Sinful Rewards 10 Read Free Page A

dedicated to Chicago-area buyers and sellers.
    Then I wait, refreshing my email every thirty seconds, gazing down at my phone, wondering who the lucky woman will be. She’ll love the purse as much as I do. I caress the leather. How could she not? It’s a work of art.
    No one contacts me.
    I look at my listings. They’re live. The photos are stunning, my inner fashionista drooling over my own items. Yet no one is making an offer.
    Maybe my cell phone is broken. Using Hawke’s landline, I call my number. The call goes directly to voice mail. I leave a message and play it back. It’s working, but no one is calling me.
    Maybe the timing isn’t right. Maybe prospective buyers are busy. Maybe there’s a huge sale in town that I’m not aware of and every fashionista in Chicago is attending it. I list excuse after excuse, justifying the lack of interest.
    By eleven o’clock, I force myself to face the truth. No one wants my designer goods. I can’t count on the sales to provide much-needed fast cash, buying me time to find a decent job.
    My shoulders slump. I have to land a not-so-decent job, the type of position employers hire on the spot for, not caring which warm body fills the role. I make a sour face. That will be retail. Or worse.
    First, I have to blast past the paparazzi barricade. The gossip-rag goons have been stalking me since Nicolas offered me a billion dollars to have sex with him. If I venture outside and they recognize my face, they’ll trample me.
    I need a disguise, the more hideous, the better. Grabbing one of Hawke’s ugly black T-shirts, I hold it up to my much smaller body. This could work. I nod. All of his security team wears equally heinous shirts, and he claims no one ever pays them any attention, treating bodyguards as though they’re invisible.
    Normally I wouldn’t wear anything so horrific. As a child, I saw how fashion affected attitudes. My mom was always happier on the days she didn’t wear her cheap uniform.
    But this is an emergency. I remove my blouse, folding it neatly and placing it in the laundry basket. Hawke needs me.
    I pull his shirt over my head and tuck the bottom of the garment into my waistband. The excess fabric folds over my pants, making it appear as though I’m much larger than I am. I look at myself in the mirror and cringe. My torso is one big black square.
    I don’t have the mass-murderer boots Hawke’s crew wears, and his footwear won’t fit me. Improvising, I pair black socks with my black ballerina flats. That works. I nod, pleased. My disguise is coming together nicely . . . or hideously.
    I collect my hair into a low ponytail and jam a baseball cap on my head. This headgear must be Hawke’s. I found it in the corner of his closet and it’s designed for a giant’s skull, the cap sitting low on my head, shielding my face.
    My entire body is covered in black, cheap material. I gaze at myself in the bathroom mirror. The woman in the reflection is a fashion disaster, my outfit offending every aesthetic sense I have.
    The strange thing is—I feel proud of myself, not depressed with my reflection. I’m doing what I have to do to protect the people I care about.
    The doorbell rings. I freeze, debating what to do. Should I change, hide my disguise from the visitor, or answer dressed as I am?
    The doorbell rings again. I move to the door, peek through the peephole, and relax. Jacob, the security guard from the south building, stands in the hallway, his uniform stretched tight across his stomach. Jacob is a friend. He won’t rat me out. I swing the door open.
    â€œGood morning, Jacob.” I smile.
    â€œGood morning, Miss Bee.” The middle-aged man grins, the skin around his brown eyes crinkling. “Thank you for the macaroni and cheese. I shared it with the missus, and now she wants to adopt you.” He doesn’t seem to notice my unusual outfit.
    â€œMy mom might have