THE DEVIL KNOWS MY NAME

DARLA

Note to self: next time a hot rich guy pays you for sex and then ghosts mid-shower, maybe don't spend the next week replaying it like it's your favorite porno...

Who was I kidding? I'd already done that. Twice today.

Jamal, my friend, had texted last night, asking if I was okay because I looked "dead inside" at football practice. Typical Jamal, he always noticed when I was spiraling, always offered food or his couch, and never pried. Sweet. Wish I could say the same about anyone else in my life right now.

After washing my hands in the basin, I caught my reflection in the mirror, tired eyes, smudged mascara, hair fighting the ponytail. I smoothed it down and straightened my apron while anxiety coiled in my stomach. Tonight's shift at the club loomed, but first I had to survive that morning at the café and two lectures. Then I'd be halfway to my financial goal.

"Focus," I mouthed at the mirror. "Ten thousand dollars."

My brain betrayed me anyway. Images from that pathetic late-night Google session flashed uninvited: Donomie Lawson, rock-star architect, divorced two years, worth millions, never photographed without some breathtaking woman draped on his arm black-tie galas, charity golf, cigars, effortless charm. Player stamped across every headline.

Why was I even thinking about him?

He was gone. He had made that crystal clear when he walked out after ignoring me.

I fixed my hair one last time and stepped up the laneway beside the café.

Turning the corner, I glanced across the congested street. Same chaos as every day. And there he was, Donomie, hands shoved in his pockets, staring straight at the café.

My heart slammed into my ribs. He froze for a moment, caught off guard, then turned and started walking away.

No. What the hell. He was just leaving?

Panic surged. I darted across the street, weaving between cars, dodging curses. "Donomie!" I called, but he kept going. "Mr. Lawson!"

Finally, he stopped and turned. His face fell the moment he saw me, a flicker of regret crossing before it vanished behind his usual guarded expression.

"What are you doing?" I demanded, throwing my hands up. "You're just walking past without even coming in?"

He pressed his lips together, eyes locked on mine. Dark hair, tanned skin against that crisp white shirt under the navy suit. Goddamn, no man should wear a suit like that. It should be illegal.

Heat crawled up my neck. I hated that I cared what he thought. I hated that I was standing there in my apron, hair a mess, desperate to prove I wasn't some cheap fling he could forget, even though he was the one who paid. Even though he was the one who ran. I didn't even understand what I was feeling or why.

"I'm only doing four shifts there," I shrugged. "At the club, I mean." His jaw clenched.

"I need the money so I can move out of my university dorm. I'm here on a scholarship, and I can't live there anymore. There are parties every night, and I'm going crazy. You don't know how bad it is," I rushed out.

I was being open and vulnerable, and he still had his hands in his pockets, cold and guarded.

"I'm working the next three Thursday nights, and then I'm resigning."

After a pause, he finally said, "Why would I care?"

"Because I..." My heart hammered. What the hell was I doing? "I don't want to do a shift there without you. I can't stand the thought of it."

His brow furrowed. "I'm not who you think I am, Donomie." His lips twisted as if he was holding something back.

"If it wasn't you, I wouldn't have had sex that night. It was only because I liked you before I even worked there."

He stayed silent.

"Is that it? Is that all you've got to say? I'm begging to see you, and you can't say a single word?" I threw my hands up in frustration.

"You know what?" I shook my head. "Forget what I said. I beg for nobody. Don't bother coming."

More silence.

"You're not the only one who's disappointed," I snapped.

He frowned. "Meaning?"

"You're not who I thought you were either."

"Who did you think I was?"

I glanced around at the people surrounding us, lost in their routines, completely unaware of us. I turned back to him and shrugged. "Someone who was worth it." I smiled, though it was sad. "Guess not."

I stared at the girl in the mirror. She wore a full face of makeup and a black lace strapless dress that hugged every curve as if it were stitched onto her skin. Her hair was perfect, her lips red, her eyes sharp. She looked nothing like how I felt.

The air backstage buzzed with excitement. The Velvet Roses practically vibrated with energy. Laughter, perfume, the click of heels against tile, and the hiss of hairspray filled the room.

The thought of entertaining a man that night twisted my stomach. I wasn't sleeping with anyone, not that night, not tomorrow, not ever again if I could help it. Even the idea of flirting felt exhausting.

Mr. Lawson well and truly tamed the tiger that was my libido. After taking in the size of him, I felt like a baby deer on rollerskates for days. But the physical ache was nothing compared to the humiliation. My ego was still bleeding. I had begged that morning when I saw him. Pathetic.

"Are you serious? He's actually back?" A squeal cut through the haze. Ivy with long dark hair, legs for days, peered through the slit in the velvet curtain that separated us from the catwalk below. "He's here. He hasn't been here for months." She danced back to her makeup chair.

"He's here." She fanned herself with a hand mirror. "I'd die a happy woman tonight."

"Who's here?" someone else asked.

"Mr. Silver."

"Lawson is here?" someone else whispered.

"You aren't supposed to know his real name,"