3. Gabby

You knew you’d hit rock bottom when you were desperate enough to accept a date with a man for money.

Actually, I had no interest in money per se. But medicine, chicken noodle soup, saltines, maybe a bottle of Sprite, and a box of Kleenexes. Now that would be heaven right about now. And since a person typically needed money to procure such things, I was prepared to do what I had to do for the cash that could get them for me. So here I was, approaching the ritzy side of town on foot after nine on a Saturday night. During Halloween.

“Hey, lady! You got any candy?”

Slowing to a stop as two pint-sized humans raced up to me—one dressed as Iron Man, the other Captain America—I deflated, realizing Miguel was totally missing out on trick-or-treating tonight. Not that we’d made him the best costume, though it had taken forever to cut up cardboard boxes, then tape them back together, and cover them in aluminum foil to make the robot he had planned to be. I just hated that having the flu was making him miss out on the opportunity to get out and be a kid. He didn’t deserve that. Poor guy already had enough on his plate.

What’s more, the boys gazing up at me expectantly didn’t need any candy; the buckets they were toting were already overflowing. But telling them to get lost felt a little rude, even for my taste. So I sighed impatiently and paused to open the purse I had dangling over my shoulder.

“Just a sec. Let me check my stash—Aha.” I found an open pack of gum with three pieces left. Extracting two, I held out one in each hand to disperse them equally. “And they’re orange flavored, huh,” I said, wiggling my eyebrows to make my gift look more appealing than we all knew it was. “The best.”

The two boys exchanged incredulous glances, then turned back to me. “Gee, thanks, ya lousy cheapskate,” one said, before they both reached out, snagged their one piece of gum each and tossed their booty into their crowded buckets before they took off, racing away from me, already intent to harass—er, find—another willing sucker to give them stuff.

I stared after them and shook my head sadly. They were going to grow up to be such male chauvinist little assholes, I could already tell. It was a shame, really. They’d been total cuties, too.

“Hey, happy Halloween, you guys,” I called, unable to help myself when I snidely added, “Don’t choke on a Kit Kat and die or anything.”

They didn’t even bother to turn around as they flipped me off over their shoulders.

Yep, I’d totally called it. Assholes in training.

“Well, bless their hearts,” I murmured, turning away and starting back up the sidewalk.

That had become my go-to expression lately because this new girl at the café, Mary Louellen, who’d started last month bussing tables on many of the same shifts that I waitressed, said it so often. She came from the South and had a thick-ass accent to prove it. It hadn’t taken me long to realize her “bless your heart” phrase was really secret code for “go fuck yourself.” Adoring that, I had adopted the saying for myself as a way to clean up my own language a little. Plus it was kind of fun to toss around, especially because so many people in these parts actually thought I was being nice to them when I said it.

Yeah, I was wicked; it was awesome.

And now I was about to turn into a hooker, selling my body for a couple bottles of pain relievers. Or did that make a girl a crack whore? Sex for drugs?

Oh well. It was worth it to help Miguel.

Not that I was actually going to sleep with Diego, mind you, because eww, gag me.

But he’d been begging nonstop for a date for going on four weeks now. I figured it wouldn’t kill me to finally accept, once, then try to be present and amiable during my time with him, then maybe allow him a goodnight kiss. Maybe. But that was it; definitely no second-base action. From my limited knowledge of him, he seemed a bit too slimy and grope-y and totally not respectable-to-women enough to go too far with. Honestly, I didn’t want to go anywhere with him, but to help relieve my little brother through his flu symptoms, I’d deal.

I’d already tried to beg my neighbors for a small loan or Tylenol, knocking on door after door in my building. But being Halloween, they were closed up tighter than Fort Knox tonight. Even bleeding-heart Kaitlynn up on the fourth floor hadn’t answered my call. I guess people expected more tricks than treats in our neighborhood on All Saints’ Eve.

It was just as well Miguel hadn’t been well enough to go out in his costume. He wouldn’t have gotten shit for candy. And he wouldn’t have been able to eat most of it either, what with his diabetes. But it had been the principle of the matter. I hadn’t wanted him to feel left out or not normal.

I checked the street numbers as I approached an intersection and had to wait at a red light. Four blocks left to come up with a smooth way to ask Diego for money, you know, after accepting that date with him. Not a lot of cash, just a small loan I planned to pay back with interest as soon as I got paid next Friday. Maybe forty, fifty bucks tops, would get me what I needed. That was all.

He’d never miss it. I mean, the guy had to pay twice that amount for each bouquet of flowers he constantly brought to the café and gave me. This would be nothing for him.

That wouldn’t make me too awful, would it? I mean, it was for my sick brother, which I wasn’t going to tell him about. Who would agree to date a chick who’d been exposed to the flu? And I mean exposed, as in Miguel had coughed on me, sneezed on me, and cuddled up in his bed flush against me while he’d had the chills. I was very likely a walking time bomb of sick right about now. I mean, probably not. My immune system was actually awesome. But still, probably best not to mention any kind of sickness to Diego.

None of this really helped ease my conscience, however, even though the dude could obviously afford to part with a bit of cash, because seriously, those roses he bought at least once a week to give me were first class. And he was constantly bragging about the posh condo he lived in, as well as how pleased he was about his exploding filmmaking career.

It was kind of eye-roll worthy how thick he laid it on to impress me. I’d never had any plans to actually fall for his lame advances, but here I was, a block from the Preston Estates building, to finally say yes, I would choke up my pride and [love to] go out with you.

Preston Estates loomed above the other condos around it, newer and grander, like some kind of modern, pompous highbrow. If I were in any other frame of mind, I would’ve snorted over the white-stoned opulence with gold-framed windows and doors, and I would’ve muttered compensating much? As it were, a little jump of anxiety leapt in my stomach. Nerves, I realized. I was freaking, fracking nervous. About talking to that ass.

Yep. This was definitely a new level of low for me.

“What am I doing? What am I doing?” I muttered from between gritted teeth as one block narrowed to a hundred feet, then fifty. Twenty.

Oh God, here I was.

“Evening, ma’am,” a pleasant doorman greeted, flashing me a wide grin when I made eye contact with him. “Lovely weather, isn’t it?”

Oh, wow. He was actually nice. Thank God. This was going better than I imagined it would. I grinned back, relieved by his welcome as he held the door open. For me.

“It really is,” I said, thanking him from the bottom of my heart, and not just for opening the door but because his smile had helped bolster my resolve more than anything else.

But then I entered the building, and all my resolve dissolved like sugar dumped into a cup of hot water. Poof. Gone.

Because, holy shit, seriously, what was I doing in a building like this?

I swear, the carpet was made of velvet. Bloodred velvet. All the decorative tables had beveled marble surfaces with fresh flowers in ancient-looking vases on them. I wouldn’t be surprised if the ugly paintings on the walls were actually originals by famous artists. It was all so far out of my pay grade, I’m surprised the lunatic doorman had even let me into the building. Preston Estates was the last place I belonged.

When a deep, condescending voice cleared its throat before saying, “Ahem. May I help you?” in a thick French accent, I almost peed my pants, wondering if it was the Almighty Himself, ready to shoo me back out the door, until I glanced around, only to find a thin, ancient male standing behind a reception desk. He wore a red jacket and white gloves.

I was about to tell him, no, thanks, I’m good, then flee back out into the night. But a picture of Miguel’s sunken face as he slept fitfully in his narrow bed, sweating and shivering through his fever, filled my head. He was so miserable right now. He already had a tough enough life as it was with the diabetes they had diagnosed him with eight months ago and the insulin pump that was hooked up to him twenty-four hours a day. I just wanted to make him as comfortable as possible until at least this passed. And one pill—one tiny little pain reliever—would do him a world of good.

Okay, fine. I was doing this. Wearing an old black hoodie, yoga pants, and tattered gray sneakers, I approached the thin, saggy-faced man. His gold name tag read André.

“Yes, hi. I, umm. I’m here to see Diego Hernandez.”

André sent me a distasteful frown, his eyebrows puckering as he roved a patronizing glance over me, his expression reminding me of a person who’d just tasted sour lemons.

Finally, with a crinkle still marring the surface of his long nose, he answered, “In the ballroom, I believe.”

The ballroom. Wow, Diego must be hosting one of his galas he was always telling me about, trying to impress that new producer who’d just taken on his latest film, no doubt.

Which didn’t boost my insecurities. Nope. Not at all.

I self-consciously tugged at the hem of my hoodie and offered receptionist André a tight smile. “Thanks.” I turned away, only to remember one minor detail, which caused me to spin back and clear my throat as I set my hands on the edge of the counter. “Um, sorry. But one last question.”

André blinked in shock at my fingers that dared to touch his countertop, my chipped blue nail polish clearly more than his delicate sensibilities could handle by the way he reared away from them.

I removed my hands from sight, tucking them into the front pocket of my hoodie. “But could you tell me exactly where the ballroom is?”

I got a blink. Once, twice, three times. And yes, I was still there after all that. Too bad for André, blinking did not make me disappear.

Sighing impatiently, he said, “Down that hall to the end, then left.”

“Perfect,” I said, smiling at him so brightly he actually frowned in suspicion. Yeah, he knew I was mentally blessing his heart right now. “Thank you.”

But when I turned away, he cleared his throat again. “Typically, it’s frowned upon for staff to fraternize with friends at Preston Estates while they’re working.”

I glanced back, sent him a confused squint and then nodded. Alrighty then. No idea what that meant. But I said, “Okay, thanks for the warning.” And I went on my merry way.

For some reason, it didn’t even occur to me to realize that André had just called Diego part of the staff until way after I’d actually made it to the ballroom and stepped just inside the entrance, only to plow to an uncomfortable halt and gape incredulously at the sight before me.

Talk about black-tie affair. I totally didn’t belong here.

I looked like a freaking homeless junkie in my hoodie and yoga pants.

The good news was that no one had noticed me yet, so I inconspicuously started backing toward the doorway even as I scanned the faces of every male in a tux, looking for Diego. He was impossible to spot among the sea of fancy dresses and silver trays of champagne and caviar. I was about to give up completely when I heard an irritable voice snap, “Hernandez.”

Oh, thank God. Relieved to hear his name being called, I glanced over and even took a step in that direction, only to jerk to another halt when I saw him toting one of those fancy silver trays with the champagne glasses on it with one hand. When I realized his pristine, pressed suit matched the rest of the waitstaff, I frowned in confusion.

What the what?

The woman who’d barked at him, rattled something off in Spanish that I couldn’t completely follow. I blushed as I tried to decipher everything, because it felt as if I should understand more. But my dad had been so lax in teaching Miguel and me his native tongue that I basically knew nothing.

She was ordering Diego to go get more baby dolls? No. Maybe she meant more champagne. Yes. Drinks! Bebidas. That made so much more sense.

As he nodded and hurried off to comply, my heart sank, because one fact became incredibly clear to me.

Diego wasn’t in the filming industry.

Diego wasn’t even rich.

Diego was a goddamn liar.

And Diego was—gasp!

He was a fucking thief too.

Just before he left the ballroom through a side, employees-only exit, he paused to keep from running into a man who was backing up in his direction. When he held out a hand to touch the guy, I thought he was just trying to warn the other man of his presence. The gentleman even glanced back and apologized for not looking where he was going.

Diego smiled smoothly and nodded, forgiving him, even as he pocketed the guy’s wallet he’d just lifted.

Bastard!

No wonder why he could afford to buy me so many pretty flowers. He stole the money right off the rich people he was serving.

Slinking away as my breath came in uneven, choppy gasps, I escaped the room before anyone caught sight of me, and I marched down the hall in a blind rage, more shock than actual blood pounding through my veins.

I felt like such a fool. I had totally bought into every lie he’d ever fed me at the café. I mean, his extravagant gift of roses had been proof enough for me that he was rich. But now it made sense why such a well-to-do man had even frequented Trudy’s to begin with. Everything he’d ever told me had probably just been fabricated to impress me.

Thank God his showboating had only ever turned me off; I might’ve actually fallen right into his ruse.

If only the asshole had actually tried to get to know me, he would’ve learned that money wasn’t what made my heart go pitter-patter. He could’ve just been honest and humble and told me he served people for a living—just as I did—and I would’ve had a hell of a lot more respect and romantic regard for him. I mean, damn, the guy had been cute enough (though he wasn’t anymore; the lying and stealing totally negated that), I might’ve given him the time of day if he’d just stopped the bragging.

But not now.

Now, I kind of wanted to skin the slimy prick alive. I had been about to accept a date with him, dammit! How dare he turn out to be a rotten apple? And how dare he do this to the entire Hispanic community? We got a bad enough rap in this area as it was, without the few stray idiots like him making it worse.

Oh, who was I kidding? I didn’t really care if he was a thief or not. Diego was no concern of mine. When it came right down to it, I wasn’t even sure if I would’ve been able to go through with talking to him tonight if, you know, he’d ended up being exactly who he said he was. The truth was, I was more embarrassed at myself than anything. Embarrassed that I’d actually come here in the first place. Embarrassed I’d even thought up the stupid idea of asking a man I barely knew for money.

Embarrassed for feeling so desperate and lost and wanting help.

I was an idiot; that’s all I could surmise. A senseless, silly girl who felt like she was at the end of her rope. I just needed a freaking shoulder to lean on, just for a little while, until I felt like standing back up and going it on my own again. And I didn’t know who to turn to for any kind of support: emotional or monetary. If only I weren’t such a standoffish person and actually had a few friends.

Stewing in my own self-pity, I turned a corner and kept slugging along, paying no attention to where I was going until I slowed to a stop and blinked my surroundings into focus, realizing I had no idea where I was.

Great. This was definitely not the hallway I had used to get from the main foyer to the ballroom. It didn’t even appear to be for public use but was for more like private residences. A bronzed door plaque on one of the closed entries said 1B on it, confirming my suspicion of them being condo apartments.

So, how the hell did I get out of here?

I was about to turn around and head back the way I’d come, but something up ahead caught my eye.

Something glittery and pretty.

A sucker for all things bling and icy, I was immediately drawn forward. I don’t know if they were my best friend, but diamonds certainly caught my attention. And when there appeared to be a lot of them, I decided I had to see what that was about. Because it looked as if the entire door was covered in—holy shit.

It was.

I slowed to a stop, just gaping at the entrance to 1C. I’m sure they were just rhinestones, not real diamonds, but the entire surface of the door was covered in them with no space between each bauble and the next. There had to be thousands, maybe millions of tiny crystals.

I’d heard of someone encrusting their Mercedes in diamonds but never a door before. It was so pretty and sparkly and compelling, I couldn’t stay away.

Lured against my will—because who had any willpower with a door like that before them—I shuffled forward, already reaching out my hand just to run my fingers along the surface.

Before I could make contact, however, the handle turned, and the diamond-coated door began to open.