Her Favorite Toy

"F*ck*ng pervert!"

My palm cracks across his face before I even decide to do it. The sound is loud enough that it cuts through the bass thumping from the club floor below his office.

Mr. Doyle stumbles back, clutching his cheek, mouth hanging open like a fish someone yanked out of water.

"Carter!" he hisses, straightening his tie with shaking hands. "You'll regret that."

"I already regret walking in here," I snap, backing toward the door. "You called me in to 'discuss my work ethics.' Funny way of discussing anything with your hand on my *ss."

"That's not what happened."

"That's exactly what happened!" My voice cracks, and I hate that it does. I hate that my hands are trembling too, adrenaline and fury tangled together until I can't tell which is which. "Fire me if you want. I don't care anymore."

I don't wait for his answer. I storm out, my sneakers slapping against the sticky floor of the hallway, my chest heaving like I've run a marathon instead of just slapped a fifty-year-old creep in a cheap suit.

My phone buzzes before I've even made it past the coat check. Caleb.

"What?" I answer, breathless, pressing the phone to my ear as I duck past a group of drunk guys in Hawaiian shirts.

"Why are you still at work?" he says, and there it is — that flat, accusing tone he always uses, like I've personally wronged him just by existing outside our apartment.

"My shift isn't over, Caleb."

"It's almost ten. When are you coming home to cook dinner? I'm starving."

"I have to finish my shift," I say, closing my eyes for a second, willing myself to stay calm.

"I hope you're not there just to spend time with men," he mutters, and I can practically see the sneer on his face, the way his jaw always tightens when he says something like that, like jealousy is a compliment he's handing me instead of a leash.

I don't answer. I've learned that answering only feeds it.

The things you’ll do for love, right?

"Eat what I made yesterday, please," I say instead. "There's still pasta in the fridge."

"Fine," he grumbles, and hangs up without another word.

I shove the phone back into my apron pocket and exhale, long and slow, trying to shake off the conversation like water off skin.

It doesn't work. It never does.

Back on the floor, I grab a tray of drinks and weave through the crowd, forcing my face into something like a smile. The lights strobe red and blue across sweaty bodies, and the music is so loud I can feel it in my teeth.

People, rich and careless, swim in our open club’s pools and jacuzzi, dance around the area, drink and enjoy life without having to worry about bills or an emotionally distant boyfriend or if you have enough money to scrape by the week.

I don’t share the luxury.

My phone buzzes again in my pocket, but this time it's not Caleb. It's an email notification, the little preview flashing across my lock screen before I can stop it.

Hospital Billing — Payment Overdue: Ethan Carter.

My stomach drops straight through the floor.

I know the number before I even open it. I've memorized it, the way you memorize a scar.

Twelve thousand dollars.

Due this month.

On top of the eight I already owe from last month, which is on top of the six from the month before that.

"Hey, you okay?"

Mia, one of the other waitresses, falls into step beside me, her tray balanced on one hand, eyebrows knit with real concern.

"Not really," I admit, because I'm too tired to pretend otherwise. "I just slapped Doyle for grabbing my *ss, so I'll probably be fired by tomorrow. And even if I'm not, this job isn't enough anyway. Not for Ethan's bills. Not for any of it."

"Chloe—"

"I'm serious, Mia. I'm drowning." My throat tightens, and I blink hard, refusing to cry in the middle of a club with strangers grinding two feet away from me. "He's my brother. If I don't figure this out, nobody will."

Mia opens her mouth to say something, some kind of comfort, I'm sure, when the entire club seems to inhale at once.

The music doesn't stop, but the crowd near the entrance parts like the Red Sea, whispers rippling backward through the room in a wave.

"Oh my god," Mia breathes, her tray tilting dangerously in her hand. She points, wide-eyed, toward the door. "Chloe. Chloe, look."

I turn.

A woman stands in the doorway like she owns the building, like she owns the entire street outside it. Tall, statuesque, dressed in something black and expensive that makes everyone else's outfit look like costume rentals. Her dark hair falls in perfect waves over one shoulder, and her eyes sweep the room with the kind of boredom only true power can afford.

People hush, some take pictures, some ask for an autograph.

"It's her," Mia whispers, gripping my arm so hard it almost hurts. "It's actually her. Serena Bale. The Serena Bale."

The name detonates something in my chest.

I know that face. I know it better than I know my own some days, because I used to trace it with my eyes across a dorm room, across a cafeteria table, across four years of a friendship I thought would last forever.

Serena Bale isn't just a celebrity to me.

She's the girl I betrayed. The girl whose boyfriend I stole, shamelessly, stupidly, back when I thought love was worth destroying a friendship for.

4 years ago. College.

The cafeteria smells like burnt coffee and cheap pizza, and I wouldn't trade it for anything in the world right now.

"Okay, but Professor Higgins actually said that," Serena laughs, nearly choking on her sandwich, pointing her fork at me like I'm the one who's crazy. "He looked dead in my eyes and said 'a thesis without structure is like a party without a host.' What does that even mean, Chloe?"

"It means he's losing his mind," I giggle, stealing a chip off her tray because mine ran out ten minutes ago. "Also it means we're doomed for tomorrow's presentation."

"We are so doomed." She groans, dropping her head onto the table dramatically, dark hair spilling across her notebook. "Can we just not go? Can we fake our own deaths?"

"I'll write your eulogy. I'll even cry at the funeral."