Even at Your Darkest Read online

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Epilogue

  Thanks

  Other Books

  Copyright © 2018 AJ Love

  All rights reserved. No parts of this publication can be transmitted in any form or by any other means. Failure to do so will result in legal action against you. This is a work of fiction, any persons mentioned who resemble persons past, present and future is purely coincidental. Ownership of this novel is protected by Copyright and belongs to the author.

  Cover Art by Tammy clarke

  Editing by Andie M. Long

  Formatting by Tammy Clarke

  To Lina - for loving my men as much as I do. And mostly, for not going through with it when the urge to kill me is strong.

  To Leah – for jumping into my world with two feet and no regrets. I love you, but I’m still not letting you claim my boys.

  To Andie – I can only apologise, and pray you will still fix my stuff. Even with all my excessive asses and butts. TB forever.

  To Gavin – my very own grumpy asshole. I love you, even though I spend 85% of my time working out how to murder you without being caught.

  And finally, to Gallo Family Vineyards – for being there for me whilst all of the above were sleeping or busy. Until nextime.

  Layton

  It’s hot. Almost unbearably so.

  Sticky, humid heat is choking every ounce of energy from me. I can’t keep this up. I can’t keep going unless something changes drastically and soon. Real soon. I swipe the back of my hand over my forehead, cringing at the moisture there. God, that’s gross. I feel like I spend most of my days now being disgusted at myself because I’m a sweaty mess of a girl. Awesome.

  A click, a bang, and then finally, a welcome humming. Finally. I was beginning to wonder how the hell I was going to get through the next few minutes without suffocating. I’d mentally started assessing whether the clothes I wore were going to be appropriate for me to die in.

  “Looks like that does it,” John, the repair guy, says, smiling when a cool blast of air spits out the vent. “It just needed a little tuning up, is all.”

  I force a smile. Tuning up, my ass. Damn thing breaks every couple of days. That’s how I’ve managed to be on first name terms with the freakin’ repair guy. Hell, even their receptionist knows me by name. I call up and she’s all, “Hey, Layton, need John to come out again, huh?” It’s equal parts humiliating and welcoming.

  “That’s great,” I reply, then fish into my pocket for cash. “How much do I owe you?”

  “Uhm…” he scratches at the back of his neck, looking about as awkward as a class geek in a brothel. “Just call it forty bucks, Layton.”

  I frown. I know for a fact this costs a lot more than he's asking for, but I also know I’m not really in a position to question it as I have barely seventy dollars to my name until payday next week. Well, that and whatever I made last night. Still, the handout doesn’t exactly sit right. I may not have much, but what I do have is my own. I dig the right notes out and hand them over to him, thanking him for his help.

  He pats his hand on my shoulder. “No problem, kid. You need to get onto your super about a new unit though. I’ve done what I can, but I don’t know how long it will hold without looking at the other end of it in your neighbor's place. I’ve tried getting in touch to look at it properly, but I can’t get a response. Maybe you’ll have better luck.”

  I sigh. “I’ve got a better chance of getting a date with the pope, John. My building super is an idiot. You know this.”

  He chuckles. “You don’t have much of a choice if you want to breathe easy, I’m afraid.”

  We laugh a little longer and then I see him out the door. Or at least I attempt to. Opening and closing the main door of my apartment is easier said than done. Maybe I should ask the super to fix that, too? Yeah, right.

  I’ve lived in my little shoebox for almost a year and have only ever seen the building super on that first day. He threw my keys at me and then disappeared into his little office, never to be heard of again. There have been more sightings of Bigfoot than of that dickbag. He’s practically an enigma. Not that it’s too much of a bad thing. He’s old, creepy, and you just know he’s the kind of guy that will throw you to the wolves to save his own ass. I don’t live in the best neighborhood; hell, the whole town is a two-star shit heap. I’ve learned to just keep my head down and stay completely oblivious to the criminal activity going on around me. It’s the only way to survive. It’s how I’ve always survived.

  I head into the kitchen and slump against the countertop, waiting on the coffee maker to decide if I’m allowed caffeine or not today. It’s an ongoing battle. Some days it works like a dream and spits out a half-assed cup of joe, most days it does nothing but mock me silently. I yawn lazily. Three hours of broken sleep is just not enough. I didn’t get home from the club until five this morning, and then was kept awake by loud, random bursts of warm air thanks to the AC breaking again.

  I dig out the loose cash in my purse from my shift last night. Really, I should look into getting a wallet or something. I count out the bills, straightening them as I go, and swallow down the shame of knowing how I got them. One hundred and forty bucks. Not bad. Every cent will go toward my rent though. I stash it into the glass jar in my cupboard, designated for money I can’t touch, then return to my position against the counter.

  I glance at the coffee maker, groaning a little when I notice that nothing has happened. Today is apparently going to be a caffeine-free day. Perfect. Giving up on the kitchen altogether, I grab my jacket and purse from the small round table in the corner of my living room. It’s too hot to put my jacket on, but I know I’ll need it come this evening when I’m hopefully heading home. That all depends on whether Vinny calls me into the club or not. I could really do with a night off. The last thing I want today is to be mauled and pawed at by sweaty old men.

  I have a second job at the sleaziest club in town—Liquid. It’s owned by Rick Michaels, the shadiest guy I’ve ever heard of. He has his illegal hands in all kinds of illegal pies, but it’s Vinny that 'looks after' us girls. I’ve thankfully never met Mr. Michaels, but I know he’s been in the club when I’ve been there. He sits behind a mirrored glass wall in our VIP section when he’s in, and none of us are allowed back there, unless we’re requested.

  My friend, McKenna, got me the club gig when I bailed out of college. She’d moved here to White Caps a few months before I dropped out of LSU. We bumped into each other when I moved back home to my parents' place. She was visiting her dad at the time and told me that she could hook me up with a kick ass job. All I had to do was show some skin and dance. McKenna was hyped and telling me how it was the easiest money she’d ever made, and that Rick and the rest of the guys looked after the girls and always made sure they were safe. Since I had no other options—and I definitely didn’t want to stay home—I packed my shit and headed to Texas without a second glance. I’d never pictured myself as a stripper, what with th
e carefully planned out life my mother had for me.

  High school, college, marriage, motherhood.

  She wanted me to marry a nice boy, from a nice family, and never leave the lame ass town I grew up in. She wanted me to put all my faith in God and the said nice boy and let them take care of me. Her dreams were shattered when I came home for spring break of Junior year and told her I wasn’t ever going back. Her and Daddy figured I was going through some sort of rebellious phase and tried to wait it out. I don’t think they were really expecting for me to never return.

  That’s when the fights started. I argued what the point of me going to college was when they expected me to settle down into a housewife role straight after anyway, and they argued that I had obviously been corrupted by something at college. I told them I wanted my independence, and that getting married wasn’t the most important thing in the world to me. They told me I needed to go to church more. There was just no winning with them. I wanted to live and learn by myself, and I absolutely did not want to grow old in some half-assed Louisiana town. I didn’t want to grow up and turn into my mother. I know she’s happy with Dad, and they live the life they’ve always wanted, but that’s not what I want.

  They couldn’t accept that, and so here I am.

  We haven’t spoken since I told them about my new job as an exotic dancer. They all but called me Satan’s whore and threw my heathen ass out of the house. I guess they don’t have a problem with me being independent now. If I knew all it was going to take was losing my clothes to get them to back off, I’d have done it when I was in high school. No, that’s not exactly true. I love my parents; I just don’t understand why they can’t accept who I've become. Still, I miss them sometimes and always send gifts for Christmas and birthdays. Hopefully, my younger sister will grow up to be less of a disappointment to them, so the pressure will be off me. Poor Mellie. At least I still get to speak to her. Our parents finally let her have a cell phone so she’s constantly texting and calling me about everything going on in school. It’s tedious, and I’m not really all that interested, but I listen because having that connection is important. I just wish my folks would let her come out to see me.

  I squash those thoughts as I leave my apartment in a rush. After three attempts—a personal record—I manage to close and lock the door. Taking the stairs two at a time, I hurry down to the first floor. I have twenty minutes before my shift at the store starts, so I really need to move my ass. If I’m late again, then Karl might actually fire me. Maybe. If he stops staring at my breasts long enough. I’m pretty sure he knows where my second job is at, seeing as he always seems to leer at me when he talks to me. Or maybe I’m just being paranoid.

  Three days after moving here, I realized that McKenna was full of shit and I’d need another job if I wanted to ever leave the rat-infested motel I was staying at. Luckily for me, I found one in a grocery store only five blocks away from the club. It was Jackson, a guy from the store, who told me about the vacant apartment in the same building he lived in. Now I know Jackson a little better, I know his recommendations are garbage, and I will never again listen to a word he says. Ever. I should have known something was up when he moved into a new building just days after I moved in.

  Halting my steps just before I hit the building exit, I settle my gaze on the office door of the building super. Truth is, I should just go over there, knock on it, and demand he listen to me. Explain how I pay my rent every month without fail, so he should fix my stuff, or I’ll stop paying him. I should. I won't, but I should.

  I shake my head internally at my cowardice and turn back to leave.

  I don’t make the first step as some inconsiderate moron has placed a box on the floor behind me, and my clumsy ass just has to fall over it. Grunting loudly, I curse as my body hits the cracked tiles.

  “Sweet mother of God,” I grind out, when pain radiates from my ankle.

  Footsteps behind me drag my attention away, and when I look up, I see him. Some big, brute, Adonis of a man, is standing over me, his face pulled into a tight frown. Inside I recoil, hating the way he’s looking down on me like I’m a nuisance to his life. Plus, he’s huge and looks about as easy to break as a ten-foot steel wall. I move my eyes over him, unable to keep from staring. Dark hair on his head and grazing a square jaw, he has big shoulders that are only just contained in his stretched white shirt. Black ink creeps up his arms, disappearing under his short sleeves. I swallow as I move my gaze down his hard chest to a trim waist. Then I close my eyes and drag my thoughts away from the gutter they were heading for. I don’t recognize him from the building, but I can’t say I’ve ever really taken much notice of my neighbors. I’m not home enough for that shit. But him, I’d definitely remember. He’s got a face you couldn't forget.

  I place my hand over the tender spot on my ankle. It hurts to touch, but I know nothing short of death will be an acceptable excuse not to turn up at work, so I begin to get myself into a standing position. I’m aware of my audience as I can feel his eyes burning holes through the exposed skin on my arms, but he doesn't offer me any help. Why would he? My inner voice scolds. You’re a mess. I ignore my internal self-bashing and steady myself on the wall. The pain in my ankle shoots up my entire leg, but I squash it and limp past him. His hand grips around my lower arm and causes me to face him. He stares at me again, with brown eyes of dark chocolate, the warm color a direct contrast to the hardness in them. Maybe he wants to apologize for leaving his box in such a stupid place? The fact he looks like he’d either like to kill me or devour me, tells me that the answer to that is probably a certified no.

  I quiver inside, not enjoying the close proximity of him, and yet I’m in no rush to run from it either. He rakes his eyes down the entire length of my body and then back up again. His other hand rubs at the short stubble decorating his chin and jawline. I swallow hard when he steps a fraction closer to me. His scent—all man and what I think is oil—is consuming now he’s this close. He parts his lips as if to say something but clamps them closed quickly and shakes his head before releasing me and turning away. I stumble back a couple of painful steps at the suddenness of his exit, but luckily recover myself. Next, I stare in disbelief as he collects his box and rushes up the stairs to the apartments. I shake my own head. What the hell was all that about? With heavy reluctance, and minor agony, I leave my building. I’m definitely going to be late for work now.

  “Come on, baby. You know you’re our favorite girl.”

  I fight back my snort and kick at a box. “Vin, I was on until after four this morning, and I’m at work all day. I hurt my ankle earlier, too. Is there no-one else? Where’s McKenna?” I sigh, looking up to the ceiling for some kind of divine intervention. “It’s supposed to be her night.”

  I know I’m fighting a losing battle. McKenna has been flaky at best for the last few weeks. I don’t know what’s going on with her, but she’s going to get herself fired one day. This isn’t the first time I’ve been asked to cover her. But tonight is Thursday, which in the stripper world translates to Corporate Asshole Day. I usually have Thursdays off because McKenna prefers them. The tips are higher, but the men are more grabby and handsy. I’m less willing than her to put up with that. I’m only in the job for the money; I’m pretty sure she is there for the attention.

  We were close when I first moved here, but I rarely see her now. I’m not sure I’d even call her a friend anymore. Where she used to spend the night at my place when we were both off, eating ice cream and talking shit; she now spends it in seedy clubs with her flavor of the week. It’s not like she dropped me or anything though, not really. She did invite me out with her a couple of times, but I realized pretty quick that I wasn’t made for the party life. And now, I can’t even remember the last time we had a conversation that wasn’t work related.

  “McKenna hasn’t shown,” he says, with the decency to at least sound apologetic. “I can put Sash on stage if you’re serious about having hurt your ankle, and you can work the bar
if you want? What time do you get off?”

  I consider lying, but it would be useless. I imagine he already knows I’m halfway through my shift and that’s why he’s calling right now. Vinny always knows all. I rub my hands on my well-worn ripped jeans and frown. My ‘uniform’ is at home. I haven’t worked the bar in a while, they like my ass on a stage, so it’s rare that I need those clothes. But, I’d rather be there than in six-inch stilettos on a pole.

  “I finish at five. All my stuff is at home though, Vin, so I’ll have to go pick it up.”

  “Don’t worry about that,” Vinny dismisses. I can practically feel his smile. “There are clothes here, and Cassie is due in too, so you know she’ll take care of you. I’ll pick you up. Later, babe.”

  Click.

  I groan into the empty storeroom, shove my cell back in my pocket, and head back out. Karl is in his office, muttering to his computer when I walk by. Just when I think I’ve gotten away free, he calls my name. I take a deep breath. I should be used to the world not going my way by now.

  “Yeah?” I ask, poking my head through his door.

  “Is everything okay?”

  I blanch. Am I okay? No, I’m really not, but then I never am. You know those people who get thrown all kinds of things in life, but always manage to land on their feet? Yeah, I’m not one of those people. I’m the kind of girl who takes the hits and does her best to roll with it, going unnoticed and doing as I’m told because the very idea of confrontation gives me hives. I don’t fight for what I want in life because what’s the point? The only thing I ever did for myself was dropping out of the hell hole that was college.