Page 6 of Deep (Chicago Underground 8)
The woman sighed. “Really, Ella? Wrecking the Mercedes wasn’t good enough? Now you have to steal something? Where’d you pick that up—the hotel restaurant?”
The lobby actually, but I assumed that wasn’t what she wanted to hear. Apparently we were playing some kind of wicked-stepmother game to get away from this security guard. She wasn’t even that much older than me, but I guessed that worked for the game.
I crossed my arms, playing along. “Bet Daddy didn’t even notice I was gone.”
A flicker of amusement crossed her eyes, but at least she didn’t smile and ruin the charade.
“So, you know her?” the guard asked, appearing reluctant to give me up now that he’d caught me.
The woman sighed. “Unfortunately, yes. We’re family.”
Family. I knew she was just playing a role, the same way she’d played the sultry bisexual in the penthouse suite, but the word still pinged in my chest. I didn’t have a family. Just adoptive parents who had taken me in as a last resort, only to realize they could have a natural-born son after all. And then they were stuck with me.
Except I was supposed to be playing a role here too, and unlike the penthouse, I wasn’t planning on slugging her a second time. “You’re not my real mom,” I shouted because that sounded like something a teenager would say to her only slightly older, gorgeous stepmother.
“But you’re stuck with me, darling,” she said, her voice dripping with venom.
The man was clearly uncomfortable around feminine bickering. He shifted, almost releasing me. Almost. “Right. Well. I don’t want to get involved with a domestic dispute.”
“Oh no,” she said. “It’s too late for that. She stole something. Isn’t that like, a felony?”
Damn, she was good.
The guy opened the wallet, revealing a stack of twenties. “I don’t know. It looks like it’s all here. No harm, no foul, I say.”
I smirked, because after the hellish week I’d had, this was actually almost fun. “Guess not every old guy falls for your fake boobs.”
A horrified expression crossed her face, and she clasped her breasts. Breasts that were probably not fake. “They’re not—” She broke off with a glare, then turned to the man. “You can’t just let her go. Call the police. She needs to be locked up. She’s horrible!”
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” he said, and I knew then that she had solidified our exit by insisting I get in trouble. She definitely knew how to work men to her advantage; I’d give her that much.
We’d be able to leave with no suspicion now. If this story ever got passed on, it would be told about two rich brats the security guard would like to fuck. But considering he would probably pocket the money in the wallet, the story most likely wouldn’t get told at all.
As if confirming that, he added, “It’s hotel policy not to involve the authorities unless there’s been property damage, and since I’ve recovered the wallet, I’m afraid I’m going to have to release her into your custody.”
She narrowed her eyes at me. “I’m telling Daddy. He’ll cut you off.”
I almost stuck out my tongue. “Bite me, Mother.”
Apparently that was our cue to leave, because she grabbed my arm and we hightailed it into a hallway leading away from the kitchen. She glanced back, and the guy must have been leaving us alone, because we made it into a hallway.
“You little brat,” she said more mildly—and not entirely part of the charade. “I can’t believe you hit me. I was helping you.”
Helping? I snorted. “Yeah, helping me whore myself. No thanks.”
She seemed startled, a little taken aback. I wondered if I had actually hurt her feelings. I would have said sorry, but she spoke first. “Jail won’t be any better for you, sweetheart. Not if Henri’s pissed, and he will be once he hears you bailed on the VIPs.”
I had no idea who Henri was, but unlike the fictitious Daddy, it seemed Henri was a real person who was calling the shots. Was he one of the men who had dragged me out of the club, one of the men who’d taunted me when I was chained to the pipes in the bathroom? Or was he someone higher up, the true person my father had accrued all that gambling debt to—the one who had wanted fifty dollars a hole.
Either way, he wasn’t a man I wanted to meet again.
After a moment of walking in silence, she asked, “Are you at least going to tell me your name now?”
It’s Claire. Please help me. Someone help me, want me, love me. I want to be part of a family.
I want to feel safe.
I didn’t say any of that. Instead I straightened my spine and lifted my chin, struggling for some of the confidence she seemed to wear with ease. “I’m Polly-fucking-anna,” I said instead. “Pleased to meet you.”
