was the company’s lead attorney.