MILA

Strong hands grabbed me from behind.

Adrenaline surged. No . I was no one's victim. I whirled and rammed my elbow back into my attacker. I heard a grunt, but I kept moving, my heart thumping hard.

I lifted my knee, ramming it hard into the guy's stomach, then I shoved him down. I wouldn't be anyone's prey. Not ever again. He hit the mats with a groan.

"Mila, excellent work."

As my instructor nodded and smiled, I straightened, bouncing a little on my feet. Around me, the rest of my self-defense class were grinning and nodding.

My "attacker" lifted his head. "Why did I volunteer for this again?"

Shay, the instructor, held out a hand and helped the young guy up. "Because you're my very good boyfriend, and didn't have a choice." Shay was a fit, thirty-something with a shredded body I envied. Her black, cropped sports top showed off her six-pack. Her blonde hair was in two long braids.

She looked my way again. "Mila, really great. You did everything exactly as I taught you."

I nodded, happy to hear her praise. "I have a great teacher."

Shay's smile widened. "And you're an excellent student."

Because I had no choice. I kept my smile pinned in place. I had to know how to defend myself. I wouldn't be caught out again.

"All right, everyone." Shay clapped her hands. "We're done. I'll see you at the next lesson."

I nabbed my water bottle and towel. Slinging the towel around my neck, I took a big swig of water.

The sounds of thuds, punches, and grunts echoed around the gym.

Hard Burn was one of the most popular gyms in New Orleans.

It was located in a large warehouse in the Warehouse District, and most of the space was filled with roped off boxing rings.

A glass wall at the end separated the exercise equipment and weights.

I'd heard there was a wait list to get a membership here. Luckily, Hard Burn also ran some self-defense classes, and I'd managed to nab a spot when I moved here. It was perfect because I worked just a few doors down.

The gym was run by one of the notorious Fury brothers.

People loved to talk about the five men.

They weren't brothers by blood, but brothers by choice.

I'd heard lots of stories about them, but the most common one was that they'd grown up together in foster care, then banded together to make a good life for themselves.

It probably helped that they were all rich and hot.

One of them also happened to be my boss. He owned the nightclub where I worked, and the bar next door, and two restaurants. In fact, he and his brothers owned the entire block.

Shaking my head, I watched two guys in gloves going at it with each other in one of the boxing rings. I'd gotten a job at the hottest nightclub in New Orleans because I'd heard the Fury brothers were tough. They protected their patch of the city, and stood up to the gangs, cartels, and criminals.

It made it the perfect place to hide under the radar.

"Bye, Shay." I waved. "I need to get to work." Glancing at my watch, I saw I had exactly fifteen minutes to shower, dress in my uniform, and hightail it to the club.

"Bye, Mila."

In the ladies change room, I tapped the code into the locker and pulled out my backpack. The first thing I did was check my laptop was in there. It was a habit now. As I touched the cool metal, the pressure I always seemed to feel eased a little.

I also kept a stash of cash tucked into a pocket I'd sewed in the bottom of the backpack. My emergency fund. It was a little low right now, but I'd build it back up.

It took me two minutes to shower and dress.

In the foggy mirror above the row of basins, I caught my reflection.

It was still a jolt to see my dark hair.

I'd dyed it black after I'd gone on the run, and it was half a step above horrible.

I wrinkled my nose. Black didn't suit me.

I missed my caramel-blonde hair. I'd loved it, spent hours styling it.

Now, my harsh, black hair was usually up in a careless bun or ponytail.

Now, all I could do was hide and survive.

I fiddled with the shiny gold halter top. All the bartenders and servers at the club wore black trousers and gold tops. Well, the men got black shirts with gold stitching, but I was just grateful my top wasn't low cut or strapless. The halter top was actually pretty comfortable.

After stuffing everything in my backpack, I headed out. It was a balmy summer evening in New Orleans. Growing up in Louisiana, I was used to warm temperatures and humidity.

I hurried down the street. I liked the Arts/Warehouse district.

There were loads of art galleries and lots of places to eat, but it wasn't quite as crazy as the French Quarter and Bourbon Street.

Most of the old warehouses had been converted into galleries or loft apartments, and I really wished I could afford to live in one.

I walked past Smokehouse. The bar was running a brisk trade.

I saw several groups sitting out on the front patio, sharing drinks and laughing.

One table had a bunch of helium balloons in the center.

Celebrating someone's birthday. Another table held a couple clearly on a date, and yet another one held a family with teenagers hunched over their cellphones.

All people going about their lives. Enjoying themselves. Doing things that normal people did. I'd been like that once. Just four months ago, actually, although most days it felt like a lifetime ago.

My eyes burned. All things I couldn't have.

Dammit . I sniffed. Feeling sorry for myself was a waste of energy.

I reached Ember, the name glowing in gold neon above a set of beaten-gold double doors. Reggie stood out front. There was only one bouncer on this early, and another would join later as it got busier, in addition to the security inside.

The handsome black man smiled at me. He was built like a linebacker. "Hey, Mila. Ready for a busy night."

"Always."

He waved me through.

It always felt like stepping into sin. Everything was done in luxurious black and gold.

The floor was polished black, and one wall held a row of gold urns almost as tall as I was.

Lights strobed across the dance floor. The long bar glowed with golden light, and off to one side was the roped-off, VIP area.

My favorite thing, though, was the ceiling. I glanced up. It was covered in a sea of gold flowers. It looked as though if a breeze blew in here, they'd all flutter down on us. It was totally the kind of club I would have liked to spend time in.

As I passed the bar, I called out hellos to the bartenders already prepping for the night ahead. I punched the code into the door leading to the staff locker room and wasted no time stashing my bag in my locker.

Showtime . It was Saturday night in New Orleans, and soon, the club would be hopping.

When I got back to the bar, Venus, the head bartender, appeared.

She was mid-forties, tall, with her curly, black hair cut very short.

Her halter top showed off super-toned arms I'd kill for.

She could make any cocktail a customer asked for, and managed the customers with an ease that I'd never, ever have.

"Mila, you're behind the bar tonight, but if the servers need help on the floor, then you're up."

"Got it."

"And you're okay to close tonight?"

"Yes. Happy to."

She blew out a breath. "Great, because Bryce has this dance concert tomorrow. First thing in the morning." She was a single mom to two boys. "If I can at least get a decent amount of sleep, I'll be mostly functional for it."

"I'm happy to close any time you need me, Venus."

"It's appreciated." The woman cocked her head. "Been working on any new cocktail recipes?"

I smiled. "Maybe."

Venus nodded. "Good. You have a knack."

I had a knack for mixing up new drinks because I'd also spent loads of nights at home, memorizing cocktail recipes. I'd lied my ass off to get the job here. I said I'd worked in clubs before, all the while praying my fake ID held up.

I wasn't Amelia Clifton, marketing guru anymore. I was Mila Clarke, bartender. Thankfully, I was a quick learner, and I'd picked up working the bar fast.

A large crowd of clubgoers surged inside.

"Time to water the thirsty masses," Venus said.

Soon, I was too busy to think of anything. I was grabbing glasses, scooping ice, pouring shots, and mixing cocktails.

"You can light me up any day, sweet thing."

Sweet thing? Really.

Leaning over the bar, I ran the lighter across the three tall glasses, turning the red cocktails from hurricanes into flaming hurricanes.

The customer licked his lips and smiled. He was already heading well toward drunk. I'd need to keep an eye on him and cut him off soon.

"I'll add that to your tab." I flashed him a practiced smile.

"Thanks." He reached for the glasses.

"And don't use that line again." I shook my head. "It's a bad one."

He wrinkled his nose and cocked his head. "I thought it was funny. The drinks are on fire. And you're hot." He gave a sheepish shrug of his shoulders. "I wanted to take a shot."

"Mila?" One of the other bartenders, Staci, leaned in beside me. "I need your help with an order."

"Sure thing." I gave Mr. Sweet Thing a nod, and turned.

"He's never gonna make it back to his friends without spilling those." Staci tossed her blonde curls back.

"Nope." I was pretty sure Mr. Sweet Thing would have cocktail all over his shirt soon. Such a shame. I noted that Staci didn't actually have another order. "Thanks for the save."

She rolled her eyes. "He was talking to your boobs."

I snorted. He totally had been.

"After years of working in clubs and bars, I can pick out that type as soon as they step in here," Staci said. "Easy life, enough cash to make him feel like a hotshot, and he thinks any woman slinging drinks would be grateful to let him get her naked." Staci sniffed. "No, thanks."

Staci was a veteran, so she'd know. Me, I'd only been bartending for four weeks.