Chapter 1
Shelby
The devil comes to collect today.
That’s what my parents call our landlord, anyway. They’ve called him that for so long that it stuck. Now everyone in the neighborhood calls him that, crossing themselves behind his back. Or running and hiding in their apartments.
I don’t run.
I’d never miss my chance to watch him move in that sleek, panther-like way, the master of everything he sees. When he climbs from the back of his limousine and buttons his suit coat with precise twists of his long fingers, I grow short of breath. Even his mean expression makes my hand wrap tightly around the branch of the tree where I’m perched across the street, sweat gathering between my breasts.
Alistair Kent.
He owns every tenement building in this neighborhood and many, many high rises in others. On the first of every month, he swoops in to collect checks from the building manager’s office where we send our rent. If the check for that month is short—and in this economy, it often is—someone usually ends up getting evicted. Thrown out on the street without a second thought.
That’s why they call him the devil. He has no conscience. No compassion.
My mother claims he has enough money to buy and sell us all.
And…I think that’s when the fantasies started.
When I started imagining Alistair…buying me.
Maybe he is the prince of darkness after all? Our priest is always talking about temptation at Sunday mass and how it can ruin a person’s life. Lead them astray. Astray isn’t exactly what I’d call the tremors that tickle along my inner thighs when Alistair strides down the sidewalk, a king picking through the slums. What I feel is more like infatuation. Budding hunger. Curiosity.
At eighteen, I know nothing about men, especially powerful, potentially evil ones. I only know what the indecent flex of sinew in his back does to my body. His obvious strength makes me damp in places that aren’t mean to be damp. Makes my nipples stiffen into pebbles, hard and achy and sensitive. And my body’s response isn’t even the most shameful part of all. No, it’s the fact that I…have sympathy for him. Even though he’s put so many of my neighbors out on the street.
Sure, his tight, cleanly shaven jaw makes it look like he’s grinding nails with his teeth. Sure, his blue-black eyes are piercing and full of malice. Yes, he has no problem ripping people’s homes out from under them. But every month when I watch him from my branch in the tree, I see more. I see the pain he’s trying to hide.
Lord help me, it attracts me to him even more.
Across the street, Alistair disappears into the building manager’s office and I let out a stuttering breath, relieved to be hidden by branches and leaves. Because I can’t stop my hand from coasting down over my breast, squeezing the mound through my ratty, second hand tank top. A gasp fires from my mouth and my fingers seek out my hard nipple eagerly, rubbing it side to side, agitating the flesh between my thighs even more.
My mother’s words come back to me, as they often do.
He could buy and sell us all.
If the landlord bought me, what would he do with me?
Would he be mean? Or would he soften when we’re alone?
In the dark, with our clothes off, would he climb on top of me and…perform the confusing act I’ve caught my brothers doing with their girlfriends? I can’t imagine a hardened man like him accepting pleasure from anyone. Or letting his guard down for a single second. But I can’t help thinking about it. A lot.
My diary sits on the tree branch beside me. My constant companion. I’m already itching to write my private musings about Alistair down on paper, putting my thoughts in their secret place where no one can see them, thanks to the lock. Only I have the combination to open it—a must in our cramped three-bedroom apartment where six of us live. My mother, father, grandmother, two siblings and me. I’m the youngest and the only girl, so I share a room with my grandmother.
I’m jolted back into awareness when Alistair leaves the building manager’s office, prowling back toward his limousine, a suited man opening the door for him.
Someone is getting evicted today.
Oh yes. I can tell by Alistair’s impatient movements. The way he plows fingers into his jet-black hair, leaving it only slightly less than perfect. Right before he folds his tall, broad frame into the back seat, he stops and looks around with a terrifying frown, nearly catching me where I watch him from the tree. But I duck back just in time to escape his scrutiny, my pulse running wild from almost having those savage eyes on me.
My heart raps against my ribcage when he drives away a moment later—and I have to write in my diary now. I have to document all these confusing emotions the landlord inspires. My pen and these pages are my only escape from the constant chaos that is my apartment. Don’t get me wrong, I love my siblings, even if they torture me. My parents are good people, too. But this diary is my saving grace. It’s the one thing that is all mine. No one else’s.