Free Wrong then Right (A Love Happens Novel Book 2) by Jodi Watters Page A

Hope’s inaugural shift finally ended—in the middle of the freaking night—she’d taken a long, hot shower in one of the club’s surprisingly clean private bathrooms, borrowing Bridget’s green apple scented body wash to scrub her skin raw. Before leaving the club for the night, she thanked Bridge and hugged her without thought, because once you’ve barfed with a strange woman’s enormous rack plastered against your back, nicknames and public displays of affection seemed appropriate.
    Hair still wet, she’d locked herself in her car, carefully counting the fat wad of cash she’d earned running her half naked ass off, not including the paltry hourly wage she was due.
    And then she counted it again, just to make sure her math was correct.
    The following night, she’d shown up for her shift early, this time with dollar signs in her eyes and a smile that wasn’t completely phony. And she didn’t throw up once.
     

CHAPTER SIX
    Selling yourself for pocket change? Like mother, like daughter. Daddy would not be proud.
    Surprised at the relatively clean content of the text she’d just received, the message not as vile or insulting as some of the other’s, Hope swiped the words away with the slide of her thumb and closed the screen. Not bothering to delete the growing chain of text threats from the blocked number, she dropped the phone down into the empty cup holder with a thud. Her sicko phone stalker must be bored tonight. He didn’t normally send his creepy messages in the middle of the night, preferring instead to freak her shit in the harsh light of day.
    Her gaze darted to the rear view mirror anxiously, even though no car was behind her, chiding herself as she did so. She was in the suburbs for Christ’s sake, not the inner city. Mission Hills was hardly a crime ridden neighborhood, the roads predictably deserted as it neared midnight.
    Flipping the headlights off as her car rolled to a stop on the quiet residential street, she parked her trusty sedan under the familiar jacaranda tree, it’s majestic canopy of brilliant lavender flowers and thick, scaly trunk providing a false sense of security. The faint glow of streetlights lined the historic Mission Hills district where she parked her car and slept several nights a week, but the affluent residential neighborhood where families flocked to live the good life gave Hope the desired privacy she sought. Once the eleven o’clock news was over and Kimmel started, the lights in the windows went off, assuring her a few hours of restful sleep with her car humbly inconspicuous under the cover of wealthy suburban darkness.
    And, of course, her beloved, decades old jacaranda tree.
    Sitting one after another along well kept streets named after birds, the quaint homes were usually bustling with all sorts of minivan-ish activity during the day, but they lit up only randomly during the night. A little boy with a tummy ache, maybe. Or a pigtailed girl with a monster under her bed. Both lucky enough to have a parent who gave a single shit, willing to forgo a few minutes of shut eye to tend to their ailing child.
    Built mostly in the early twentieth century, the neighborhood was a mix of old Craftsman bungalows, Prairie style homes, and Spanish and Mission Revivals, their variety a perfect blend of solid, sturdy architecture. Some were renovated to their historically charming selves, their slightly slanting foundations overlooked by the rich history the home stood for. And some, while still beautiful in their aging originality, were in need of the healthy budget it took to restore a period home to its deserved condition. A face lift could work wonders, but when you were a hundred years old, a little slanting to the side was to be expected.
    Hope had never step foot inside any of these houses, even though she knew them like the back of her hand. Knew when a palm tree was pruned too severely or when a new hibiscus was planted in shade instead of the sunny spot it preferred.