Malgré Moi

I have three basic rules for staying out of trouble when you have zero money to your name.

Rule number one: never buy the fancy soap when dish liquid cleans your clothes just as well.

Rule number two: always keep two sticks of mint gum in your pocket so your stomach thinks you just ate dinner.

Rule number three: never, ever punch an idiot with your full strength unless you have enough cash to fix the hole in the wall.

Tonight, rule number three was practically dead on arrival.

It was two in the morning inside Lucky Joe’s Diner. Outside, the rain poured down hard against the greasy glass windows, turning the gritty streets of New Crestwood into a dark, muddy mess. Inside, the place smelled like burnt coffee and fried onions. I stood behind the counter in my torn grey hoodie and wet sneakers, holding a rag and scrubbing an old ketchup stain that had been there since last Tuesday.

Then the front door slammed open, and three guys in heavy leather jackets walked in like they owned the place.

The guy in front had a crooked nose, gold teeth, and an aluminum baseball bat resting against his broad shoulder. I recognized him right away. He was one of Alex’s local collection thugs. Alex ran the loan sharks and illegal betting dens around the docks, and these clowns made their living squeezing cash out of broke shopkeepers.

Old Joe, the diner owner, froze by the grill. His hands shook so hard that a plastic basket of french fries fell right out of his fingers and scattered across the tile floor.

The goon with the bat stepped up to the counter and smashed the metal down against the wood.

The loud crack sounded like an explosion.

"Where is our cut, old man?" the thug yelled, leaning forward with bad breath that smelled like cheap whiskey. "Alex says the protection f*e just doubled. Give me the envelope from the register, or I will break every table in this place, then I will break your legs."

Joe backed up against the grill, tears in his eyes, ready to beg.

I sighed, squeezed out my dirty rag into the sink, and looked the thug dead in the eye.

"Hey, genius," I said, my voice deadpan and dry. "Joe has four dollars and fifty cents in that cash drawer, and half of it is pennies. Why don't you take your little metal stick and go rob a bank? I just finished mopping this floor, and your muddy boots are ruining it."

The thug stopped. He blinked twice, staring at me like he couldn't believe a girl who weighed barely a hundred and twenty pounds was talking back to him.

"What did you say to me, little girl?" he barked, his face turning red.

"I said you smell like wet garbage, and your bat looks cheap," I replied, crossing my arms over my chest. "Take your two little friends and get out before things get ugly."

The man cursed under his breath and swung the baseball bat straight at my shoulder. He swung it with all his weight, aiming to break bones.

Most girls would have ducked, screamed, or covered their faces.

I didn't even blink.

I raised my right hand, opened my palm, and caught the speeding metal bat right out of the air.

The heavy thud echoed across the quiet diner. My arm didn't move an inch. The impact didn't even bend my wrist. The thug pulled back with both hands, groaning and straining, but the bat stayed glued right inside my grip like it was stuck in a slab of solid iron.

His eyes popped wide open. "What the hell are you?"

"I'm an underpaid dishwasher who wants to go to bed," I told him.

With two fingers, I squeezed the metal barrel. The aluminum groaned, dented, and crunched together flat like a cheap soda can. Then, with a quick flick of my wrist, I snapped the thick bat right in two pieces and dropped the broken top half on the counter.

The thug stared at the jagged stump in his hand, trembling.

Before he could yell, I reached across the counter, grabbed the thick collar of his leather jacket with one hand, and yanked him straight off his feet. I swung him around like he was a light plastic grocery bag and threw him through the front double doors.

The doors burst open with a loud bang, and the goon flew ten feet into the rainy air, landing face-first right inside the metal city dumpster on the sidewalk.

The other two goons looked at the dumpster, then looked back at me. Their faces turned completely pale.

I cracked my knuckles once. "Who wants to be next?"

They didn't say a word. They stumbled over their own feet, scrambled out the door, and sprinted down the rain-soaked street like devils were chasing them.

I blew a loose strand of hair out of my face, picked up my dustpan, and shook my head. "Every single Friday night. I swear."

I was about to clean up the dented metal when I heard the slow, steady clap of leather gloves coming from the dark corner booth.

I turned around.

Sitting there was an older woman who definitely did not belong in a diner on the poor side of the city. She had silver hair done up in a sharp, expensive style, pearls around her neck, and a long grey wool coat that cost more than my family owed in three years of back rent. Two huge bodyguards in black suits stood behind her with hands hidden inside their jackets, but she raised a calm hand to tell them to back down.

She was staring at me with cold, sharp eyes that looked like they could cut right through glass.

"Incredible," the woman said smoothly, her voice like ice and silk. "You stopped a swinging bat with one hand, crushed aircraft-grade metal with your fingertips, and threw a two-hundred-pound man into the rain without breaking a sweat."

I picked up my rag again, narrowing my eyes. "If you're with Alex, tell him to send people who can actually fight. And if you're a customer, the kitchen is closed."

"I am not with any street gang," she said, standing up with total grace. Her expensive heels made a steady tap-tap sound against the greasy floor. "My name is Patricia Sterling."

The name hit my ears hard. Even down here in the slums, everyone knew the Sterling family. They owned half the skyscrapers, the cargo shipping docks, and the city banks.

"Good for you," I said flatly. "Want an autograph?"

Patricia didn't get angry. She just pulled a thick paper envelope out of her designer purse and dropped it flat on the counter. The paper tore open slightly, showing thick stacks of crisp, banded hundred-dollar bills.

My heart did a quick thumping jump in my chest. "I don't do dirty jobs, lady. I work clean, and I don't go to prison."

"I don't need anyone killed," Patricia answered, her cold face softening into pure exhaustion. "I need someone handled. I need my son kept alive."

"Get him a bodyguard," I said.

"He fired twelve of them this month," Patricia said, pulling a glossy magazine from her purse and sliding it next to the cash.

The front cover was a photo of a guy who looked about twenty-six. He had thick, messy dark hair, sharp cheekbones, piercing blue eyes, and the most arrogant, punchable smirk I had ever seen in my life. He was standing on the bow of a half-sunk luxury yacht, holding a bottle of champagne in the air while police boats circled him in the ocean.

The big letters across the page read: *DAMON STERLING CRASHES ANOTHER MILLION-DOLLAR YACHT: WHO CAN TAME THE BILLIONAIRE PLAYBOY?*

"Damon," Patricia said with deep bitterness. "My only son. He is reckless, arrogant, and out of his mind. He drinks, he gambles, he races cars through red lights, and he owes five million dollars to Alex after running out on a private card game last week. Alex wants his money, and my board of directors wants to remove Damon from the family trust if he doesn't show up sober to the big shareholder summit in four weeks."

Patricia looked me right in the eyes.

"Damon thinks he can buy anyone, break anyone, and tease anyone. But you, Miss Daniel, are different. That is fifty thousand dollars in cash right there as an advance. Move into his penthouse. Be his shadow. Keep him alive, drag him to his meetings, and force him to act like a real man. When he signs the company papers at the end of the month, I will pay you half a million dollars cash and pay off your father's medical clinic."

My breath caught right in my throat.

Half a million. My father was drowning in medical bills, and the clinic was facing foreclosure this very week. This crazy old lady was offering to wipe out my whole family's pain in one move.

"What if he fights back?" I asked slowly.

Patricia gave a cold, thin smile. "Use that strength of yours. Break his ego into dust. Just don't break his neck."

I looked down at the money, then at the arrogant face on the magazine cover.

I took off my greasy apron, folded it up, and picked up the cash.

"Where is the idiot?" I asked.

---

At ten o'clock the next morning, I stood inside the private elevator of the top floor of the tallest glass tower in the city. The doors opened with a soft chime, and I stepped out onto shiny white marble floors.

The place was huge, with giant windows showing the whole ocean, but it was a total mess. Party confetti covered the rugs, empty bottles were knocked over on tables, and loud bass music was still humming from somewhere down the hall.

Sitting on a massive white leather couch was Damon Sterling himself.

He was wearing silk pajama pants, a loose white linen shirt with half the buttons open, and dark sunglasses indoors. A half-full glass of whiskey was resting right next to his bare feet on a glass table. Even with messy hair and looking half-asleep from a long night of drinking, he was dangerously handsome. But his face had that lazy, spoiled look of someone who had never heard the word 'no' in his entire life.

He didn't even turn his head when he heard my boots.

"Leave the headache pills on the kitchen island and go away," he muttered in a deep, raspy voice. "And tell the garage to have my red Ferrari washed by noon."

I walked straight past the couch, picked up his glass of whiskey, and dumped the amber liquid directly into a green potted plant near his shoulder.

Damon froze. He pulled his sunglasses down his nose with one finger, his bright blue eyes narrowing into an icy glare. He looked at my faded jeans, my black combat boots, and my plain brown leather jacket.

"Excuse me?" Damon let out a dry, mocking laugh. "Did one of the maids get lost? Who let you in here, sweetheart?"

"My name is Roxie Daniel," I said, crossing my arms over my chest. "I'm your new handler. Your mother hired me. Rule number one: the bar is closed for the day. Rule number two: you have a corporate board meeting in forty-five minutes. Get dressed."

Damon stared at me for three long seconds, then threw his head back and laughed so hard his chest shook.

"My mother hired a tiny runaway from the street to babysit me? That is the funniest thing she has ever done." He leaned back, putting his hands behind his head with a cocky grin. "Listen close, little girl. I don't do handlers. I don't do meetings. And I definitely don't take orders from somebody wearing shoes from a bargain bin. Run along back to your little alley before I call building security to throw you out by your hair."

I didn't move an inch. "You're not putting clothes on?"

"Not for you. Not today. Not ever," he smirked, looking me up and down like I was completely harmless. "Make me."

I smiled back. It was not a sweet smile.

"All right. You asked for it."

I stepped in close, grabbed the front of his expensive silk shirt with my right hand, and ripped him straight off the couch like he weighed nothing at all.

"What the hell—let go of me!" Damon gasped, his eyes going wide with shock.

Before he could swing a punch, I lifted his six-foot-two frame into the air, tucked him under my arm like a rolled-up yoga mat, and started walking toward the master bathroom.

"Put me down right now!" Damon yelled, his face turning bright red as he thrashed around. He hammered his fists against my back, but it felt like tiny raindrops hitting a brick wall. His voice cracked with real panic. "Put me down, you crazy psycho! Are you out of your mind?!"

"You told me to make you," I said cheerfully.

I kicked the master bathroom door wide open with my boot, walked over to the giant walk-in shower made of black marble, and dumped him flat on his butt onto the cold floor.

Before he could scramble to his feet, I reached inside, grabbed the shiny chrome knob, and twisted it all the way to cold.

A massive blast of ice-cold water exploded straight down onto his head.

Damon let out a choked scream, coughing and sputtering as the freezing water drenched his hair, ruined his silk shirt, and washed that smug smirk right off his gorgeous face. He scrambled against the wet tile, slipping and sliding like a drowned cat.

"Turn it off! Stop! Are you insane?!" he sputtered, wiping the freezing water out of his eyes.

I leaned against the glass shower door, looking down at him with a calm, wide grin.

"Forty minutes until the car leaves, playboy," I said, tapping my wrist. "Get cleaned up, or I drag you down to the lobby in your wet pajamas."

Damon looked up at me through dripping wet hair, gasping for air, looking at me with pure fury, deep shock, and for the first time in his spoiled life, absolute terror.

The game was on.