"Run, Letty," I tell myself, taking one last look around my bedroom. The one place I felt safe has turned into more of a prison. Mom would be so disappointed, and for one quick second, I let myself mourn, adding one more slash to my heart.
I grab my bag off my bed. I’ve packed as light as I could, necessities only, along with the stash of cash I’d hidden in my room. I'm considering myself lucky that Joshua hasn't found it, and I'm hoping I'll be able to stop at the bank to pull what I have in my account while he's none the wiser.
My breathing comes in harsh pants as I walk out of my bedroom, dodging the squeaky spots in the wood floor. Nobody should be home, but I'm not taking any chances. I mentally run down the checklist of necessities I've packed: underwear, bras, shirts, shorts, a couple of pairs of jeans, plenty of socks, and a spare pair of shoes. Then there are the toiletries: toothbrush, toothpaste, brush, shampoo, conditioner, and deodorant. When Mom passed away, Joshua gaveme her jewelry box with a few pieces nestled inside. I made a concession to take that and opted to leave out an extra change of clothes to have enough room. There's only one last thing I want from this house, and that's a framed photo of my mom and me.
I stop at the table near the front door, looking at the plethora of frames she has scattered around. I'm tempted to take more than one, but I don't have enough room. I grab the one I love the most. Mom and I are standing beneath a tree at a park, in clothes that had seen better days, dirt smudged on my cheek, and a skinned knee. It's the smiles on our faces that makes me love it the most. Money may have been nonexistent, the world could be set on fire, but the way Mom and I are looking at each other, nothing mattered.
"I love you, Mom," I say to the picture, wiping the stray tears that slide down my cheeks before leaving a home where I would become a piece of meat. I refuse to go down without a fight.
1
LETTY
Present Day
"Think, Letty, think." I'm sitting on the floor of Matthew's kitchen, taking a much-needed break after the morning and afternoon I've had. My rent is going up again, for the second time in under a year. It feels like highway robbery, especially considering I'm there the least, barely use any electricity or water, and I don't even touch the Internet for my phone or streaming services. I also have the smallest room, a concession I made for two reasons: I'm only there to shower, sleep, and eat, plus my portion of the bills is supposed to be cheaper.
Now I'm plagued with trying to figure out what to do: stay or leave. I've saved a lot of cash over the course of a year, working two, sometimes three jobs at a time. I've also learned the best places to hide my cash—not in the sameplace and not all of it in said place. In the first apartment I shared with another group, my roommates thought it was okay to barge into my room when I wasn't there, pilfer through my things, and when I noticed a hundred dollars was missing, they didn't like it when I confronted them. They also fought dirty. Three ganging up on me with their cattiness turned into yelling, one of them slapping my face and the other pulling my hair.
The neighbors heard what was going on, cops were called, and I decided to stay quiet until the others said their piece. Then I made the best decision for myself. Since I didn't fight back, only defending myself with my arms covering my face, I told the officers I'd leave. I packed the few things I owned, ignored the money that was stolen, and asked an officer to stay with me until I'd left. Sleeping in my car for a couple of weeks sucked, but it was worth it in the long run.
I should have known things were going too well for too long without any problems on the horizon. I'm mentally calculating the cash I have stashed. Next month would have been my time to hire a private investigator to see if my stepfather is still looking for me. Lately, I've felt like the number of times I've had to look over my shoulder has been on another level. Then again, we're creeping up on the anniversary of when I broke free from everything Joshua Carpenter, so maybe it's all in my head.
I look at the clock, realizing the time, and stop having a pity party for myself. I'll swallow the extra chunk of change for rent, pick up a few extra shifts where I can. Hopefully,this will be the last rate increase, or I really will be forced to live out of my car. One day, I'd like to finish my teaching degree, after I figure out if Joshua and his bookies are still looking for me. I'm pretty sure it's safe to assume that even if the bad guys took care of Joshua in the form of cement shoes, they wouldn't have gotten any money out of him, and they'd still come after me in order to pay his debt. At least in the books, they don't just forgive and forget. Unless they're the hero still, sometimes they steal the heroine, force her into marriage, or make them fall in love with them.
A shiver rolls through me at the thought. Not a single one of the men I saw in my once home gave me the warm and fuzzies. It's more along the lines of vomit-inducing at the mere thought of one of them so much as touching me.
The clock on the oven flashes from one minute to the next, reminding me yet again that break time is over. I skipped lunch, partly because with this gig, I'm in charge of making dinner three times a week, and with that comes a meal for myself as well. At first, I'd balked at the idea, worry setting into my stomach when the client I worked for, Matthew Carlisle, asked if I'd made sure to eat. I replied no, that it wasn't part of my job description, and it would be the same thing as stealing. He explained to me that it came with my contract, but I still didn't take any that night, waiting until I'd received clarification from my boss. The next day, I'd been pulled into the office, where I for sure thought I'd be canned, and she explained this is what she expects when negotiating contracts with clients.
Apparently, Ophelia didn't want her employees to workall day and have to go home to figure out dinner as well. Doubts plagued me. Did she see my struggles? Did she feel sorry for me? Did she realize my fake identification was exactly that, fake? It was a cost that set me back quite a lot of money that I'd managed to withdraw from my bank account before dumping my phone and staying under the radar while driving through states I'd never been to before. The only times I stopped were for gas, bathroom breaks, and food. I slept at monitored rest stops and always kept moving, heading south until I crossed over Florida's state line, too tired to continue.
I happened upon Oak County, and with town names like Whispering Oaks, Oak View, Oak Haven, and Oak Meadow, I figured it surely would be a good area. It has been, minus the few bumps in the road I've tried to dodge. So far, it's been good. There's been no sign of trouble, and with any luck, by next year, I'll be able to manage to pay cash for a few classes. Unless I'm able to figure out what I need to, I can use all of the proper channels to help.
Finally, I pull myself off the ground, but not before noticing that where the tile and baseboard meet could use a good scrubbing. A chore for next week's cleaning schedule, which sadly means I'll need to be on my hands and knees. Especially because if the kitchen is showing signs of dirt and grime, then no doubt the rest of the penthouse will, too. I'll be toast after a day of that kind of work, which means I'll have to do it on a day when the client the following day will be a lighter load.
My eyes lock on the groceries I ordered for the week tobe delivered, including ingredients for tonight. The growling of my stomach has me washing my hands and getting started. Matthew is a prominent attorney who doesn't seem to be home, ever, or purchase any semblance of groceries, and the only dishes I ever see are in the dishwasher. They mainly consist of leftover containers from the food I've cooked and drinkware, along with silverware. In all the time I've been cleaning his home, I've yet to see one dirty pot or pan.
Food, the man doesn't bother with it, minus protein powder, milk, eggs, and condiments. Which makes one wonder what he does for all his other meals. "Not your problem, Letty. Sure, he's hot as hell and looks damn good in a three-piece suit, but he's not for you, Letty girl." The pep talk has me clearing my mind as I go about my task of putting the food away while keeping what I need out.
My other job as a waitress at an upscale restaurant a few days a week provides recipes for me to make for Matthew. Tonight, it's Steak au Poivre, thick juicy New York steak strip seared to a crisp, crushed peppercorns, and sauteed with smashed garlic, sprigs of thyme, and butter. The sides will consist of creamy garlic mashed potatoes and green beans with slivered almonds. I’m tripling the recipe in order for there to be leftovers, since it seems this man never turns on the stove.
The quietness gets to me after a few minutes, the only noise coming from the paper bags and the quiet hum when the air conditioner kicks on. While sometimes, it's nice and will allow me to think things through, I've done enough of that tolast a lifetime in this week alone. Earlier today, while cleaning, I put on my headphones and listened to music, shuffling through multiple genres of music through the decades. I refuse to pay for a streaming service, which means also hearing ad after ad about anything and everything from erectile dysfunction towe have the best carpet in the state. It’s all crap, annoying as all get out, but sadly, it’s the price you pay for being frugal.
Instead of putting on my headphones, I decided to pull up my library app and hit the play button on the borrowed audiobook. It picks up where I left off. A Scottish brogue carries through the speaker of my phone. A marriage of convenience where the heroine flees America to start over after she caught her then fiancé cheating on her with her best friend. Talk about a tough streak of luck. I guess there’s one good thing I’ve never had to worry about.
I get in the zone, peeling potatoes, crushing the peppercorns, and snapping the ends of the fresh green beans off. The hardest part about preparing a meal is timing it to have everything done together. Today, that doesn’t really matter, considering I’ll be plating this for whenever Matthew Carlisle comes home. Still, it’s something I’m used to doing, and multitasking is a skill set I’ve acquired along the way. The one thing I could learn to do better is time management, especially when I double-book my schedule. Like I did this week, twice, which is why I almost slept through my alarm this morning.
“One more day this week,” I tell myself. Though, that’s not totally accurate. I’ll work my usual Monday through Friday for Ophelia and then work at Twisted Oak Saturday and Sunday. Except I picked up a couple of extra shifts thisweek, which means tomorrow, I’ll go from one job to the next. Once I get the griddle hot and throw the now-cut potatoes in to sauté. I put on a pot of boiling water for the next side. In a few minutes, I’ll start working on the green beans since those only take a quick blanching, a bit of steaming, and then they're done.
“I wannee kiss ye.” The hero’s thick Scottish brogue almost makes me shiver. I’m sure it will lead to a lot more than something soft and sweet. I smile to myself and lift my leg, placing my foot on the inside of my thigh, standing in a sort of flamingo pose.
“Something smells amazing.” His voice, steady and commanding, carries a natural weight that has an edge of authority. It projects confidence, discipline, and an expectation to be taken seriously. It hits me so deep, I nearly send the spatula flying through the air. I’ve been so zoned in on dinner and my audiobook that I didn’t hear the dinging of the elevator announcing someone was entering the penthouse. I’m trying to slam the pause button on my phone and not make a complete ass out of myself before words likewet,cock, orpussybooms through the penthouse apartment.
“Finally.” I breathe a sigh of relief when the male narrator is silenced.
“Is everything okay?” Matthew asks, appearing in front of me. The open floor plan has always appealed to me until this very moment. He has a broad, athletic frame and well-defined muscles, mostly in his arms and chest. The suit he’s wearing does nothing to hide it, even if he has discarded the jacket and is working the tie off from around his neck. Deft fingers pop open a few buttons at his collar, showcasing histhroat where a smattering of chest hair peeks out. Fair skin with a natural tone. His posture leans in a way as if he doesn’t have a care in the world, except I know that couldn’t be further from the truth.
The interactions we’ve had since I’ve been working for him have more than shown me Matthew Carlisle is protective, a trait which is emphasized anytime the conversation gets a little too personal for my liking.
