Chapter Three

Scarlet

I pinch the bridge of my nose, gripping my phone so tight in my other hand I think it might break. I sink down on a creaky kitchen chair, looking at the bills laid out on the table. I’m behind on everything, like usual, and I don’t have enough to cover the bare minimum this time.

Trying to get Heather the best outcome possible, I skipped the public defender and hired a lawyer, who was able to cut her sentence in half. But the lawyer fees weren’t cheap, and I’ve been without TV or internet all month, making me go over on my data plan, but hey—that bill’s not due until next month. The next to go will be my electric and water, though not by choice.

And now I’m dealing with insurance, who randomly decided to stop covering several of Dad’s medications that he’s been taking for the last three years. I’ve been on the phone for over an hour, mostly on hold, of course. I rest my head in my hands, zoning out as I continue to listen to crappy elevator music through the speakers on my phone.

Finally, I get through to a new person, whose accent is so thick I can hardly understand a word they’re saying. I argue some more, but in the end, there is nothing I can do. The insurance company no longer deems the blood pressure medication necessary and will no longer cover it.

I hang up and let my phone clatter to the table. The fall is cushioned by the million bills covering the surface. Seething, I close my eyes and clench my jaw. I want to beat someone up, preferably Steve at the insurance company who has as much empathy as a pile of dirt.

“I am so fucking sick of this,” I mutter. I’m sick of taking one step forward and two back. I’m tired of never having enough. I’m tired of everyone else’s shit always falling on my shoulders.

I want out.

Out of the ghetto. Out of poverty. Of working my ass off for measly tips and dealing with rude customers who see me as that trashy girl from the south side. I want to make a life for myself. I want to do better.

Picking pockets will only get me so far. I need to do something big, something like I used to do before, and get enough money to finally start the life I know I deserve. Picking my phone back up, I log onto a caregiver site. I have a profile on here, though it’s been a while since I used it.

Two years ago, I was a live-in nanny for a rich couple, looking after their entitled asshole children. Mostly I saw them off to school, spent the day hanging around the pool, and picked them up after school. I made sure they did their homework, but they each had separate tutors for their different subjects.

My biggest job while working there was constantly turning down advances from the children’s father. He was a decent-looking guy, ten years older than me and working the salt-and-pepper hair hard. He was funny, cultured, and totally infatuated with me. He started sending me gifts, which is how I acquired a few designer items.

Then the gifts turned into dinner dates, and after a night where he flew me to New York City on his private jet, I drank too many mini bottles of vodka and took things a little too far with him. I threw up before we actually had sex, but that night opened up a whole new window of opportunity for me, not that I’m exactly proud of it.

Afraid I’d tell his wife of what almost happened, he started giving me cash in exchange for my silence. I had photographic evidence of him shoving his tongue down my throat, after all. I quit working for his bratty-ass children and was able to live off hush-money for a good six months. Then he got caught cheating on his wife with someone else and she left him, so my silence wasn’t worth paying for anymore.

Not letting myself think about how deplorable I am, I make my account active again and update my resume a bit. I don’t think Mrs. Milton ever knew about me, and to be honest, I don’t care if she did. She was an awful woman who didn’t deny marrying for money and openly admitted the only reason she had children was because she saw it as a way around the prenup.

Still, her name looks good as a reference. I’ll leave it. I spend a few more minutes tweaking my resume, not exactly lying but making myself sound way better than I really am. I submit it to the site for review and answer a few questions to see if I can still pass a background check. Luckily for me, background checks don’t go into my family history.

*

“You make sure Jason does his homework, you hear?”

I press my lips into a thin line. “Dad, Jason isn’t in high school anymore. He’s in the Army now.”

Dad gives me a blank stare and tries to get out of his wheelchair. The new one is much more comfortable than the old one, but I guess I was overly optimistic that he’d keep his ass in this new chair better than the last. He’s too unsteady to be up walking on his own.

“And you tell your skank-ass whore of a mother to stop drinking my beer.”

“Mr. Cooper,” Corbin scolds as he comes around the corner. “Now I know your pretty little daughter didn’t take that nasty old bus and then walk two blocks in the rain to get her ass badgered by you.” Corbin stops in front of my dad’s wheelchair and pops his hip, holding out one hand.

Dad grumbles something I can’t discern but hefts back in his chair with a sigh. I mirror his actions, letting out a breath of frustration.

“He doesn’t mean it. You know that, right?” Corbin tells me, leaning against the wall.

“I know.”

“It can be hard to see family like this, but it’s the nature of the disease. Don’t take it personally.”

“I don’t,” I tell him, blowing a loose strand of hair out of my face. “He wasn’t very involved when I was a kid. It’s not like I have all these good memories of him to tarnish.”

“Maybe that’s a good thing.”

“I should have been there,” Dad says in a rare moment of clarity. “I should have been there for you and Heather and Jason. I should have made your mother get help. I’m…I’m sorry.”

I close my eyes, shoving all my feelings aside. “You’re here now, Dad.”

Corbin pushes off the wall. “Anyway, Mr. Cooper. It’s time for dinner. You coming, Scarlet? I can get an extra plate for you.”

“What are they having today?”

“Sweet potatoes and fish.”

I try not to cringe. “I’ll take some sweet potatoes, but I’ll pass on the fish.”

“Smart choice,” he mouths and unlocks Dad’s wheelchair. I follow behind as we head to the cafeteria, pulling out my phone to see who just emailed me. It’s a response to the nanny position I applied for a few days ago, which specific one is beyond me. I applied for any and all that I could.

I quickly skim the email, looking to see who sent it. The email was sent from a work account, and the name Quinn Dawson is at the bottom as an e-signature. Once I get to the table next to Dad, I enter her name in a G****e search.

“Holy shit,” I say out loud, earning a nasty look from the uptight nurse passing by. Quinn’s made quite the name for herself, and she’s younger than me. I find her on I*******m and creep through her photos. She has a baby, and it looks like she’s either married or engaged to a doctor. I already hate her.

I don’t care what the job description is. This is exactly the type of gig I need.

Corbin comes over with two plates of nasty-looking salmon that reeks like it’s been left out on the counter all afternoon. Yep, I’m only eating the sweet potatoes. Swallowing the little bit of morality I have left, I turn to Dad and look into his eyes.

“I’m going to get you out of this shithole, I promise.”

*

I feel like I’m drowning. Like I’m madly treading water just to stay afloat. I’m gasping for breath, but every time my lungs fill with air, it feels wrong. Like I shouldn’t be breathing.

Like I should drown.

But like a cockroach, I keep coming back. Pulling on the cross necklace that’s hanging from my neck, I push my shoulders back and step into the coffee shop.

We’re meeting in The Loop, near Quinn’s place of work. She already ran my background check and said she called my references, and it’s a miracle she hasn’t been scared off yet. I spot her sitting at a table in the back, typing on a laptop. There’s an iced coffee next to her, and I can tell from back here her purse, clothes, and shoes are designer.

Her brunette hair is pulled into a braid that’s perfectly messy, and she’s not wearing much makeup. She’s pretty and has a kind face. You can tell she’s a nice fucking person just by looking at her, and I can’t let myself fall into a trap.

I need money. Specifically hers.

My phone rings right as Quinn looks up, and our eyes meet for a fleeting moment before I glance down at my cell in my hand. It’s the nursing home, and I hesitate before answering. They called this morning to tell me Dad was out of the medication insurance stopped covering and asked if I would be able to provide it until something was worked out.

I’m trying.

I silence the call and look back at Quinn, plastering a fake smile on my face.

“Hi,” she says, standing up to shake my hand. “I’m Quinn.”

“Scarlet. Nice to meet you.”

“Do you want anything to drink? This new caramel frap is to die for.”

“Uh, sure. Thanks.”

Leaving her computer on the table with me, Quinn gets up and gets in line, returning a few minutes later after putting in an order for me.

“So,” she starts, fidgeting a bit as she talks, “I’ve never interviewed anyone like this before. Sorry in advance if I’m a little awkward. And don’t feel like you need to put up a front or anything. I’m not looking for Mary Poppins. Just someone who can help with basic household chores and make sure a four year old makes it to see another day.”

Dammit, I kind of like her. “I think I can do that.” My phone buzzes, and I glance down, seeing a text from Corbin. Shit.

Wait. Did she say a four year old? From my internet creeping, I only saw her with a baby who couldn’t be older than six or seven months old. Doesn’t matter. I’d rather take care of a four year old than a baby anyway. Changing diapers isn’t my thing.

Quinn goes on to describe the job, and I hear her say the house is in a small town in Indiana, about an hour and a half away. I smile and nod as she explains the rest, not really paying attention because I’m trying to surreptitiously read Corbin’s text. And when I see the words your dad fell again, nothing Quinn says stays with me.

The faster I can get to Quinn’s husband, the better. I need to find a way to blackmail him into giving me money so I can move my dad to a place that’s better equipped to handle someone with memory issues.

We go over pay, where I’ll stay, and how my time off will work. She’s pretty fucking generous and even offers to arrange a car to come get me since I don’t own one myself. I can start tomorrow, and I have no doubt things will work out just fine. Being able to accommodate anyone is just one of my superpowers. Though, really, I don’t see why it’s all that hard. Find out what people want and embody it. Compliment them. Make them feel important.

And then you’ve weaseled your way into their lives enough to reach in and take whatever you want. Hey…I never claimed to be a saint.

*

“Miss Cooper?”

My eyes flutter open, and I blink in the bright sunlight. “Yeah?”

“We’re here.”

“Oh, uh, thanks.” I unbuckle my seatbelt, feeling a little disoriented. I had just slipped into deep sleep and am having a hard time pulling myself out of it. I smooth out my hair and pop the top button on this ridiculous pink sweater. It’s not at all my style but gives me the image I want to portray. Squeezing my eyes shut to try and focus my vision, I open the car door before the driver has a chance to come out and open it for me. I’m capable of opening my own doors. It’s just weird to sit here and wait for someone else to do it.

I blink once. Twice. Three times. “This is the house?” I ask, looking up and down the street. There’s a good chance the driver took a wrong turn and accidentally drove us onto the set of a Hallmark Channel movie. We’re parked along the curb of a postcard-worthy small town road, with well-maintained houses lining either side of the street. A handful even have white picket fences.

Forget Hallmark. There’s an even better chance this is a horror movie and I’ve just been hand-delivered to a serial killer who spends her days knitting and offs her unsuspecting victims by poisoning their lemonade. Which she made. By hand.

“Yes,” the driver tells me, coming around to get my bags. “This is the address Mr. Dawson provided.”

“Oh, uh, okay.” I hike my purse up over my shoulder and grab the handle to one of my suitcases. This isn’t what I signed up for. The house I saw on Quinn’s I*******m is brand new and big, with curved double staircases greeting you from the oversized foyer. This house in front of me looks like a century-old farmhouse, safely nestled into the historic district of this small town.

The fuck?

I know I tuned out most of what Quinn was saying the other day at the coffee shop. I looked at her and saw nothing but dollar signs and was willing to watch two sets of hyperactive triplets if it meant getting a shot at some of her money.

But this…this has to be a mistake. On her part. Not mine. Because I didn’t sign up for this.

“Uh…thanks,” I tell the driver as he sets my last suitcase by the porch steps. I stand there like a deer in fucking headlights, taking in the perfectly groomed lawns on the surrounding houses and how nearly everyone is already decorated for fall. If I don’t pull myself out of this living P*******t board now, I fear I never will.

I’m about to turn around and leave, walking to the nearest bus station and pulling whatever trick I have to do to get enough money to get me back to Chicago. And then the front door opens. If anyone else stepped out of the house, things might have turned out differently. But the moment I lay eyes on him all I can think is, “Oh shit.”

Tall and muscular, the man standing before me is just that: a man. His presence is intoxicating, intimidating, and impressive all at the same time. He has messy dark brown hair that’s pulled away from his face, and the darkest navy-blue eyes I’ve ever seen.

His face is set, and I can tell just by looking at him that his guard is up, and for a damn good reason. Takes one to know one, I guess.

“Scarlet Cooper?” he asks, looking me over. His gaze slowly wanders over my body, but he’s not checking me out. He’s inspecting me, looking for flaws in the system and signs of obvious damage.

It’s there, hiding in plain sight, but all he sees is a pretty blonde woman in a white skirt and a stupid fuzzy pink sweater.

“Yes. Nice to meet you, Mr. Dawson.” I plaster a pleasant smile on my face, freaking out on the inside but otherwise appearing level-headed and cool as a cucumber. With practiced grace, I ascend the porch steps and shake Mr. Dawson’s hand. His grip is strong and firm, and the skin on his palm is just rough enough to make me think he must work with his hands.

That thick skin would feel so good slowly making its way up my—stop. Get it together so you can get the fuck out of here, Scarlet.

His furrowed brows give way to a more friendly expression as he grips my hand for a moment before releasing it. He lets out a breath and his whole body relaxes. There are pounds of muscle under his black T-shirt, and it makes my body react purely on its own accord.

“Weston. But call me Wes,” he says and steps aside. “Come in.”

Suddenly, I can’t move. This guy—Wes Dawson—isn’t the surgeon I assumed I’d be working for. Is the con artist getting conned? Is the universe finally catching up to me, and this is its way of giving me the middle finger while laughing out a big fuck you? I have no idea what is going on or what I’m going to do, but I know one thing for sure. If I go into that house, there’s no going back.