Perfect Vision

by L. M. Halloran

  I laugh so hard I almost pee my pants, and Paris makes it her mission to keep me laughing until I reach the tiny apartment I’m renting in Culver City.

  When I pull into my parking spot and cut the engine, she yawns loudly. I follow suit, and she chuckles. When we were kids, she used to fake yawn all the time just to laugh at my inability to control the reflex.

  “Home safe?” she asks.

  “Yeah.” I grab my purse from the passenger seat, then pause, closing my eyes and letting my head hit the headrest. “You know why I had to leave, right?”

  She’s quiet for a long moment. “I do. I just wish… things had been different.”

  I snort with wry humor. “Me too.”

  “Are you sure you won’t talk to Josh? He could—”

  I cut her off. “He can’t do anything. You know it, I know it. We went down that road, remember?” I’m struggling to keep the bitterness from my voice. “No one believed me. The DA wouldn’t take my case. The press crucified me. I know Josh means well, but let’s be real—there’s no way he’ll get clearance to reopen the case.”

  “London…” whispers Paris. “Please, I’m just scared for you. Mom and Dad want so bad for you to come home.”

  Home.

  I don’t have one.

  Not anymore.

  Losing everything isn’t something anyone wants. Even those who deserve it—deserve to have their life go up in flames—don’t want it. But it happens. And like a hurricane or earthquake, there can be little warning. One day, your world is full of color and light and sound, and the next it’s monochrome, silent, and cold.

  Once upon a time, I had a life. A husband, a house, a six-year-old Lab named Felix we adopted as a puppy. Paul and I loved that dog. Not yet ready for kids, Felix was our surrogate child. Our family.

  I don’t know why I think about the dog most. Like the way he drank water from his bowl—the slurping sound, how his tongue seemed to splash more water onto the kitchen tile than into his mouth. Sometimes when I wake up in the morning, in the moments before I remember, I imagine the sound of Felix’s doggy snores. For brief, happy seconds, the pillow jammed against my leg is a canine body.

  But Felix is gone now. So is Paul, but I don’t think about him as often these days. Not because the loss of my dog was worse than the loss of my husband. Not even close. Maybe it’s simply easier to give my pain to Felix. He had no part in what happened. My feelings about Paul are more complex.

  He did have a part—though he was only doing his job. I occasionally wonder if things would have gone differently had I known his job would kill him. Would I have been so supportive when he brought up wanting to enroll in the Police Academy all those years ago, when we were young and idealistic and in love? Sometimes I think I would be. Other times I don’t.

  Hindsight isn’t always 20/20. It can also be like looking through wax, hazy and distorted. People who say it is haven’t lost what I lost. Didn’t watch their spouse vanish in a fireball right before their eyes. Didn’t see their own career crumble shortly thereafter.

  Guilty people escape justice.

  The world isn’t fair.

  And sometimes, when you think you’re doing the right thing, there’s a grinning devil on your shoulder waiting for the perfect moment to say, “Joke’s on you!”

  7

  The girl next to me is one of the silent ones. She can’t be more than fourteen or fifteen. Empty eyes, arms too loose around the body of a sobbing toddler. Maybe her sister. Maybe her daughter.

  I don’t smell the gas fumes anymore. Either I’m used to them, or enough time has passed that most of it has evaporated. He wasn’t actually going to light the warehouse on fire—I knew it, even if he didn’t. Even if the madness in his eyes told me there was a 50/50 chance of death.

  I know men like him. I understand them. He thrives off asserting power over others. Making them weak, enslaved to fear. They love it when women tremble before their might.

  But they’re also surprisingly simple creatures. Greed dominates their list of motives. And killing us would mean losing an investment in the millions. Maybe billions.

  I’ve met his kind before.

  I’m not afraid of him.

  He can’t kill me, can’t hurt me.

  I’m already dead.

  8

  Over the next two weeks of training at Crossroads, the exhibitionism steadily increases. The private parties grow bigger, louder, and kinkier. After a series of mild shocks—two words, cattle prod—I grow mostly immune. I no longer blink when an ass or other body part is slapped, whipped, or paddled. I do, however, have to occasionally remind myself consent has been given.

  Now, as I’m getting ready to head home from my last shift before the grand opening, I’m feeling pretty confident I can keep my wits while working here. The remainder of them, anyway. I don’t think about tomorrow, or tomorrow’s tomorrow. Just the present.

  One foot in front of the other, I keep moving.

  A walking dead woman.

  Waving goodbye to the two other bartenders on duty, I skirt around a few patrons and head into the now-familiar administrative hallway. Sometime in the last weeks, the fluorescents have been replaced with mellower lighting, and the carpet is now plush instead of industrial.

  The walls are still white and bare, though, and the second door on the left still ominous. Unfortunately, that’s where I’m headed—at Charlie’s instruction—to pick up my first paycheck. As I approach the door, I hear the low tones of his voice.

  Cross.

  My physical attraction to him hasn’t dimmed, which is disappointing, but thankfully I don’t see much of him. If Crossroads were a circus, Charlie would be its ringleader and Cross the behind-the-scenes talent scout. He rarely partakes in the festivities. When he does appear, it’s for a Whiskey Sour and silent, brooding appraisal. Not of me, though. He’s barely glanced at me since that first night.

  When he stops talking, I wait a few moments to make sure he’s off the phone. Then I knock lightly on the door.

  “Come in.”

  Goosebumps ripple down my exposed arms. Ignoring the urge to bolt, I open the door and step inside. For some fucking reason, I can’t bring myself to look at him. I stare at the floor in front of his desk instead.

  “Charlie told me to come see you for my paycheck.” I risk a glance up, barely registering his face, before looking back down. “Hopefully not my last one?”

  He doesn’t speak for long enough that my armpits prickle. To my horror, my panties are damp. What the hell is wrong with me?

  “You have a Master’s in Journalism from NYU?” he asks abruptly.

  Startled, my head jerks up. “Yes, but—”

  “Close the door.”

  “Uhh—”

  He huffs. “I’m not going to bite. Get in here and sit down. And stop acting like you’re a submissive. It’s not earning you any points.”

  At long last, I remember what a douche he is. “Are the words please and thank you even in your vocabulary?”

  His expression turns positively flinty. “Yes, thank you for asking. Now, please, London.”

  My jaw drops. “Did you just make a joke?”

  “For the love of—”

  “Fine, fine.”

  I take another step inside and shut the door. Cross sits behind a sleek mahogany desk to my right. Hands clasped behind his head. Bitchy look on his face. Opposite the desk is a small coffee table and couch. Presumably the location of auditions.

  Other than the laptop and the mess of paperwork on the surface of his desk, the space is utilitarian and utterly devoid of personality. Not really surprising, given that the man occupying the office has the personality of wet plaster.

  Making an effort to wipe my previous, inex-fucking-plicable passivity from both our memories, I settle on the dark leather couch and lean back. Crossing my legs and shifting, I try not to think about whether the surface beneath me has been cleaned recently.

  When His Majesty
doesn’t say anything, merely continues staring at me with an unreadable expression, I clear my throat.

  “So, boss, why are you asking about my degree?”

  His right eyelid twitches. I suppress a smile of pure, wicked glee.

  Instead of answering the question, he says, “I Googled you.”

  I have to be imagining the undertone of embarrassment in the words. What I’m not imagining is the instant sinking in my stomach.

  Fuck.

  “Don’t believe everything you read on the Internet,” I reply with forced levity.

  “I don’t,” he says shortly, “but I do have a question for you.”

  The muscles in my shoulders coil with tension. “What’s that?”

  Please don’t ask—

  “Did you do it?”

  —that.

  Fighting for calm, I stare him in the eye. “Why does it matter?”

  “Because I don’t want a criminal working here.”

  Anger unfurls in my gut. I uncross my legs and straighten. “No charges were filed because the accusations were bullshit.”

  His hard expression doesn’t waver. “And the photographs of you and Ivan Reznikov?”

  “I was interviewing him,” I snarl through my teeth.

  With the last of my dignity, I stand and walk to the desk. Even sitting, he radiates danger—a wild predator pretending to nap while his prey stupidly saunters close. At least my guiding emotion right now is fury—despair will come later.

  I hold out my hand, hoping he can’t see it shaking. “Since I’m about to go postal on you, why don’t you hand me my final check and we can forget we ever crossed paths.”

  His brows lift. “I’ve offended you.”

  I shake my head in bafflement. “You can’t possibly be that stupid. Of course you’ve offended me. You insulted my credibility and my character.”

  Dark eyes scan mine. “It’s hard, isn’t it? Wanting something so badly and knowing you’ll never have it?” He doesn’t wait for me to decipher the loaded question. “Sit down, London. I believe you.”

  Beyond confused, I blurt, “Why?”

  In a rare show of humanness, he drags a hand through his hair. “Your reaction. You wear every emotion on your face.”

  My hand finally falls to my side. Staring at him, unable to look away, I have the oddest sensation of falling. Not the scary part of it, either—the freedom. With the sensation, a bit of his Tight-Ass-mystique fades. He becomes more real.

  And infinitely more threatening.

  “Do you play a lot of poker, Mr. Cross?”

  A hand swipes lazily across his jaw. My gaze follows the movement and gets stuck on his mouth. Shit, stop staring at his mouth. A smirk tells me that my flush doesn’t go unnoticed.

  “No, I don’t,” he replies. “Are you trying to intimidate me by standing while I’m sitting?”

  I consider the question, this dangerous dance we’re performing. I don’t want to be enjoying myself, but I am. My sister was the one inexplicably attracted to assholes when we were younger. Not me. But can I really blame myself? This man sighs and women think about his cock moving. And I’m 99 percent sure it’s a huge cock. Like the ones you read about but never see except in porn.

  Horrified by the direction of my thoughts, I snap, “Maybe. Is it working?”

  When he looks up through his eyelashes, my knees go liquid. And I have my answer. There’s nothing remotely soft or weak about this man. He is decisive, exacting, and uncompromising. The idea that I intimidate him is laughable. My defiance intrigues him much as a mouse intrigues a cat.

  Both scenarios end the same way—being eaten.

  “What do you think?” he murmurs.

  I take a step back. “I think that’s enough of your eyeball-voodoo.” I keep backing up, not watching where I’m going, until I smack into the wall beside the door.

  The bastard laughs. Keeps laughing as he grabs an envelope from the desk and stands, then crosses the space between us. The smile on his face is short-circuiting my brain, but not enough to prevent me from grabbing my check as his hand rises.

  “Thanks,” I wheeze.

  Cross tilts his head, smile falling, and that predatory darkness spreads once more through his eyes. With a final cataloguing of my features, he turns toward the desk. I grip the doorknob and ready my escape.

  “You’re still on probation, London, and for the record, I still don’t want you working here.”

  My idiot mouth blurts, “Seriously? What have I done wrong?”

  He doesn’t look at me. “Another thing you can’t have, kitten, is the answer to that question. Good night.”

  I’m dismissed.

  9

  In the cramped employee dressing room at Crossroads the following evening, I look from the fabric in my hands at Nate’s grinning face.

  “Absolutely not,” I say for the tenth time.

  Nearby, a fellow bartender—aptly named Jack—chuckles. “At least you don’t look like an extra for Magic Mike.”

  Beyond him, several other men I’ve come to know over the last two weeks give commiserating nods. Only one of them seems happy about the painted-on-pants-and-no-shirt situation, but Gary is probably more at home in a speedo than trunks.

  Despite the men’s grumbling, I’m not remotely sympathetic. “Can it, you guys. Every one of you is built like a fitness magazine reject.” I return my attention to Nate. “Charlie said I wouldn’t hate the outfit. She lied.”

  Nate chuckles. “What did you expect? We’re a sex club, London. Did you really think you could wear jeans and a T-shirt to work?”

  Groaning, I hold up the bodysuit—if it can even be called that. At least it’s black. The halter top portion is connected to the boy-short bottoms by tens of tiny, braided ropes.

  “How do I even get in this thing?” I muse, lifting it to stare at Nate through the middle. “Look, your head is in prison. Like I’m about to be. Good Lord, who makes this stuff? Costume shops?”

  Nate crosses his legs, smirking as he leans back on the couch. “You babble when you’re nervous. It’s cute.”

  “Fuck you.”

  His grin widens. “Say the word, sugarplum.”

  I roll my eyes. “You’re basically jailbait.”

  In a final effort to avoid the inevitable, I point at Steph, a saucy, tattooed beauty in her thirties and the only other female bartender working tonight.

  Ignoring the fact I can see her nipples through her barely-there top, I demand, “How come she gets to wear pants?”

  “Because my legs aren’t four miles long,” answers Steph sweetly.

  “Bullshit. Who did you bribe?”

  She just laughs. “Take it up with management, London. Bossman dressed us.”

  I flush hot, then cold.

  Nate’s eyes narrow, but I wave him off before he can give me any snark. “Fine. But only because I can’t wait to tell management that I have rope burns on my hips.”

  Nate quickly shakes his head—I belatedly realize why. “I’m kidding! Kidding.” I wheeze a laugh. “No telling bondage fans about rope burns. Check.”

  Oh fuck, I’m in so far over my head I can’t see the sky anymore. What the hell am I doing here?

  Charlie pokes her head in the room, gaze narrowing immediately on me—the one bartender not dressed. She gives me her standard angry-Domme face, but I’m impervious to it by now. Everyone else, however, goes eerily quiet.

  “London? We open in ten.”

  I nod. “Got it.”

  With a final glare, she disappears. Sighing, I look across the room at Steph. We communicate silently—as women do—and she jumps up.

  “Boys, you look fabulous. Now get out.”

  Moaning and groaning, the testosterone files from the room. Nate is the last to go, leaving with a parting wink. I give Steph the bodysuit and shuck off my leggings and T-shirt.

  “Underwear?” I ask hopefully.

  She holds up the bottoms. “Not likely. Did you shave today
?”

  I swallow hard. “Waxed this week.”

  “Good. Shit, girl. If they didn’t want you getting attention, this was not the right way to go about it.”

  I don’t bother responding, lost in my inner conflict. Why the hell did he pick this for me? Or maybe he didn’t. Maybe he just pointed at something because he doesn’t care what I wear. Why would he care, London? Ego much? He doesn’t care.

  “Are you muttering about Cross?”

  I blink and focus on Steph, who’s trying not to laugh. “What? No. That’s crazy. I was, uh, reciting drink recipes.”

  She grins. “Sure you were.”

  “Shut up and help me into this contraption.”

  After a fair amount of wiggling, tugging, and cussing on both our parts, I’m dressed. Or as dressed as I’m going to be.

  “It’s actually not uncomfortable,” I admit grudgingly.

  The thick, tensile fabric of the halter covers my breasts and upper chest, creating flattering lines against my collarbones and shoulders. Even the snug shorts offer more coverage than I anticipated.

  Inadvertent flashing of the vag drops off my list of worries, though there’s nothing remotely modest about the getup. Once I’ve wrangled on the knee-high lace-up boots, Steph spins me toward the nearest mirror.

  She grins. “You look so badass.”

  I whistle at my reflection. “You’re not wrong. We look like extras in Mad Max.”

  “Better than Magic Mike, right?” She rubs her palms together. “Ready to rake in the dough, girl?”

  “Hell yes.”

  Chortling together, we put away our personal items and head out, our steps light with excitement.

  Not until we’re halfway down the hall does it hit me that for a few brief minutes, I forgot why I’m here. Forgot about the grief and rage beneath my human shell. Forgot why I’m dressed like a sex doll, bartending for money because my beloved career ended in death and defamation.

  I forgot… everything. All because Dominic Cross selected my outfit, and the thought of him seeing me dressed this way hijacked my brain.