Demons like killing his own father, I remind myself.
Don’t get too attached, Kiah.
You know how this ends.
Men like Nico are the reason I got out of the business in the first place. They’re narcissistic cunts with no moral compass who treat women like objects at best.
He can’t be trusted.
That’s why I have to keep my guard up.
But with every passing day, that gets harder to do.
The fucker is actually quite helpful and, sometimes, outright sweet—which is unexpected.
But I’m not fooled; I know Nico is a terrible person like the rest of them.
I’m playing with fire, but I’m not ready to stop—not when I finally feel something other than the crushing weight of life's banality.
For half a decade, I’ve been hiding on this island, trying to convince myself that this is the life I’ve always wanted. Calm, peaceful, away from the excitement—thisis where I will grow old.
But deep down, I know that I’m bored as fuck.
I miss the danger, the challenge; I miss being good at something—being the best.
My old life was equal parts danger and delectable luxury.
As much as I try to tell myself that I was born for the simple life, I know it’s just an excuse.
I’m hiding. Just like Nico.
Something inside me dies with every Christmas party that rolls around. The same decor, the same entitled guests with different faces, the same loneliness when they leave; it’s all the same.
But this year is different…
My eyes return to the naked mafia prince in the lobby, concentration knitting his brow.
“Motherfucker!” Nico curses loudly, ripping the red tinsel from the tree and chucking it on the ground.
He’s cute when he’s frustrated with his chest all puffed up, nostrils flaring.
“Everything okay there?” I ask my naked helper as he wrestles with the Christmas decorations.
“The stupid thing doesn’t want to sit right,” he complains, baring his teeth as he throws his hands up dramatically.
Such a little spoiled brat.
Who knew chores would be his undoing?
“It doesn’t have to be perfect. It’s decorations; they just need to be up,” I reassure him, picking up another piece of tinsel and draping it around the reception desk.
“Why can’t I do anything right?” Nico’s grinding his teeth as he does when he gets upset with himself—which is almost as often as he gets upset with me.
“This is supposed to befun,” I tell him, hanging an ornament on the large tree we’ve dragged from the storage. It’s the same tree I use every year—synthetic and tacky. But that’s what people expect around here.
“Your idea of fun is fucked,” Nico says simply, picking up the discarded tinsel and trying again.
I can’t help but feel proud. He actually picked it up instead of storming off or ripping it to shreds. That has to be some kind ofprogress.
