The Sinner's Club [18+] Complete

chapter two.

"I LOVE YOU," I whisper to my eight year old sister, Elodie. She's sleepy, her flaxen hair spread out over her pillow.

"Love you," she mumbles.

I kiss her on the forehead, despair bubbling up, and then I creep out of her room quietly. Our neighbor, Magnolia, sits on the couch with a tin of biscuits. "Thank you for watching her, really." Sincerity laces my voice as I tighten the tan trench coat around my body.

"It's no problem. She'll probably just sleep anyway." Magnolia waves me off. Sweet old lady.

The cab drive across town nearly leaves me in shambles. I am so nervous, shaking and fumbling as I exit the cab and head into the heat of the club.

The words Sin City glow on the front awning. Your fantasies become reality is written in a loopy font on the entrance door.

Inside, it's a little quieter than last night because it's still early; the real debauchery won't start for a few hours, I suspect.

A couple grind together in a booth, though they're both still fully clothed.

"There she is."

Nathaniel's voice makes me turn. He's leaning back against the bar, a file in his hand that he's reading. His eyes flick up toward me.

"Here I am," I mutter, contemplating every life decision that has led me to this point.

He produces a pen from within his suit jacket and signs the document, then places it on the bar. One of the servers—or possibly his assistant?—quickly snatches the document up and ferries it away.

With a click, he slides the pen back into his jacket, his attention now focused on me.

"I wasn't entirely convinced you'd show," he notes.

I offer no response.

"Follow me."

He leads me toward the back of the club, where his office is located, falling into step beside me and slipping a hand onto the small of my back.

His touch is searing even through the fabric of my jacket.

"What are you hiding under there?" He murmurs close to my ear, eyeing the trenchcoat I wear.

I glare at him out of the corner of my eye.

He pushes open the door to his office and lets me step inside.

A brown leather duffel bag sits on his desk.

"Here's your money," he says, motioning to the bag.

I nervously approach and unzip it. Stacks upon stacks of neat bills line the inside. It is more money than I have ever seen in my life and my breath hitches.

"Do you want to count it?"

I glance at him over my shoulder. "Do I need to count it?"

There is always something smug, something knowing in his eyes. "No, you don't. It's all there. And it'll be there at the end of the night."

"How long do I have to work for you?" I ask in a small voice.

"Forty-thousand is a lot of money."

My eyes narrow. "I bet you're wearing at least forty-thousand dollars right now."

He scoffs. "Forty? Please. My watch alone was eighty. Come on." He extends his hand, waiting for me to go to him.

Reluctantly, I do. This time, his hand settles between my shoulder blades as he leads me down a narrow passageway and then into a spacious changing room.