||Vicious||

Chapter 8

"YOU REALIZE IT SOUNDS SHADY as hell," Rosie said between coughs while I packed all of our worldly possessions and tucked them into plastic trash bags in our studio apartment.

I was going to miss this place. Even though our mattress was located less than a foot from the stove and had a hole in it the size of my head, and even though we had to jump to reach the top kitchen cabinets where we stored clothes, it still felt bittersweet to let go.

This was where we'd made memories. Happy, funny, sad, emotional memories. This is where we'd danced to music and cried in front of crap B movies and eaten junk food until our stomachs hurt. Where I'd painted canvases and sold my art for actual money. Where I'd helped Rosie with her nursing degree, staying up nights to quiz her from doorstop-thick books.

Now we were moving to one of the most exclusive luxury buildings in Manhattan, but I was anything but happy about it. I was frightened. I knew Vicious had plans for me, and I was absolutely positive that whatever those plans were, he was going to cash in on my fat salary.

But I didn't want Rosie to worry about it.

"Well, he said it wasn't sexual or illegal, so at least we know he's not going to sell me across the border or make me kill someone." I fake-laughed, balling up another one of my dresses and stuffing it inside a duffel bag.

I was packing up our stuff as fast as I could. I'd changed from work, opting for my black faux-leather tights and pink pom-pom sweater, and I knew I didn't have time to change again before the limo picked me up to head to JFK. But I tried to convince myself that looking plain and messy was the best approach. I didn't want Vicious to get the wrong idea. Even though he was still cold and rude to me, I'd noticed the way he looked at me. It was the same way I'd looked at him when I would sneak into the football field in high school to watch him play all those years ago.

We liked what we saw.

But I reminded myself that this man didn't do relationships. He did destructions. And one of his past projects was my life.

I zipped up the duffel and pulled a few more trash bags from a drawer, throwing canned goods, coffee, sugar, and everything else we had that was non-perishable inside. We were going to take our food with us. Vicious might have advanced me part of my obscenely large salary, but we still needed to be careful with our money. Very much so. Despite the contract he'd made me sign, I didn't know how long I'd last as his employee.

And despite what he thought, I was no fool. I was still going to look for a different job, even if it paid a fraction of the salary. Being at that man's mercy was like getting comfortable inside a golden cage with a hungry tiger.

Rosie followed me with her gaze, still lying on our mattress and coughing into a crumpled piece of toilet paper.

"You're a bold ho, sis. I can't believe you agreed to work for The Undertaker after what he did to you. It's the second time you've let him buy you." Little Rose was the only one who knew what happened on my eighteenth birthday.

I refused to let her words get to me, though. She was the main reason why I'd taken the job in the first place.

"People do things for lots of reasons. Or do you have another idea of how to pay for our lives in New York?" I muttered.

"I don't care about our money situation. I wouldn't work for Baron Spencer." Rosie jutted out her chin, defiant.

"But you'd certainly kiss him." I turned my back to her, throwing a jar of strawberry jam and a pack of cookies into a bag full of junk food. It was a cheap shot, but I couldn't help myself.

Rosie coughed some more. "That's ancient history. Get over it. I was fifteen, and he was gorgeous."

He still is, I thought bitterly. And he was mine.