“Well, hey there,” Colt said, grinning at me lazily. “Nice to see you again, Princess.” He was so close I could smell the fresh scent of his laundry detergent, and I could feel his breath against my cheek. His lips were full and sexy, the stubble on his face reminding me how close we came to kissing.
My skin felt like it was on fire and my stomach did a somersault. It was no use. I wasn’t going to get my purse back, and to try would just make him feel like he was winning. I quickly moved back to my side of the car and, in an effort to keep from being so attracted to him, tried to remind myself how infuriating he was.
“Don’t move.” Colt got out of the car and walked into the club, through a back door marked “Employees Only.”
I sat there for a minute. It would be easy to jump out of the car, to head for the bus stop, hop on a bus, and go back to the shelter.
But my bus pass was in my purse. Along with my ID. Not that I needed my ID for the bus, but it was a pain in the ass to try to get your license replaced. Especially for a former foster kid, who had no birth certificate.
I searched around the car for something I could use to help me. But the glove compartment was locked, and the car was immaculately clean.
I couldn’t do anything but wait.
My heart was thrumming loudly in my chest, and my head felt kind of weird – all light and jittery. I crossed my legs. My knee was shaking and wouldn’t stop.
I waited.
And waited.
And waited.
And the whole time, I just kept getting angrier and angrier.
I hated that I had no control over my life, hated that I was made to just sit here and wait for Colt to decide when it was time to take me back to the shelter. It reminded me of all those nights waiting in the social services office on some dirty bench, while a social worker called around to different foster parents, begging them to take me in.
It was awful and demoralizing and I had no say in any of it.
I was sick of feeling out of control, sick of feeling like someone else was making decisions for me.
I got out of Colt’s car and walked toward Loose Cannons. Well, it was more like stomping, actually. By the time I got to the back entrance, I was pissed as hell. I hesitated for a second at the door that said employees only, wondering what I would do if there was a security guard or someone standing inside who was going to ask me what I was doing.
But then I realized I didn’t care if there was. In fact, I almost welcomed it. I hoped someone did try to stop me. I’d tell them I’d been the victim of a purse snatching, and it was none other than their owner, Colt Cannon, who’d done it.
I flung open the door. But there was no one waiting on the other side.
I was in some kind of back hallway, where everything was dark and quiet. The walls and floor were made of cinderblocks, and the faint smell of smoke wafted through the air. It was slightly chilly, like maybe there were no heating vents back here.
To my right was a dead end, and to the left the hallway stretched about a hundred feet before turning to the right and merging with another corridor. I could see brighter light shining from the other hallway, which probably led to the main part of the club. It must have been some kind of utility or delivery entrance I’d just come through.
I turned to my left and starting making my way to the end of the hallway. I only passed one door, a heavy black one with a laminated sign that read “KITCHEN.”When I got to the end of the hall, I followed the light and turned into the other corridor. This one was bright and carpeted and warm, and I could hear the low murmur of voices coming from somewhere nearby, but I still couldn’t see anyone.
Part of me wanted to turn around and head back to the car, but the bigger part of me was saying, screw it. What did I expect, that I would open the door and Colt would just be sitting there, waiting with my purse? And it wasn’t like I was doing anything wrong by being here. He took my purse. I had a right to follow him if I wanted to.
I took a deep breath and started walking down the hall. All the doors leading off it were made of heavy oak, with glass windows, like you would see in an office building.
One of the doors was open, and I made my way toward it carefully, hoping that if Colt wasn’t in the room, whoever it was would be friendly. Or at least know where he was.
I crept closer and that’s when I heard it – the sound of someone crying. A girl. She was sobbing, the kind of sobs I knew all too well. The kind of sobs you made when you were tortured by something, when you’d sunk to a depth of despair you weren’t even sure was possible.
I had a partial view into the room now, and it looked like a lounge or break room. There was a leather couch pushed up against the wall with a cream-colored marble coffee table sitting in front of it.