Beneath a Blood Moon (3 page)

Prison time for having a fake identity was starting to sound better and better. I stared at my phone, wondering if I had the courage to call the police. Maybe they wouldn’t discover I was a runaway hiding from the life I had left behind. Maybe they wouldn’t look too hard at my license, which matched every other Nevada license I had ever seen. Maybe they wouldn’t dig at my past in their efforts to find out who was leaving me gifts or—as I feared—threats.

Well-intentioned gifts didn’t leave my stomach cramping with dread. I didn’t even know what blue roses stood for, but they unnerved me. I drew a deep breath.

I took cold comfort in one fact: my parents wouldn’t send obscure gifts. They would send armed bodyguards with orders to haul me back to New York in manacles and chains if necessary. They’d make no secret about who was after me and why.

My father had ruled with an iron hand, and I still bore the scars from when I had defied him for the last time. I still had nightmares sometimes about the way his face had contorted in his rage. Why he had turned his blow aside at the last minute, striking my upper arm instead of my face, I never understood.

I hadn’t stuck around long enough to ask, either, taking what money I could get my hands on and heading west, too afraid to stay, too afraid to ask for forgiveness, and later too afraid to go crawling back home, not that my parents would accept me back anyway. It had been my fault for choosing a boyfriend my father didn’t approve of and pursuing a relationship despite his protests.

It had also been my fault when my father’s opinions about Rory had proved correct.

Rory hadn’t just cheated on me; he had done so with one of the few people I had considered a friend. Melancholy settled over me, and with a sigh, I took hold of the hourglass and flipped it over. A folded note was taped to the bottom.

I ignored it, instead focusing my attention on the flowing sand.

It was a true hourglass, and as the minutes slipped by, I wondered why someone would give me something so valuable—or threaten to take away what time I had left. What had I done to earn such a thing?

Neither the hourglass nor urn looked cheap, and the roses were all in bloom, each blossom without blemish. Muttering curses at myself for my cowardice, I stabbed the stems of the blue roses in with the black and contemplated throwing them in the nearest dumpster and shattering the urn just to feel it break in my hands.

I set the hourglass on its side and went to bed.

Maybe tomorrow I would figure out what to do—if there was anything I could do.

Every time I fell asleep, I jerked awake at the faintest sound, and the fear someone lurked outside my apartment tightened my chest until I couldn’t lie still. I got out of bed and paced, halting to stare at the phone.

If I called the cops, maybe I could find some way to get help without them discovering the truth about who I was, how I had started working the strip at seventeen, and that I had run away from home. I was twenty-one despite my license saying twenty-four.

Being a runaway wasn’t a big deal; in the eyes of the law, I was an adult.

If they discovered the truth, I could tell them why. Maybe they’d take pity on me. Maybe they wouldn’t, and if they didn’t, I didn’t know what would happen. I headed to the phone, picked it up, and listened to the dial tone.

Instead of calling the police, I dialed Isabella’s number. My fellow stripper was the only one who knew when I had come to Vegas—and why. On the third ring, she answered, “Hello?”

“Can I come over?” I asked, twisting around to stare at the flowers, the urn, and the hourglass. “I need your help.”

Isabella yawned, mumbled something, and asked, “Do you know what time it is?”

“Get the hell out of my apartment before the boogey man gets me time,” I snapped, shivering.

That got my co-worker and friend’s attention. “What’s wrong?”

“I’ll show you. You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Okay, I’m home. You’ll be here in an hour or so?”

With the latest addition to the collection, I decided I would substantially lessen the risks of crossing town. “Twenty minutes. I’m catching a cab.”

“Okay. I’ll see you soon, then.”

“Thanks.” I hung up and headed into my bedroom, grabbing a gym bag so I could pack the urn, the roses, and the hourglass inside. After they were out of sight, I called for a cab. While waiting for it to arrive, I packed some clothes and my costumes.

Isabella would know what to do—and she could help me find a new apartment I could afford.

A single red rose was on my doorstep when the cab arrived. I stooped down and closed my fingers around the thorny stem. Shoving it in my purse, I headed to the car and let myself in the back, tossing my bags on the seat. I gave the driver Isabella’s address, hoping I wasn’t making a mistake.

I couldn’t resist the urge to check over my shoulder, and I breathed a sigh of relief. If someone was following me, the cab driver either lost them or they hid themselves too well for me to spot. When the cab pulled up in front of Isabella’s apartment building, I gave him a tip, grabbed my bags, and hurried to the front door, punching in the code for her apartment.

She buzzed me in. I bolted for the elevator, pressing the button until the door dinged and let me in. The ride to the top floor was excruciating, and by the time I arrived, I was shaking from head to toe. At least Isabella’s apartment wasn’t far from the elevators.

Had it been on the other side of the building, I doubted I would make it before my legs gave out from under me. I knocked once before Isabella yanked the door open.

“What’s wrong?” she demanded, and before I could say a word, she took both of my bags. “It’s not like you to call at five in the morning asking for anything, let alone for help.”

The only time I had asked for help was three years ago when I didn’t dare use my New York ID to find work in Las Vegas. Isabella had been the one to hook me up with my fake license so I could try to make a living. I sighed and slumped down on her tattered couch. “I think someone’s stalking me.”

“You think? You’re not sure?”

I pointed at the bag containing the urn and hourglass. “I found that shit on my doorstep the past two mornings. The red rose was there when I left to come here.”

While I watched, Isabella set my bag on her coffee table and started digging out the items left on my doorstep.

It always baffled me how few ethnic women worked the major clubs on the strip; while every club had one or two, the bosses played to the desires of the affluent white men who wanted young, pretty girls. In a way, Isabella was lucky.

She was a mix, which gave her the almost ethereal beauty of the Hispanic partnered with the paler skin too many rich white men lusted for. She came across as exotic, but not too exotic. Maybe her presence had been the reason the boss kept me on despite my refusal to whore myself out each and every night.

After setting the urn and hourglass on the table, she dumped out the bouquet of roses; some fell to the floor, and the rest blanketed the dark wood in black, blue, and green. She stared at me, her face paling several shades.

“I think this goes beyond stalking, Sara.”

Drawing a deep breath, I told her how I had found the items and warned her about the blood on the black roses. She peeled away the note on the bottom of the hourglass and opened it. Her brows furrowed. “It’s blank.”

“Who goes through the trouble of leaving something like that with a blank note?” I muttered, crossing my arms over my chest. “This is ridiculous.”

“It’s creepy as hell,” Isabella said, tossing the card onto the table. “What are you going to do?”

“Well, I can’t call the cops. They’ll take one good look at my ID, start looking around, and realize it’s a fake.” I sighed, shaking my head. “I don’t know what to do. Maybe I can find a cheap apartment somewhere else in town and keep out of sight for a while.”

“You’re not exactly high profile as it is, girl. Sure, you’re a regular at some of the clubs and casinos, but you don’t exactly draw attention to yourself. Where the hell are you going to find an apartment you can afford? You can barely afford the one you have now. Prices haven’t exactly gone down in the past three years.”

As always, the scorn in Isabella’s words cut deep; if I sold my body like she did, I’d be able to afford a nicer place. I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. I glared at the urn and hourglass, tempted to take out my frustrations on them. After drawing several deep breaths, I sighed. “I know. I could pick up extra shifts to make up for it.”

“You’d have to quit school. You already do nothing more than work, go to class, and study. You do have to sleep.”

I flinched. While she was right, I couldn’t think of any alternatives. “I’ll make it work somehow. Can I stay here until I find a new place?”

“Yeah, sure. Just don’t let your trouble come knocking at my door. Oh, well. At least my building has security, unlike your dive.”

If I were willing to go home with men most nights, I could probably afford to live in a nice apartment like Isabella did. She spent more nights away with clients than she did at home. “I don’t want this trouble knocking at my door either,” I muttered.

“I’ll ask around and see if I can find any leads on a place you can afford. No promises, but I’ll try.”

I forced a smile for her benefit. “Thanks, I owe you.”

Snorting, Isabella shoveled the roses, urn, and hourglass back into my gym bag. “Like hell you do. It’s about time you asked me for
something
. When is your next shift?”

I had left my calendar in my apartment in my hurry to get out. Frowning, I tried to remember. “I think I start at four. I’ll need to get a new copy of my shifts; I left my schedule at my apartment.”

“Did you leave anything important behind?”

I considered the bag of clothes, sighed, and nodded. “All of my school work.”

Spitting curses, Isabella paced her living room, halting at the window to stare out over the city. “I’ll go with you after shift; I’m starting at six. Stick around at the club; we’ll go to your apartment together. Safety in numbers.”

I nodded. “Okay. Thanks, Isa.”

“Just don’t turn this into a habit.”

I had no intention of doing so, but I also refused to make a promise I couldn’t keep, so I remained quiet.

Sleep eluded me. By the time I needed to leave for work, I was so exhausted I considered calling in sick. I couldn’t afford to, and swallowing back my urge to sigh, I got ready to leave. Isabella frowned at me, grumbled something under her breath, and stomped into her bedroom, pausing at the door.

“It’d be stupid if you went alone. I’ll come in with you and find some way to entertain myself until my shift starts,” she announced, narrowing her eyes at me.

Her declaration was a noose, and it settled around my neck. With sinking certainty, I knew I had done a lot more than ask for her help; no matter what she had said last night, I would be repaying her for a long time to come.

“I’ll make it up to you,” I promised.

“I’m sure you will. You may not be good for cash, but you’ll figure something out. You always do.” Isabella’s smile didn’t reach her eyes, and with a quiet huff, she vanished into her bedroom.