Sinners Condemned : An Enemies to Lovers Mafia Romance (Sinners Anonymous Book 2)
Sinners Condemned : Chapter 21

TWO HOURS PASS IN a blur of beers and bets. With every flick of my wrist, Kings and Queens welcome me back to the dark side with vapid smirks. As the night blackens against the windows, they reflect only us, the colorful Christmas lights, and the life I left behind.

I have to remind myself that I’m merely visiting.

The door opens and a suited figure strolls through it. He brings in something colder than the December wind.

“Husband alert,” Rory mutters under her breath, sweeping the cards up and greeting him with a charming smile.

Angelo Visconti strolls up behind her, wraps his hand around her throat, and pulls her head back against his chest. I stare at his busted knuckles and my eyes itch to look away, because it feels too intimate for my viewing pleasure. His lips drop to her bun and his attention slides up to me. “You made a friend.”

“We were already friends, silly.” Sadly enough, this admission makes the pit of my stomach warm. “This is Penny.”

“I know, we’ve met.”

“You have?”

We have?

“Yeah, she walked in on you sucking my dick in the storage cupboard of Rafe’s yacht.”

Turning beet red, Rory attempts to twist out of Angelo’s grasp and claw at his face. Angelo laughs, easily pinning her arms to her side, and lands a gentle kiss on the crown of her head.

“I’m going to get you back,” Rory hisses, biting back an embarrassed smile.

“Look forward to it.”

Why the fuck am I grinning like an idiot? But then my amusement twists into something resembling jealousy and I don’t even know why. I don’t know what my Happy Ever After entails yet, but it won’t involve a man, of all things. Still, I can’t stop a single bitter sentence flashing behind my eyelids. Must be nice.

I stand and shove my coat on, and when I look up from the faded carpet, Angelo is still staring at me, dry amusement lurking in his dark gaze. An uneasy sense of deja vu crackles under my skin. Not because I’ve lived this moment before, but because he looks so much like his brother. A rough outline to Raphael’s meticulously drawn portrait.

Angelo is everything Raphael Visconti pretends he’s not.

Dominance and danger ooze from every pore, but, unlike his brother, he embraces it. He doesn’t attempt to distract you from it with a silver tongue and diamond cufflinks.

No. He’s raw, rugged. All shadowy stubble and open-spread collars. In theory, his version of a made man should be scarier, but it’s not. At least not to me, because if Angelo wanted to kill me, he’d put a bullet in my head and move on with his day.

Raphael would turn it into a game. Like a cat with an injured mouse, he’d toss me from paw to paw, before outsourcing my death to someone on his payroll once he got bored.

Despite my father’s final calls to God haunting my memory, I know how I’d rather die.

Angelo looks over my shoulder. “Tayce, one of our men will take you home.”

“Yes,” she hisses, sliding off the stool and slinging her leather jacket over her shoulder. “There’s nothing better than a Visconti Uber. Blacked-out windows, reclining seats, and those mini water bottles in the center console. A dream.”

Rory frowns. “We don’t have any mini water bottles in our car?”

“Because you’ve filled the center console with candy, baby,” Angelo replies. Looking back to me, he adds, “My men will take you home, too.”

“Sweet, but no need.” I pick up my purse and hoist it over my shoulder. All eyes fall on me. A few beats of silence, then I crack under the awkwardness. “I’m only ten minutes away. I’ll just walk.”

Angelo’s gaze thins. “You won’t. It’s past midnight.”

I can’t help but laugh. “I’ll be fine. Thanks though!”

Rory clamps down a smirk, as if she wants to say something but thinks the better of it. Under the heat of Angelo’s glare, I exchange pleasantries and numbers with all three girls and head toward the door with pace to my step. Partly because I’m buzzing off the high of a successful night making friends, and partly because I have a feeling one of Angelo’s men is going to reach out from the shadows and snatch me up at any moment.

There are more of them in the parking lot, too. Suits leaning against sedans and blowing cigarette smoke up into the night sky. Avoiding their gazes, I tuck my chin into the collar of my coat and walk to the main road. Tonight, the streets are stiff with frost, and the impending threat of rain crackles down my spine.

Despite not being dressed for rain—my faux-fur coat smells like dog when it gets wet—I decide to take a walk. Why not? I know tonight, of all nights, won’t be one in which I experience the miracle of sleep, anyway. Instead of turning down toward main street, I take a left, climbing higher up the cliff-face.

I bow my head in an attempt to stop the wind stinging my eyes, instead focusing on the sidewalk under my feet. Soon, it tapers off into a rough, narrow lane, and the orange haze from the streetlamps cuts off.

Then the rain starts.

It’s not the romantic mist I was hoping for, but cold, glassy needles, arrowing down from the heavens without mercy. The type that penetrate your skin and chill your bones, making you shiver at the memory of being caught in it even weeks later.

As another icicle fights its way down my collar, I bite out a curse and slow to a stop.

The road ahead has somehow morphed into a black hole since the last time I looked up from my Doc Martens. There’s not a streetlamp, house, or car in sight, and carrying on feels like something only the dumb bitch who dies at the beginning of every horror movie would do.

I turn my back on the wind and retreat. Maybe the four stark walls of my apartment aren’t so bad, after all.

I’m less than three steps into my descent when a white glow washes over my back and stretches my shadow. It illuminates the puddles underneath my boots, and when the roar of the wind clashes with the angry growl of an engine, I know I’m in trouble.

An enormous dark sedan passes around my shoulder. It comes to a sudden stop ahead of me, swinging round at the last minute to block both sides of the road.

Well, that’s not good. I reluctantly stop and swallow the panic clotting my throat. In Self Defense for Dummies, there’s a whole chapter on opportunist kidnappings. One of the stats that really stuck out for me is that if a kidnapper manages to get you off the street and into their car, your chances of survival drop to less than three-percent.

Three-fucking-percent.

My luck hasn’t been sharp enough recently to be happy with those odds.

Heart slamming against my ribs, I scramble in my purse for something, anything, to defend myself. Somehow, I still have the semblance to curse myself for being so stupid. In Atlantic City, I always had a knife on me. Nothing fancy, just a small switchblade I could wave around if danger came too close. But it lies abandoned in my bedside dresser in my old apartment, and all I have in my bag are my keys and a book.

The driver’s side door flies open and a dark figure steps out of it. I sigh, knowing I don’t have the hand-eye coordination to guarantee I’d jab my key anywhere near a vital organ. I pull out HTML for Dummies and hope it’s heavy enough to knock out my attacker if I crack them over the head with it.

A black silhouette parts the rain and storms toward me. As it crosses the path of the car’s wide-set headlights, I realize it’s Raphael.

A cold sweat drifts through me. Is it really him? Looks like him, but bigger, scarier. Not just because the backlight of the beams highlights his stature and darkens his thunderous expression, but because he’s only wearing black slacks and a white shirt, with his sleeves folded up to his elbows.

My eyes fall to the space between his sleeves and wristwatch. Shapes and script shift on his forearms as he clenches his fists at his side. The sight alone makes a heady thrill sweep through my core.

There won’t be any gentlemanly pretense tonight.

He stops a few feet away. Stabs a thumb over his shoulder. “Get in the car.”

The venom in his tone spins me sideways. “Your car? Not a chance. I’ll end up in a ditch somewhere.”

“You’re walking around at midnight, Penelope. Seems like you want to be in a ditch somewhere.”

“Don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine.”

He takes a step forward; I take one back.

“Get in the car.”

“Say please.”

I’m shivering from the inside out and my toes are swimming inside my boots, yet, I’m standing here, the dictionary definition of a girl cutting off her nose to spite her face.

Raphael’s head dips between his shoulders, and he pinches the bridge of his nose. Then his hand shoots out and grabs my throat so fast it steals my next breath.

“Penelope. You’re five-foot-nothing and probably can’t throw a punch to save your life. Get in my car before I toss you over my shoulder and spank your ass for the inconvenience of getting me wet.” A tight, mocking smile flashes through the rain. “Please.”

He lets go with an angry shove, then steps aside to let me pass.

Well, then.

Blood drumming in my ears and slightly stunned, I move toward the car. My ass is barely touching leather when the door slams shut behind me. As Raphael moves in a blurry shadow across the windshield, the weight of a bad decision pushes down on my shoulders.

I can pinpoint its source immediately. The warm, masculine scent that lingers within the four walls of the G-Wagon. After making the mistake of spraying it on myself last Monday, I spent an hour in the shower scrubbing it off, and I really don’t want to be intoxicated by it again. It smells like danger, and I don’t like the heat it spreads in certain parts of me.

My unease only heightens when Raphael slides into the driver’s seat. He stares straight ahead in silence, but the anger rolling off his inked skin roars. I push up against the cold window in an attempt to get away from it.

“Seat belt.”

It’s all he says before shifting the car into gear and tearing off through the rain.

You know, perhaps I should have taken my chances and run. Now that I’m sitting here with the throb of his hand around my neck, it feels like it would have been the safer option.

Instead, I clutch onto the book in my lap and focus on the wipers working overtime.

A Christmas song crackles on the radio, barely audible. My hair drips onto the armrest in rhythmic plops. In my peripheral vision, I see Raphael’s irritated gaze fall to the small puddle I’ve created.

“These seats are Nappa leather.”

“And my sweater is cotton.”

“What?”

I hitch a shoulder. Glare at the glow of fragmented headlights through the windshield. “Thought we were naming fabrics no one gives a shit about.”

A beat passes, then he huffs out a dark laugh and shakes his head. A few more of my heartbeats thump before his voice touches my skin again. This time, it has a calmer undercurrent.

“Seriously, Penelope. Don’t walk the streets alone at night. Pretty girls don’t always get to see the next day.”

I blink, completely ignoring his safety message in favor of indulging the light thrill creeping under my skin “Did you just call me pretty?”

His jaw ticks. “You know you’re pretty.”

“I do?”

He has my full attention now. I stare down at his knuckles tight on the steering wheel, and the way his grip makes the King of Diamonds on his forearm flex squeezes my lungs.

“Of course you do. You wouldn’t be prancing around in your panties trying to tease me if you didn’t,” he mutters bitterly.

Despite the unfortunate circumstances I’ve found myself in, I can’t stop the hot triumph licking the walls of my heart.

I curl my fingers around the plastic edge of my book and feign nonchalance.

“You barely looked.”

“Because I’m a gentleman, Penelope.”

My gaze falls down his chest. His shirt is soaked through and I can just about see the dark shadows under its expensive fabric. A chink in his bespoke armor, and I’m breathless at the mere idea of what’s underneath.

The car slows. Confused, I look up and replace myself trapped in Raphael’s intense gaze. “Would you have wanted me to look?”

“I—what?”

He licks his lips, a new wave of darkness to his expression. “You said I barely looked,” he says quietly. “Would you have wanted me to look?”

A shiver rolls through me, slowing my next breath. The goosebumps rising on the back of my neck have nothing to do with getting caught in the rain and everything to do with the hot, heavy expectation swirling inside the four walls of the car. It soaks into my skin, permeating my lungs and making it harder to feign indifference.

I settle with changing the subject. It feels safer.

“How did you know where to replace me?”

A few seconds pass, before Raphael’s gaze stops burning my cheek, and the car engine purrs under my ass again.

“My brother told me one of my girls was on the loose.”

My girls.

Two words that both please me and annoy me at the same time. I’m not sure how I’d feel if it had been singular.

Unable to shake the uneasy awareness that comes with imminent danger, I glance between the seats, as if expecting a suit-clad lackey to emerge from the trunk. “No minions tonight?”

Raphael smirks and glances in his rear-view mirror. “You don’t think I can handle myself, Penelope?” He looks at me sideways, eyes dropping to my chest and back up again. “You think I can’t handle you?”

There’s a toneless edge to his questions. It rolls through my blood like oil in water, sliding around and making me squirm. It’s unreadable, unpredictable, and for once, I wish he’d just make polite small talk with me like he does with everyone else.

“Well, your gun is fake, right?”

He laughs coarsely. Drops his head against the headrest. “Ah, yes. And so it is.”

He turns the wheel with the heel of his palm and I realize we’re pulling onto Main Street. Disappointment prickles at my chest. Ironic really, considering minutes ago, I didn’t want to get into his car at all.

Suddenly, the seat belt cuts into my collarbone as I’m thrown forward. I gasp, reach out to the dashboard, and whip around to Raphael.

“If that was an attempt at killing me, it was pathetic.”

But he’s too busy glaring out my window to reply. His expression is treacherous, not an inch of gentleman remains on the sharp planes of his face.

“Why is the front door to your building open.”

It’s not a question and he’s not hanging about for an answer. Hissing something ungodly under his breath, he pulls his fake gun from his waistband and lunges for his car door.

I grab his forearm and he freezes. We both look down at my fingers; his expression tightens with irritation, and I can feel the embarrassment burnt into mine.

I shift over Nappa leather. “Relax, it’s always open.”

His gaze slides up from my fingers to the watch around my wrist. I don’t know why I’m still wearing it, but I’d be lying if I said it’s because I forgot to take it off. It’s warm and weighty and impossible not to notice. “What do you mean, it’s always open?”

“What I said—it’s broken.” He looks up at me like I’ve just called his mother a whore. “But it’s fine, my apartment door has a lock.”

“Your apartment door has a lock,” he repeats, mockingly. “Christ.” He scoops up his cell from the center console and the screen illuminates the fury etched into his face. My fingers bob over the tendons flexing and contracting in his forearm as he types out a text, and suddenly feeling drunk on the knowledge it shouldn’t be there, I drag my hand away.

He doesn’t notice. Instead, he tosses his cell into the cup holder and continues driving past my apartment. “It’s getting fixed.”

I blink. “What, now?”

He nods, barely listening to me.

“Yeah, right. No locksmith is coming out in the middle of the night.”

A sardonic smile deepens his dimples. The way he rakes his teeth over his bottom lip feels like a breathy whisper against my clit. “One of the perks of being filthy, stinking rich, Penelope.”

Well, there it is. We’re back to smug smirks and quick-witted comebacks, and although I roll my eyes, I’m secretly relieved to have safer ground under my feet.

I rest my head against the window. “Well, thanks, I guess. You can just drop me off at the diner and I’ll wait for it to get fixed.”

He glances at the time on the dash. It’s nearly one a.m. “You hungry?”

I’m always hungry. “Little bit.”

With a lazy shrug, he palms the wheel again, turns in the street, and parks haphazardly on the sidewalk outside the diner.

“Pretty sure this isn’t a parking spot,” I mutter under my breath, bringing a dark smirk to Raphael’s lips.

The diner’s yellow glow seeps through the rain on the windshield, and safety in the form of salty French fries and sugary milkshakes awaits.

I pop open my door, and unfortunately Raphael opens his, too.

My shoulders tense. “You’re coming in?”

“No, I’ll just sit here and play with my balls.”

His door slams shut behind him, and a few seconds later he appears in the frame of mine, wearing his suit blazer. He rests his palms against the top of the car and leans in with half-lidded impatience. “Don’t have all night, Penelope.”

Well, then.

In the diner, the doorbell chimes above my head and warmth brushes my face. Standing on the welcome mat, I squint under the harsh strip lights—they’re a stark contrast to the darkness that shrouded me outside.

Speaking of darkness, Raphael’s wet chest presses against the back of my head as he steps in behind me. His lips graze over the shell of my ear and fill it with a hot demand. “Move.”

I sigh into the diner and squelch across checkered tiles. Eyes follow me, but only until a certain point, then they snap to the six-foot-four gentleman darkening the doorway.

A glance over my shoulder confirms he’s never stepped foot in this diner in his life. Or any food joint that serves food on a plastic tray, probably. He stands on the welcome mat, hands in his pockets, regarding his new surroundings with badly concealed amusement.

A blond girl slides up behind the counter and pins me with wide eyes. “Hello! I’m Libby and I’ll be your server for today.” She’s talking to me, but the angle of her body is tethered to the asshole over my shoulder. “Are you eating or taking away?”

“We’ll eat—”

Raphael’s smooth demand sweeps my answer away. “Takeaway.”

My jaw ticks in annoyance, and a thick dread coats the walls of my chest. Eating in is…safer. The bright lights and the people and cameras make bad things less likely to happen. Instinct and self-preservation tell me I shouldn’t disappear into the dark with Raphael Visconti, even if the nervous excitement buzzing inside me suggests otherwise.

“Takeaway, then,” I grind out.

Libby taps a few keys on the computer. “And what would you like?”

I rattle off the order I’ve made almost every night since moving back to the Coast. With a tiny gulp, the server drags her gaze upward and practically whispers, “And you, Mr. Visconti?”

“Nothing, thank you—”

“He’ll have the double cheeseburger combo. Extra bacon, extra cheese.” I bite my lip in thought, sweeping the back-lit menu above the counter. “And a chocolate milkshake. Extra-large.”

A breathy grunt touches the nape of my neck, making me smile.

“Uh, okay…” More tapping, then she gives me the total, and I swing around to press my back against the counter. Raphael’s gaze trails down the opening of my wet jacket, before snapping back up to my sweet smile.

“Yes?”

“Cough up, sugar daddy.”

Biting back amusement, he tugs out his wallet. His arm brushes mine as he tosses bills onto the counter.

“Plus VAT.”

“Oh, no sir. It already includes VAT—”

“Plus VAT,” I repeat, not taking my eyes off Raphael.

With a slow shake of his head, he slams another twenty on the counter.

“Plus tip.”

“But that’s already much more than—”

“Don’t worry about it, Libby,” I say breezily. “Mr. Visconti is filthy, stinking, rich.”

Satisfaction pools in my stomach, partly because I enjoy even the tiniest triumph against Raphael, but partly because the laugh that slips from his lips and floats over the counter is deep and genuine.

Our food arrives in a grease-stained paper sack, and Raphael holds it like it’s a poop bag from a dog he doesn’t own.

Just as the doorbell chimes above our heads, an abrupt “Wait!” shoots through the diner and turns my head.

A server hot-foots it toward me. She sets down her coffee pitcher and lays a soft hand on my arm. “Are you okay, lovely?”

I blink. “What? Oh, right. He hasn’t kidnapped me, don’t—”

Her nervous laugh and wary glance up to Raphael cut me off. “No, sweetie. You were in here a few nights ago and you left so suddenly. You looked like you were about to be sick.” She looks over her shoulder and lowers her voice. “We didn’t make you sick, did we?”

Realization hits me. She means Thursday, the night with the drunk girls and the news report and the realization that my vengeful wave of a lighter over a vodka bottle was the worst mistake of my life.

The server’s sympathetic smile stays in focus, but behind her, red booths and checkered tiles spin. I’ve always done this. I take the bad things that happen in my life, like worries and fear and trauma, stomp them down to a neat, compact package, then store them somewhere so deep inside me I forget they exist. Then they rear their ugly head when I watch the news, or I’m left along with my thoughts too long.

A strong hand grips my waist, and a dark, silky voice touches my ear. “You okay, Penny?”

Penny. I’d obsess over the fact Raphael called me anything but Penelope in that condescending drawl if panic wasn’t rock-climbing up my throat.

I force it down, force a smile, and force a lie. “I was just a little under the weather, that’s all.”

Raphael’s narrowed gaze scorches my cheek as he holds the door open for me. My heart thrums with the threat of interrogation in an aftershave-soaked car, but he simply slides into the driver’s seat with a disinterested air and drops the sack of food on my lap.

“Hey, watch my book!”

He regards the canary-yellow spine and kicks the car into gear. “HTML for Dummies,” he drawls. “Heard it’s one of Shakespeare’s finest works.”

I bite back a retort and glare out the misted window, watching as the safety of Main Street melts away. The Rusty Anchor’s broken sign flashes to the left, and then we’re back on the road where Raphael found me, climbing up into the abyss.

A hot prickle shifts under my skin. “Where are we going?”

His gaze cuts to me, a hint of amusement playing within it. “Somewhere no one can hear you scream.”

Oh. Even knowing—okay, assuming—it’s little more than a morbid joke, my throat still constricts. We sit in tense silence for a few minutes. The scent of deep-fried goodness rises from the bag in my lap. The radio hums with one of those festive songs that always get stuck in your head around this time of year, and Raphael’s thick fingers strum against his thigh in time with it.

Eventually, we roll to a stop opposite the old church on the cliff. It’s raining heavier now, and nothing beyond the dash is visible. Raphael kills the engine, and the sudden silence rings in my ears.

I clear my throat. Slide across the wide seat closer to the door. With a quick glance at my legs, Raphael shrugs off his jacket, lifts the paper sack off my lap, and drapes it over me. His warm hands brushing my thighs feel like static electricity and make my next breath shallow.

“Take your jacket off, it’s wet.”

I do as I’m told. He tosses it back on the seat, before turning on the engine and cranking up the heater. Clearly, he mistakes my discomfort at being trapped in a car with him for being cold. Truth is, I’m anything but. Despite being soaked through to my panties, I’m burning. My blood only grows hotter when Raphael unclicks his seat belt and shifts his body, subjecting me to all of his attention.

The burden of his gaze is heavy on my cheek. In an attempt to avoid the brunt of it, I unwrap my burger and take a bite. A river of ketchup runs down my chin and lands with a plop in the carton.

Raphael lets out a soft chuckle. “You’ve got it all over your face.” He lifts his arm and for a breathless—and utterly ridiculous—moment, I think he’s going to lean over and wipe it off my chin.

But of course he doesn’t. Christ, why would he? He simply leans his elbow against the armrest and runs two fingers over his lips.

Although it was stupid to assume he’d touch me, the fact that he didn’t sends a violent shiver of disappointment down my spine. I deal with it the only way I know how: being a dick.

I fumble with his jacket on my lap and whip the silk square out of the top pocket and wipe it across my mouth. “Thanks.”

The hard sneer that settles on his lips puts the world to rights again.

“You not hungry?”

He regards me like I asked him to dance out in the rain, naked. “Do I look like I eat that shit?”

Instinctively, I glance down at the tight stomach under his semi-see-through shirt and push all intrusive thoughts out of my brain with an extra-big bite of my burger. Not in a million years.

“What do you eat then? The blood of forty virgins for breakfast or something?”

He grins. “Or something.”

“I always had my suspicions you were a vampire.”

Sweeping an expressionless eye over my legs again, he adds something that makes my heart still. “I have a question for you.”

I stop chewing. Glance down at the door handle, but with a click, it locks shut, as if Raphael can see into my thoughts. He turns his attention to the windshield, leans back and runs a palm down his throat. “Why don’t you sleep at night?”

My burger drops to my lap with a sorry thud. “Maybe I’m a vampire too.”

“Penelope.”

His voice wraps around my name like a hug, making my lids flutter shut. It’s loaded with the perfect storm of impatience and softness, and I guess that’s why the truth slips from my lips.

“Bad things happen at night,” I whisper.

His jaw tenses, but he still doesn’t look at me. “Like?”

Like grown men dragging me out into an alley and lifting up my dress. I settle for another example, though. One that doesn’t hurt as much “My parents were killed at night.” I glance at the clock on the dash. “Three-forty a.m, to be exact. It’s a time to be awake and alert, not asleep.”

He nods slowly. I can’t read the expression cut into his face, even when I squint, but he’s definitely not surprised. I guess he probably did his research before giving me a job, and besides, men like him treat death like part of the furniture: always there and easy to gloss over. “Can’t you be awake and alert in your apartment?”

“No.”

His gaze sparks with irritation. “You’re not immune to getting bundled into a trunk, Penelope.”

We’re back to saying my name like that, then.

Happy to have moved on from the topic of my parents, I slurp on my milkshake and shrug. “I’m lucky, remember? Proved it in the phone booth.”

“You’re not lucky,” he snaps.

Instead of biting back, I fish around in the pockets of his jacket and replace a loose coin. I hold it between us, a slow grin sliding across my face. “Heads or tails?”

He sighs, leans against the armrest, and hides his interest behind his knuckles. “All right. What’s the wager?”

“You win, and you get your watch back,” I wave my wrist in his face, his watch sliding up and down it. “I win; you eat the burger.”

“Heads.”

With a flick of my thumb, the quarter spins through the air and clatters on the central console. I peer over and laugh. Toss the greasy bag in his lap. “Bon appetit.”

He scowls. Unwraps the burger with the tips of his fingers. But then the jokes on me, because when he fists the burger with both hands and stares into my fucking soul as he takes a ridiculously big bite, hot, needling lust sinks to the pit of my stomach and sizzles against my clit.

Christ. It’s just a burger. But there’s something about how small it looks in his hands; something about the way his inked forearms flex and the primal way his teeth sink into the bun. It makes me think of other things he eats like that.

Head swimming, I inch open the window, subtly turn my head, and suck in a lungful of damn air. I’m about to steal another one, when a hot hand slides under the jacket and over my thigh, tightening my lungs.

What the—

My gaze drops to my book sliding across the center console. Raphael flips it open, tears out a page, and wipes it over his mouth.

I gape at the jagged edge.

“I—”

“Yes?”

“That’s a book.”

“Aware, Penelope.” He crumples the page in his fist and drops it in the food bag. When my jaw doesn’t bounce back from the floor, he offers a nonchalant shrug and slides a French fry into his mouth, whole.

“Not like you’re going to return it, anyway.”

My eyes slant. “How’d you know that?”

“It says Property of Atlantic City Public Library on the spine.”

Oh, right.

“Why are you reading that shit, anyway? Want a job in IT?”

“Don’t think so.”

“Don’t think so?”

I don’t know why I choose the truth over a sarcastic retort, because Neanderthals who treat books like that don’t deserve honesty. “I play this…game.”

His laugh is gruff. “Of course you do.”

“I go into the library, close my eyes, and pick a random For Dummies book,” I continue, ignoring him. “Whatever I choose, I tell myself I have to read.”

“Why?”

“Because, like I told you, I’m trying to go straight,” I say, exasperation shading my tone. Under the heat of his curious stare, I smooth down my top and take a deep breath. “I’m trying to replace something I’m interested in. Something I can make a career out of.” I glance sideways at him. “Don’t want to work for you for the rest of my life, do I?”

Amusement brews under his tongue; he presses his lips together in an attempt to squash it. When he takes another bite of his burger. I get another hot flush.

“What makes you think you’ll replace your career in a For Dummies book?”

“It’s wishful thinking, mostly,” I admit. “I’ve tried other jobs, but nothing seems to stick.”

“Like?”

“Well, I worked at a drive-thru, as a store clerk at the mall, a stripper, a receptionist…”

My words trail off when Raphael’s forearm tenses against mine.

“Stripper.”

His tone is calm. Too calm for comfort. Just one word, two syllables, but it soaks through my skin and crystallizes my blood. It’s near-impossible to feign indifference as I drag my gaze up to meet his, but it doesn’t stop me from trying.

“Yes.”

The darkness that licks the walls of his irises is unnerving. “You were a stripper.”

This time, I can only manage a nod.

A tiny flicker of something nerve-racking passes through his gaze. He scrapes his teeth across his bottom lip as he flicks a glance up to the roof of his car.

When his eyes fall down to mine, they’re blacker than an oil spill and just as dangerous.

“Were you any good at it?” he asks tensely.

I jut my jaw in defiance. “Yes.”

He lets out a dark huff of breath. Leaning back in his oversized seat, he strokes his chin and runs a slow, all-seeing eye up my thighs and over my chest. By the time it rests on my face, all of my nerve-endings are on fire, my lungs unable to keep up with tense breaths.

“So show me.”