Page 38 of Twisted Prince
“For snuggles?” Gabby asks, worry filling her innocent face.
“For snuggles,” I agree, giving her a honi.
She returns the gesture with adorable enthusiasm, pressing her forehead and nose to mine and breathing in deeply. Her tiny hands fist in my hair like she won’t let me go. And when she does, it almost breaks my heart to put her down.
“Bye, Mama,” she says quietly.
“Be a good girl for Miss Kieri, Gabby,” I say, running a finger under her soft, round chin, and she toddles off to find her little blond friend Matty.
Kieri comes to stand next to me, crossing her arms over her full breasts as a knowing smile curls her lips. “You know I’ll take good care of her.”
“Tuesdays are the worst because I just got a whole day of her to myself. Now I have to give her up again.”
“She’s sad when you leave, but I promise it’s not hard for her the whole time,” our dependable in-house nanny reassures me, bringing me a modicum of relief.
The seven other single mothers who live with me at Kieri’s boarding house have taken to calling the affectionate yet hawkeyed landlady “Madam Kieri.” I find it both hilarious and highly ironic, considering the extensive contract we all signed agreeing that we wouldn’t bring men home with us. Kieri runs just about the farthest thing there is from a whorehouse, even if the girls call her our madam.
“Thanks, Kieri.” I squeeze her shoulder affectionately and give my little girl one last look of longing before slipping from the room before she has time to miss me.
I never imagined that the hardest part about being a single mom could be going to work every day. I have so many blessings to count—a roof over my head, a good income to provide any comforts we should need, a woman I trust to take care of my heart and soul while I’m earning money. I couldn’t ask for a better situation, and I have Keoghan Kelly to thank for the opportunity he’s given me.
But this is not the life I would have chosen for either of us. Because it still means performing a job I would hate if I dared to let my principles rise from the dead. And it takes me away from my baby girl for far too many precious hours in a week.
Still, I can’t complain. The people who work at Pearl’s have been nothing but good to me. And as long as my daughter is happy and healthy, so am I.
It’s a short walk around the block from home to work. And the busy sidewalk of Beacon Street makes me feel safe, even as the sun is setting and the bustling nightlife has begun. Tourists filter from the hotels and restaurants, their excited chatter distinguishing them from the locals, who tend to hunker down and keep to themselves.
Slipping down the alleyway to the back entrance of Pearl’s, I sling my bag higher on my shoulder and smile up at Viktor, one of Mr. Kelly’s countless bouncers.
“Hey, Vik,” I greet brightly, and his familiar grunt of a response follows as he opens the door to let me inside.
Why the Irish mob boss has so many Russians on his payroll, I’ve never had the courage to ask. Especially when his guards’ primary forms of communication seem to be grunts and dead-eyed stares. But it didn’t take long for me to realize nearly half the men who work for Keoghan aren’t official members of the Kelly syndicate. They’re hired muscle.
What I do know is that they’re about as deadly as they come and downright terrifying, which means that no one messes with the girls who dance in Mr. Kelly’s lounge.
“Mel, there you are. I’ve been looking all over for you,” Kitty says as soon as she spots me coming down the hallway. Grasping my arm, she hauls me toward the dressing room. “We have a VIP requesting a lineup, and your first number doesn’t start for an hour, so you’re in it.”
I hate when my shift begins with a private dance, and I bite back a sigh as I follow her into the chaotic communal space where the girls get ready each night. Vanity station upon vanity station lines the walls, mirrors reflecting my image back at me twenty times over. Brilliant bulbs frame their borders for optimal prep lighting.
“Help me with my hair?” I ask Kitty as I snatch a random outfit from my rack of costumes and toss it onto my vanity table.
“Obviously,” she says with an eye roll.
Shrugging out of my light trench coat, I strip my dress in one fluid motion and settle onto my chair so she can get to work. I make a practice of dressing light when I come to work. It makes getting ready that much easier once I’m here.
Focusing on my eyeshadow, I let Kitty fiddle with my thick locks. She’s an artist when it comes to hair, and I’ll be ready in no time with her help.
“Done,” she declares triumphantly less than ten minutes later, and I flash her a smile as I add a third coat of mascara to my lashes.
“Thanks, Kitty.”
“Yeah, yeah. Lineup’s in room three. Get your fine ass in there. Now.”
With a quick nod, I shimmy out of my bra and undies, pulling on the even skimpier lingerie connected by strings of rhinestones and beads. Strapping on my stilettos, I give myself a quick once over, then shrug on the silk robe that offers me a comically small amount of modesty.
Stalking down the hall, I open the door to viewing room three and join the lineup without a word. The lighting shifts a moment later, casting me and four other girls in brilliant spotlights so the patron on the other side of the glass can see us.
I recognize him. He’s one of Keoghan’s men, and I’m a little surprised he counts as VIP—though I think he might actually be related to Mr. Kelly. A cousin, if I recall correctly, fresh off the boat from Ireland. So perhaps that gives him a special privilege.
