His Princess (A Royal Romance)(76)

When Dale comes back I’m already sitting up, having removed the intravenous line he put in by myself. He kindly left me a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt and hoodie. I pull all that on and test my weight on my leg. I should stay off it, but it’s not gushing blood. That works for me.

“Get your weight off that when you can,” he says. “I’ve got some cash. Bus fare. There will be everything you need at the dead drop.”

“Yeah. Thanks, man.”

“It’s always been a pleasure working with you.”

“Yeah.”

Do I say goodbye? We just sort of stare at each other before I lurch back out. The sun is too low; my nap must have lasted all day. At Dale’s direction I walk two blocks south and flop on a rickety bench and wait for the bus to pull up, checking the route number to make sure I have the right one before I board and pay the fare in cash, fling myself into a seat, and sit back, fighting fatigue.

Karma, man. Karma is a bitch. As my head bobs with the motion of the bus I can’t escape the feeling that this is going to be it.

You know how they say old soldiers never die, they just fade away?

Old hitmen never retire, they get their brains blown out.

It’s not a long bus ride. The mini-storage place is in a slightly nicer part of town, richly appointed with barbed wire around the fence. I have to walk up and tap in the code, and trust that Dale isn’t screwing me.

There’s a half second when I think I’m really in trouble before the gate rumbles open and I walk inside, staring up at the numbers painted over the plain metal doors before I find the right one. The key unlocks the padlock and the door rolls up with a rumble.

Inside, there’s a metal wire utility shelf with the rudiments of a new life. A little metal box too small for a pair of shoes holds the keys to the car and a new driver’s license, passport, social security card, the works. An envelope holds several credit cards and bank information for my emergency funds.

There’s also an address and a set of house keys.

Oh, and my Impala. Hello, beautiful.

I sit in the front seat of the car and try to figure out where the hell I’m going.





2





Rose





I hate teeth.

I spend my days behind a counter, which sits at roughly eye level. Sitting on that counter is an oversized model of the human mouth, propped open to proudly display big fake pearly whites.

Something about that bothers me more than it should. I want to close the damn thing, or better yet pitch it across the waiting room and watch it fly apart when it hits the painting of the sailboat on the far wall.

I hate that painting, too. I hate the constant stink of antiseptic and that weird burning odor that accompanies the sound of the drill in the back rooms. It’s the smell of burning teeth. A very nasty smell, trust me.

Right now there’s a woman checking her kid in for an appointment standing in front of the counter, watching me type in her insurance info. The kid stands on his tiptoes to peer over the top and watches me with wild, frightened eyes. Going by his lack of records, this might be his first checkup. Welcome to the Pit of Despair, kid.

“Mom, can I have one?” he says, reaching for the candy dish.

“When you’re done, hon.”

I hand the card back with the clipboard of first-time forms and lean back in my chair, drawing in a long breath as I eye the clock. Four thirty is the last appointment today, and it’s 3:15. The sooner I can get out of here, the better. I don’t have a class tonight, so this is one of those rare evenings where I can actually rest, maybe get a few hours of sleep. Very soon I will be finishing my degree and I can finally quit this awful job, and get away from Burt.

Here he comes now.

Burt Simonson, DDS, is what a person who hates dentists pictures when you say dentist. Tall and lean with graying hair and oversized eyeglasses, he struts around the office like the king of his own little domain, and as soon as he sees me he openly rakes his eyes over my body.

It didn’t hit me until I started working here that the employees all have something in common. The dental assistants, the other receptionist, we’re all women and we’re all young. At thirty-four I’m the oldest. Laura, the other receptionist, is only nineteen.

He likes redheads, too. There’s me, Cassie the hygienist, and one of the assistants, though hers comes out of a bottle.

The implications of the pattern didn’t occur to me until I’d been working here six weeks and he started to get comfortable around me, and feel familiar enough to take an occasional look down the V-neck of my scrubs. I started wearing a t-shirt under them after that.

I slide the window in front of me closed, muffling whatever he’s going to say from the patients seated outside.

“There’s my favorite office milf,” he says, leaning against the counter next to me.

I flinch.

I know what that stands for. Every time he calls me that I want to punch him in the balls, but I need this job. I don’t even let myself scowl.

“Something I can help you with?” I say coolly.

“Yeah. I just got my new Benz. I thought maybe you could help me christen her.”

“You want me to smash a bottle on the trunk?”

He laughs.

I’d rather smash the bottle on his head.

“Nah, just let me give you a ride home.”