Sinful Hands (Chained Hearts Duet 3)

I give him my only answer; the one I give every client—I wink before I walk out. As I leave the room, I hear a soft laugh behind me.

Outside, the sky is black. It may storm tonight, it may not, I can’t be sure.

So I call my brother, and he doesn’t answer.

Then I call my neighbor, and luckily she does.

“Where is he?”

She’s quiet.

“Merci.” I say her name.

“Fuck,” she responds. “I thought he would be back by now.”

“Where is he?” I ask her again. My hands go to the steering wheel of my shit-ass car while waiting for the answer, and I squeeze tight for a moment before sliding my client’s money into my purse.

“Don’t kill me.”

“Merci,” I repeat, my patience running thin and showing in my tone.

“He’s at Works Bar.” My hands slam on the wheel, hard, then I hang up the phone.

I may die tonight.

2

Chanel

I’m going to throttle him. My hands will wrap tight around his throat as I extinguish the living light from his eyes.

He knows better.

We both do.

Fuck.

I am going to kill him.

Dead as a fucking cockroach beneath my feet.

End of discussion.

I want to pull my hair out with each step I take.

Have I not taught him anything?

Does he not listen to me at all?

Why does he have to be like this?

It’s not hard to follow a simple instruction, ‘stay away from them,’ which, clearly, he ignored.

Dead.

Argh.

This is what I’m left with.

Heels clicking with each step I take into the bar, my eyes scan the area.

I shouldn’t be here.

This place is not the place for me.

But sometimes a girl has to do things that are necessary—things she may not want to do.

This is one of them.

For sure.

“You aren’t meant to be in here, whore.” My head swings in the direction of where that voice came from. The bartender’s eyeing me up and down, pulling his lips together in disgust as he glares at me.

“Fuck you!”

His gaze swoops over me again, and I know what’s got his nose out of joint. A dress with a slit up the side, that if it rode up, you would see everything. Because I’m not wearing underwear.

“Your funeral.” The bartender cackles like a stupid witch, going back to what he was previously doing.

Upon taking a deep breath, I turn away from him.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

This is the last place I want to be.

We all know whose place this is.

Who that person is.

And I’ve warned him, time and time again.

To. Stay. Away.

Yet, I know, I just know he’s here with every fiber of my being. Plus, his little rat of a friend told Merci.

He could have been lying, but I suspect not.

I walk past a few patrons, straight to the back door where it’s forbidden to enter unless you’re invited. I’ve never been invited and don’t ever plan to be.

Who the fuck knows what they do back there?

And the stories I hear? Well, most invitees don’t come out functioning properly afterward—if you are a woman, that is. The men? Well, they have full rights to everything, don’t they?

It’s a man’s fucking world here.

My hands give a slight tremble as I reach for the door, but I shake it off. Now is not the time to grow weak. Right now, I need everything in me to do this.

Every-damn-thing.

Especially if I am dealing with him.

I’ve seen him around, heard the whispers, but have never, thankfully, had to meet him.

Seems my luck just ran out, and I’m about to meet the most fucked-up man there is.

Lucas Rossi.

My chipped blue nails clench the door handle, and when I turn to look over my shoulder, the bartender is eyeing me, waiting to see what I do next.

Will I actually push it open?

Or will I stay on this side, where it’s safe?

Taking a deep breath, I prepare myself to push it open.

I have to.

It’s for him.

I love him.

He’s all I have left. Which is why I’m willingly walking into Hell.

My body is locked tight, and I will myself to turn the fucking handle. Just do it. Do it now!

What could be the worst thing to happen? Oh, yeah, I don’t get to walk out because, that’s it, I’ll be dead.

Fuck this!

Turning the knob quickly, I push the door open with a little more force than needed. I’m immediately met with the aroma of stale cigar smoke in a room that’s dark and dingy. There are only a few scattered lights that shine down on a table in the center. All eyes of the men sitting at that round table, with cards in their hands, look up to face me.

“You brought us a toy,” one of them says.

I ignore the words as my eyes search the room. Looking for him. I have to find him. When I don’t see him, my breath hitches, and I wonder if this was the right move. Then I see my brother walk out of a back room, holding a tray of glasses. His eyes, the same brown as mine, lock on me and he swears.