Vicious (Sinners of Saint Book 1)

The Present

“WATCH WHERE YOU’RE GOING, SCHMUCK!” I shouted as I waited on the corner outside of the trendy office building on the Upper East Side.

The muddy stain on my bib-waisted sailor dress, the one with the tiny smiley faces, widened, spreading quickly. I held my cell between my ear and my shoulder, swallowing a frustrated scream. I was puddle-soaked, hungry, tired, and desperate for the walk signal to turn green. On top of everything, I was already late for my shift at McCoy’s.

The roar of honking traffic on a Friday night filled my ears. The problem with jaywalking in New York City was that the drivers were New Yorkers too, so they didn’t mind running you over if it came to that.

Or soaking your clothes, for that matter.

“What the hell, Millie?” Rosie coughed into my ear on the other end of the line. She sounded like an asthmatic dog. My sister hadn’t left her bed all day.

I would’ve been jealous had I not known why.

“A taxi driver just splashed me on purpose,” I explained.

“Calm your tits,” she soothed in her own, special way, and I heard her shifting in bed, groaning. “Tell me what they said again.”

The signal turned green. The animal kingdom that was New York’s pedestrians almost ran me over as we all rushed to the other side of the street, ducking our heads under the scaffolding above us. My feet screamed with pain in high heels as I rushed past food vendors and men in pea coats, praying I’d get there before the staff meal in the kitchen was over and I missed my chance to grab something to eat.

“They said that, while they were happy that I was taking an interest in the advertising industry, I was paid to make coffee and file stuff, not to make suggestions in creative meetings and share my ideas with the design teams at lunchtime. They said I was overqualified to be a PA, but that they didn’t have any art-intern positions to fill. They’re also trying to ‘trim the fat’ to stay economically lean. Apparently, I’m just that—fat.” I couldn’t help but let out a bitter laugh, as I’d never been skinnier in my life—and not by choice. “So they fired me.”

I blew out air, forming a white cloud. New York winters were so cold, they made you wish you could show up at work wearing the quilt you’d rolled yourself up in the night before. We should’ve moved back to the South. It still would be far enough from California. Not to mention the rent was way cheaper.

“So you’ve only got your job at McCoy’s left?” It was Rosie’s turn to sigh, and her lungs made a funny noise. Worry colored her voice.

I couldn’t blame her. I was supporting both of us for now. I didn’t make much as a PA, but dang, I’d needed the two jobs. With Rosie’s meds, we weren’t making ends meet as it was.

“Don’t worry,” I said as I sprinted down the busy street. “This is New York. There are job opportunities everywhere. You literally don’t know where the next job will come from. I can easily find something else.” Like hell I will. “Listen, I gotta go if I don’t want to lose my night job, too. I’m already three minutes late. Love you. Bye.”

I hung up and stopped at another crosswalk, fidgeting. There was a thick layer of people ahead of me waiting to cross the street. I couldn’t lose my job at McCoy’s, the Midtown bar I worked at. I couldn’t. I glanced sideways, my gaze halting on the long, dark alley sandwiched between two huge buildings. A shortcut. It’s not worth it, a little voice inside me said.

I was late.

And I just got fired from my day job.

And Rosie was sick again.

And there was rent to pay.

Screw it, I’ll be fast.

I ran, my spine vibrating every time my high heels hit the pavement. The cold wind slapped my cheeks, the sting like a whip lash. I ran so fast it took me a few seconds to absorb the fact that someone had yanked me back by the courier bag slung over my shoulder. I fell flat on my ass. The ground was wet and cold, and I’d landed on my tailbone.

I didn’t care. I didn’t even have time to be shocked or get angry. I clutched my bag close to my chest and looked up at the offender. He was just a kid. A teenager, to be exact, with a face dotted with popped pimples. Tall and lanky and in all probability as hungry as I was. But it was my bag. My stuff. New York was a concrete jungle. I knew that sometimes, in order to survive, you had to be mean. Meaner than those who were mean to you.

I shoved my hand into my bag, hunting for the pepper spray. I just planned to threaten him—he had to learn a lesson. The kid yanked my bag again, and again I pulled it closer to my middle. I found the cool can of Mace and pulled it out, aiming at his eyes.

“Step back or go blind,” I warned in a quivering voice. “I say it’s not worth it, but it’s up to you,”

He flung his arm at me, and that’s when I pressed the nozzle. He twisted my wrist violently. The spray missed him by inches. He backhanded my forehead and shoved me away. I felt my head spinning from the blow. Everything turned black as I went under.

A part of me wasn’t too eager to come back.

Especially when my vision cleared and I realized my hands were empty. My phone, wallet, driver’s license, cash—two hundred bucks I owed my landlord, dang it—were all gone.

I pushed myself to my feet, dirty pavement digging into my palms. The heel of my cheap shoe had snapped when I fell. I grabbed it on my way up. Catching sight of the retreating silhouette of my mugger in the distance, my bag clutched between his fingers, I waved the wooden heel in his direction with my fist and did something that was completely out of character. For the first time in years, I cussed out loud.

“Well, you know what? Fuck you too!”

My throat was burning from screaming as I limped my way to McCoy’s. There was no point crying, though I did feel pretty sorry for myself. Getting robbed and fired on the same day? Yeah, I was definitely going to sneak a few shots when my boss, Greg, wasn’t looking.

I made it to McCoy’s twenty minutes late. The only sliver of solace was that the grouchy owner wasn’t here, which meant that my neck was safe from getting fired for the second time that day.

Rachelle, the manager, was a friend. She knew about my financial struggles. About Rosie. About everything.

The minute I walked in through the back door and met her in the hallway next to the kitchen, she winced and brushed my lavender hair away from my forehead.

“I’m ruling out kinky sex and placing my bet on clumsiness,” she said, shooting me a sympathetic frown.

I exhaled, squeezing my eyes shut. I opened them slowly, blinking away the mist of unshed tears. “Got mugged on the way here. He took my bag.”

“Oh, sweetie.” Rachelle pulled me into a tight hug.

My forehead fell to her shoulder, and I heaved a sigh. I was still upset, but the human touch felt nice. Comforting. I was also relieved that Greg wasn’t there. It meant I could lick my wounds quietly, without having him shouting at all the waitresses with foam bubbling from his mouth.

“It gets better, Rach. I got fired from R/BS Advertising too,” I whispered into her cherry-red hair.

Her body stiffened against mine. When we pulled away, her face wasn’t concerned anymore. She looked downright horrified. “Millie…” She bit her lip. “What are you gonna do?”

That was a very good question. “Take more shifts here until I get myself together and find another day job? Get some temp work? Sell a kidney?”

The last one was obviously a joke, but I made a mental note to look into it when I got back to my apartment. Just out of curiosity. Yeah, right.

Rachelle rubbed her forehead with her palm, scanning my body. Knowing what I must look like, I hugged my midriff and flashed her a weak smile. I was thin. Thinner than I’d been when I first started working here. And the roots of my lavender hair were starting to show, but they were so light brown, it didn’t look too bad. My physical state, especially with the broken heel and stained dress, underlined the mess I was in.

Rachelle’s eyes stopped at my fist. She untangled my fingers from the shoe heel I was holding and took a deep breath, closing her eyes. “I’ll glue this for you. Take the shoes in my locker and get to work. And smile big. God knows you need the tips.”

I nodded, slapping a wet kiss onto her cheek. She was a lifesaver. I didn’t even care that she was fun-sized, three inches shorter than me, and that her shoes were two sizes smaller. I bolted for our lockers and slipped into my uniform—a cropped, tight red shirt that showed off my stomach, black mini skirt, and a black-and-red apron with McCoy’s name plastered across it. It was tacky, but the bar was frequented by Wall Street-types, and the tips were great.

Pushing the wooden saloon doors open and marching to the dark stool-lined counter, I ignored the thirsty—and not for alcohol—looks men sent my way. I was twenty-seven. Seemingly, the perfect age for the meat-market New York had to offer. But I was too busy trying to survive to have a boyfriend. My policy was to be friendly with my customers without giving them false encouragement.

“Hey, Millie,” Kyle greeted from behind the bar. He had slicked-back blond hair, studied film-making at NYU, lived in Williamsburg, and dressed like Woody Allen. Anything to disguise the fact he was actually from South Carolina.

I smiled at him while the regular crowd at the tables, men and women in suits, scrolled through messages on their phones and traded stories about their days at work. “Busy night?”

“Okay so far. Don’t freak out,” he warned, “but Dee is pissed at you for being late again. You’d better go take care of your tables.” He nodded toward the right side of the restaurant.

Dee was one of the other waitresses who worked Fridays with me. I couldn’t blame her for being mad. It wasn’t her fault I was dealing with personal issues. I nodded and offered him a thumbs-up, but he was already engrossed in the book he was reading under the counter.

It wasn’t that bad, working at McCoy’s. Our clientele spoke quietly and drank expensively, always tipping fifteen percent or more. Swaying my hips to “Baby It’s You” by Smith, I ambled to a table in the corner of the room. It was dark and secluded from the rest—my favorite spot because it somehow always lured the best tippers.

I called it my lucky corner.

Two men were sitting there, hunched and engrossed in a hushed conversation. I plucked the menus from under my arm and smiled at their bent heads, trying to grab their attention.

“Hello, gentlemen. I’m Millie and I’ll be your waitress tonight. Can I get you anything while you—”

Him. That’s where I stopped. Because the minute the man with the tousled black hair looked up, my heart flipped over and my mouth froze.

Vicious.

I blinked, trying to decipher the image in front of me. Baron Spencer was here, and to my dismay, he looked a hell of a lot better than I did.

Tall, well above six foot, his long legs stretched to one side, with eyes dark like his soul and unruly raven hair that curled up at the sides, covering his stupidly perfect ears. High cheekbones—always rosy when touched by the sting of the cold—square jaw and straight nose. Everything about his face was composed and icy.

Only the flush on his porcelain skin reminded me that he was still flesh, blood, and heart, and not a machine programmed to ruin my life. The color in his cheeks even gave his dark, brooding features a boyish glint.

I wasn’t surprised to see the I-dare-you-to-fuck-with-me expression was still stamped on his face, like an old song I knew by heart. I also wasn’t surprised to see that, unlike me, his sense of style had matured with age. Impeccable, yet unpretentious. He wore dark-blue jeans, brown Oxfords, a white dress shirt, and a tailored blazer.

Casual. Understated. Expensive.

Nothing fancy, but enough to remind you that he was still richer than 99.9% of the population. I always changed the subject whenever my parents tried to fill me in on anyone from Todos Santos, and they never mentioned Vicious. Not in recent years, anyway. For all I knew, he woke up every day to do nothing except dress like a big-shot rich guy.

I couldn’t look in his eyes, couldn’t even look in his direction. My gaze moved to the man who sat opposite him. He was slightly older—early thirties, maybe?—heavy-set with sandy-blond hair and the sharply tailored suit of a greedy Wall Street broker.

“Anything to drink?” I repeated, my throat closing up. I was no longer smiling. Was I even breathing?

“Black Russian.” Sharp Suit dragged his eyes along the curves of my body, stopping at my chest.

“And you?” I chirped to Vicious, pretending to write down the drinks I would’ve remembered by heart anyway. My shaky hand scribbled blindly, missing my little notepad.

“Bourbon, neat.” Vicious’s tone was indifferent, his eyes dead when they landed on my pen. Not on me.

Aloof. Cold. Unaffected.

Nothing’s changed.

I turned around and wobbled back to the bar in my too-tight shoes, placing the order with Kyle.

Maybe he didn’t recognize me. After all, why would he? It had been ten years. And I’d only lived at the Spencer estate during my senior year.

I tapped the edge of the bar with the side of my chewed-up pen. Kyle groaned when he heard Sharp Suit had ordered a Black Russian. He hated making cocktails. I lingered, skulking behind Kyle’s shoulder, stealing another glance at the guy who used to make my heart stutter.

He looked good. Lean-muscled and all man. The last ten years were kinder to him than they’d been to me. I wondered if he was just passing through Manhattan on a business trip or if he lived here. Somehow, I thought I’d know if he was living in New York. Then again, Rosie and my parents knew better than to share any information about the HotHoles with me.

No, Vicious was only here on business, I decided.

Good. I hated him so much it hurt to breathe when I looked at him.

“Drinks are ready,” Kyle said behind my shoulder.

I spun around. Placing the glasses on a tray, I took a deep breath and started back to his table. My knees shook when I thought about what I looked like in this skimpy little outfit. A cheap-looking cropped top and shoes two sizes too small.

Shame inspired me to straighten my spine and plaster a big smile on my face. Maybe it was a good thing he didn’t remember who I was. I didn’t need him to know how I ended up being a broke waitress who lived off cereal and mac and cheese.

“Black Russian, Bourbon.” I placed red napkins on the round black tabletop and set their drinks on top, my eyes darting to Vicious’s left hand, searching for a golden wedding band. There wasn’t one.

“Anything else?” I hugged my tray to my lower stomach, summoning my work smile.

“No, thanks.” Sharp Suit sighed, impatient, and Vicious didn’t even bother to acknowledge me. Their heads lowered back to the quiet conversation they were having.

I moved on, throwing glances at him behind my shoulder and feeling my pulse everywhere, down to my neck and eyelids. Our encounter was anticlimactic, but that was for the best. We weren’t old friends or even acquaintances.

In fact, I’d meant so little to him that, at this point, we weren’t even enemies.

I focused on the rest of my tables. I laughed at my clients’ unfunny jokes, and I drank the two shots Kyle slipped across the bar when my customers weren’t looking. My treacherous eyes kept drifting to Vicious’s table, though. His jaw was clenched as he spoke to his companion. Vicious wasn’t happy.

I leaned my elbows on the bar and watched them closely.

Baron “Vicious” Spencer. Always providing the best show in town.

I watched as he slid a thick stack of papers across the table, pointed at the first page with his index finger, sat back, and stared at the man, his eyes announcing victory. Sharp Suit reddened and slammed his fist against the table, snatching the papers and choking them in his hand as he waved them around, spitting as he spoke. The papers crumpled. Vicious’s cool didn’t.

No. He remained calm and unruffled as he leaned forward, saying something I couldn’t decipher, and the more the blond man got excited and heated, the more Vicious looked uninterested and amused.

At some point, Sharp Suit threw his hands in the air and said something animated, his face as dark as a pickled beet. That’s when Vicious’s face brightened, and he propped one elbow on the table as he dragged his finger along what must have been a specific spot in the verbiage on the first page of the document. His lips were thin when he said something to the man in front of him, but Sharp Suit looked about ready to faint.

My heart pounded too fast and my mouth dried. Jesus Christ. He was threatening him and, to no surprise to me, he wasn’t being shy about it.

“Millie, take five.” Dee slapped my ass from behind just then. I jumped, surprised. She was back from her cigarette break, and it was my turn.

I didn’t smoke, but I usually used the time to talk to Rosie on my cell. I wouldn’t be doing that tonight, but I was glad Dee had apparently put my tardiness behind her.

“Thanks,” I said, making a beeline to the toilets. I needed to wash my face and remind myself that the day was almost over. I slipped past the sinks and disappeared inside one of the individual stalls where I leaned against the door and took long, steady breaths.

I didn’t even know what would make me feel better. Getting my PA job back? No. I’d never liked it much. The accountant I worked for at the advertising agency was a walking, talking sexual-harassment suit just waiting to happen. Having Vicious recognize me? It would only make me more flustered and embarrassed. Having him leave? I was too intrigued by him to want him gone.

I left the bathroom and was just about to splash some water on my face at the sink when the door opened, and he walked in.

He. Walked. In.

I wasn’t scared. Even after everything that’d happened, I knew he wouldn’t hurt me. Not physically, anyway. But I was intimidated, and I hated that I looked like a Hooters reject while he…he had an aura about him. When he walked into the room, no matter how dingy and small, you could feel the wealth. The status. The power.

His eyes landed on the cherry blossom mural behind me before they leveled on my face, and my mind raced. His gaze told me he knew exactly who I was and that I was the one who’d painted the mural behind me.

He remembered me.

What he did to me.

He remembered everything.

His eyes met mine, and my stomach knotted. My heart fluttered in my chest, and an urgent need to fill the awkward silence slammed into me.

“Have you come here for forgiveness?” The words left my mouth before I had the chance to swallow them.

Vicious chuckled darkly, like the concept in itself was preposterous. He hadn’t made a single move, yet I felt his touch everywhere.

“You’re a mess,” he said matter-of-factly, eyeing my hair. My lavender locks were all over my face, and a nasty bruise had bloomed on my forehead.

“Nice to see you too.” I pressed my back against the wall, my hands against the cold tiles below the mural, seeking relief from the fire he’d lit in me the moment he walked in. “I see you successfully graduated from a bully to a tyrant in the span of a decade.”

He laughed, a deep laugh that vibrated against my bones. I closed my eyes then opened them, drinking him in. A year of him being hateful toward me had trained me well. I stopped caring a long time ago that the joke was on me.

His smile disappeared, replaced with a frown. “What are you doing here, Help?”

He took a step forward but stilled when I held my hand up, stopping him. I wasn’t sure why I did it. Maybe because it hurt so much that he was seeing me like this. Helpless. Half naked. Poor and lost and small in this big city that chewed you up and spit out the remains once your hopes and dreams died. Filling the small meaningless shoes he’d created for me all those years ago. Becoming the help.

“I work here,” I said, finally. Wasn’t it obvious?

He moved my way again, his posture casual and relaxed. This time I straightened. I tilted my chin up. A waft of his scent—spicy, earthy, clean, and masculine—filled my nose. I inhaled and shivered. He’d always had this impact on me. And I always loathed myself for it.

“Last I heard, you were working on a Fine Arts degree.” He arched a thick, devilish eyebrow, as if to ask, What went wrong?

Everything, I thought bitterly. Everything went wrong.

“Not that it’s any of your business, but I did get a degree.” I pushed off from the wall and moved past him to wash my hands. He followed me with his eyes. “A thing called life butted into my plans, and I didn’t have the luxury of working my way up on an art-intern salary, so I work as a PA. That’s what I did until about three hours ago when I was let go. I thought I was having a bad enough day when I walked in here, but”—my eyes swiped his body—“clearly, the universe decided to make it an all-out disaster.”

I didn’t know why I was telling him all this. I didn’t know why I was speaking to him at all. I should’ve yelled or stormed out of the bathroom after what he’d done to me years ago. Called our bouncer and kicked him out of McCoy’s. But as much as I didn’t like to admit it, I didn’t hate him as much as I probably should have. A tiny sad part of me knew he wasn’t to blame for my current state. My choices were mine.

I’d made my bed. Now I had to lie in it, even if it was full of fleas.

He tucked one hand in his pocket, using his free one to tousle his unruly hair—even more perfect now that he was all man. I looked away, wondering how he’d spent the last decade. What he did for a living. Whether he had a girlfriend or a wife or maybe even some kids. I’d always made it a point not to ask or listen, but now that he was in front of me, curiosity poked me, begging my mouth to ask these questions.

But I didn’t.

“Have a nice life, Vicious.” I turned off the faucet, sashaying to the door.

He grabbed my elbow and jerked me in his direction. A jolt of panic and excitement ripped through me. There was no point in shaking him away—he was twice my size.

“Do you need help, Help?” he whispered in my face. I hated him for calling me that.

And I hated me for responding to his gruff tone the way I did, even after all this time. Goose bumps prickled my skin, and a hot wave crashed inside my chest.

I was breathing heavily, but so was he.

“Whatever it is I need,” I said, my voice a hiss, “I don’t want it from you.”

He pinned me with a wolfish grin. “That’s for me to decide,” he said, releasing my arm like it was dirty and nudging me to the door. “And I still haven’t made up my mind.”

I turned around and bolted out of the bathroom, leaving my high school crush turned nemesis alone in the bathroom.

I contemplated asking Dee to serve their table for the remainder of the night—knew she’d have probably said yes, seeing as they reeked of money—but my stupid pride made me want to see this evening through. It somehow felt important to show him, and myself, that I was indifferent to him, even though it was a lie.

Around three rounds of drinks and an hour later, Sharp Suit stood up. He looked frustrated, annoyed, and defeated, feelings I knew all too well from my year in Todos Santos. The man extended his hand across the table, but Vicious didn’t shake it or stand up. He just glared at the stack of papers between them, silently urging Sharp Suit to pick them up. The man did, and left in a hurry.

I rushed to place their bill on the table and turned around before Vicious had a chance to talk to me again. He paid with a credit card and vanished from what used to be my lucky corner. When I picked up the signed receipt, my hands trembled. I was scared to see how much he’d tipped me. Pathetic, I knew. It shouldn’t have mattered. But it did. On one hand, I didn’t want to feel like a charity case, and on the other, I wanted…heck, what did I want?

Whatever it was, when I picked up the receipt, I knew it wasn’t this. My eyes flared when I saw what he’d written at the bottom:

For your tip, go to 125 E 52nd. 23rd floor.

—Black

A crazy laugh fizzed from my throat. I fisted the note into a tiny ball and dunk-slammed it into the trash behind Kyle.

“Lousy tip?” He looked up from his book, confused.

“He didn’t leave one.” I motioned for him to pour me another shot.

He grabbed the neck of the Vodka bottle. “Asshole.”

Oh, Kyle, I wanted to say. You have no idea.