35. Chapter 35

35

Wren

" W ren, you clocking out soon?" Mia chirps, her perky voice grating on my last fucking nerve. It'9.30 AM, and she's still wiping down the counter next to me, all blonde bouncy curls and megawatt smile. How the hell is she so chipper at this ungodly hour?

I grunt, sliding a whiskey neat across the polished bar. "Yeah, just wrapping up." The suit on the receiving end looks like he's one bad day from jumping off a skyscraper.

Been there, buddy.

I give him a curt nod as he chugs his drink like a drowning man. Guy might be rich, but he's got problems, too. Makes me feel less like a fuck-up in comparison. We're all just treading water in this hellhole of a world.

Mia's eyebrows wiggle suggestively as she leans in closer. "That silver fox has been eye-fucking you all night. The one who dropped the fifty earlier?"

I snort, pocketing the cash. "Yeah, well, his eyes can fuck off. I'm not interested in being some wrinkled prick's midlife crisis."

She laughs, tossing her rag over her shoulder. "Girl, you're crazy. Half the staff would cut a bitch for a sugar daddy like him."

"I'm not most girls," I mutter, more to myself than her perky ass. Fuck that noise. I've had enough of men thinking they can buy me, own me, like I'm some designer fucking handbag.

The memory of D floods my senses—his rough hands, that predatory gaze. I shove it down, burying it under layers of anger and indifference. He was the last goddamn straw.

"Earth to Wren?" Mia's waving her hand in front of my face. "You good?"

I blink, forcing a smile that feels more like a grimace. "Peachy. Just ready to get the hell out of here."

"Okie dokie," Mia chirps, giving me a wink before she sashays over to a group of men who just walked in. They're decked out in tailored Armani suits, their Rolex watches gleaming under the soft lighting. Typical Skyline crowd—big money, bigger egos. I wipe down the polished mahogany bar, pocketing the crisp hundred-dollar bill tossed my way. Not bad for a Tuesday night.

The Skyline Lounge is a far cry from Jojo's neon-lit shithole. All sleek lines and muted elegance perched on the 40th floor of the Ritz-Carlton. The Chicago skyline glitters beyond floor-to-ceiling windows, a view I'm still not used to after two weeks.

No more G-strings and clear heels for this girl. Now it's crisp white shirts and tailored black slacks. My hair's pulled back in a severe bun, and I've traded body glitter for understated makeup. I look like a fucking flight attendant, but hey, at least no one's trying to stuff bills in my pants anymore.

Well, almost no one. There's always that one dickhead who thinks he's being original.

I count out the night's tips, whistling low. Five hundred and change. Not bad for slinging overpriced cocktails to trust fund brats and mid-life crisis victims.

"Wren?" Ben's voice cuts through my brooding. He's the night manager; decent guy if a little too soft for this business. "You heading out?"

I nod, stuffing the last of my tips into my bag. "Yeah, got a train to catch."

He glances at his watch, frowning. "It's late. You want me to call you a cab?"

"I'm good," I assure him, touched despite myself. "Nothing I can't handle."

He hesitates for a moment, then nods. "Alright. Be safe out there."

As he turns to walk away, he pauses, looking back over his shoulder. "The customers like you, you know. You've got a knack."

Yeah, I bet they do.

An ex-stripper who can mix a mean Old Fashioned and doesn't sue for sexual harassment when some CEO gets handsy? I'm a fucking unicorn.

I give him a mock salute as I finish cleaning up, my mind already on the long trek home. The Red Line will be a shitshow this time of night, but it beats shelling out for an Uber.

I toss the last of the dishrags into the laundry bin and grab my bag. The familiar sounds of the city hum in the background as I make my way toward the employee exit, the clink of glassware and distant chatter fading behind me.

"Night, Marco," I call out, pushing open the heavy door that leads to the employee's elevator.

"Hey, Wren?" he says, hesitating. "Some of us are grabbing drinks at Louie's after. Wanna join?"

For a second, I'm tempted. It's been a while since I've done the whole "friends" thing. But then I remember the last time I let my guard down. Ended up with Russian mobsters breathing down my neck and my old life in flames.

"Rain check," I say, forcing a smile. "Got an early morning."

He nods, trying to hide his disappointment. Poor guy. He's been trying to get in my pants since day one. Too bad I've sworn off men. Especially the pretty ones. They're always more trouble than they're worth.

The elevator ride down is silent, giving me too much time to think. Two weeks . Two weeks since D dumped me back in the city with a stack of cash and a warning to keep my head down. Five fucking grand, to be exact. For the "trouble," he said.

Trouble. Right . Because nearly getting killed by the Russian mob, then fucked six ways to Sunday by Chicago's most dangerous man, is just a little trouble.

It pissed me off more than I'd like to admit.

But the money… Five grand . Five fucking grand he gave me, wrapped in a neat little bundle like he was paying for an escort. I almost threw it in his face, but then I remembered I had rent due and a broken fridge that wouldn't fix itself.

I step out into the crisp night air, pulling my jacket tight around me. The El station's only a few blocks away, but in these heels, it might as well be miles. I debate changing into the flats in my bag, but knowing my luck, I'd probably step on a used needle or something.

The train station is a few blocks away, the walk giving me time to clear my head. I'm not far from home, but it'll take another forty minutes before I can kick off these heels and collapse into bed.

It's a far cry from the chaos of two weeks ago. No more dodging bullets or Russian psychos. Just me, my aching feet, and the lovely aroma of piss and desperation that clings to every Chicago street corner.

The platform's nearly deserted when I arrive, just a couple of night shift workers and a guy who looks like he's been rode hard and put away wet. I keep my distance, one hand on the pepper spray in my pocket. No earphones for me. I learned that lesson the hard way. Situational awareness is my new best friend.

I pull out my phone, scrolling through messages I've ignored all night. One from Candy, asking how I'm holding up. Another from Trixie, a photo of Scarface's ruined shoes with a string of laughing emojis. I smile despite myself. I guess some things don't change.

Then I see Lenny's message. My stomach does a little flip.

"Hey, sis, Em and I made dinner. Lasagna. Probably tastes like ass, but it's edible. Dad's still MIA. Three weeks now. You think he finally drank himself to death in some gutter?"

Fuck . I read it again, my jaw clenching. Three weeks. The old bastard's never been gone this long before. Part of me hopes he's face-down in the Chicago River. The other part… Well, fuck that part.

I start typing a reply, but my fingers freeze. What do I say? "Great job with dinner, hope Dad's dead"? Christ.

A screeching announcement cuts through my thoughts. "Green Line train approaching. Please stand behind the yellow line."

I shove my phone back in my pocket, glancing around. A guy in a filthy hoodie is eyeing a girl a few feet away. She's oblivious, lost in her phone. I clear my throat loudly, catching her attention. She looks up, sees the creep, and moves closer to me. Smart girl.

The platform rumbles as the train approaches. Most peaceful weeks ever, my ass. D's "mess" might be over, but the world's still full of predators.

The train arrives with a screech of metal on metal. I hesitate for a moment, then step on.

As the doors slide shut, I catch a glimpse of a familiar face on the platform.

No fucking way.

Tall, built like a brick shithouse, with eyes that could freeze hell itself.

D.

D?

My heart stops, then kicks into overdrive. But before I can react, the train lurches forward, leaving him behind in a blur of motion.

I sink into a seat, my legs suddenly weak. Was it really him? Or am I finally losing my fucking mind?