“Athena.” He scoots closer to me, reaches out his hand.

“Don’t touch me.”

“I’ll get you out,” he says in a low voice. “I will.”

“I’m not your problem.”

“I never called you a problem.”

I turn to face him fully. “But that’s what I am, aren’t I?” He’ll never admit it, but he doesn’t have to. I’m so tired of being seen a problem. I want to stand on my own, make my own choices, live my own life.

“You obviously need a place to stay. You can stay with me.”

“Yeah, I’m sure the preacher bringing the hooker home will really make the neighbors pleased.”

“Fortunately, I don’t live my life trying to make my neighbors happy.”

I don’t even try to stop my sarcastic laugh. “And don’t forget what your congregation will say because I’m not sure what Jesus would do, but I’m pretty sure it wouldn’t involve Mary Magdalene, the Vegas Strip, and a condo.”

“Now you’re just being ridiculous.”

He doesn't see it. I have to be ridiculous. It’s the only thing keeping me from succumbing to another crying fit. Or maybe he does see it, because he doesn’t wait for me to reply but takes me by the elbow.

“Come on,” he says.

“Where are we going?” I try to yank my elbow away, but he’s stronger than he looks. His fingers have a grip on me, and he’s not letting go. You don’t get that strong from sitting around meditating your way through life and writing sermons.

“Home,” he says, and he loosens his grip a bit.

“I told you that’s a horrible, rotten idea.”

“And my other choice is what? To leave you here?”

Anyone else would. Anyone else would jump at the chance to leave me in the park. I don’t like the hope that sparks inside my chest. I tell myself he’s doing it because he’s a preacher and he has to. That he wouldn’t leave a dog alone in the park. But it does no good. The hope is there, and like I’d recently discovered, hope is a dangerous thing.

Chapter Ten

He doesn’t talk while we walk to his condo, which is fine with me. The silence allows me time to think. I wonder if Theo is awake and what he did when he saw I’d left. Does Mike know yet? Chills run up and down my arms at that thought, and I actually look over my shoulder, half expecting him to be there.

If I manage to stay out of his grasp, how long will I live looking over my shoulder? It’s a sobering thought, and, truthfully, one I didn’t think of when I decided to run.

But...

Am I’m really worth Mike’s time and effort to track down? He has money coming in from everywhere; I’m just a speck of dirt in his sandbox. I probably bring in pennies compared to his other sources of income. No, I don’t think financially I’m that much of a loss for Mike.

The cost to his pride is another issue altogether.

He may be willing to overlook my disappearance if he looks only at the money, but I’m willing to bet he won’t. He’s been in control of my life for ten years. He isn’t about to give that up. He’ll track me down to save face, and he won’t stop until he finds me.

Isaiah walks with confident steps away from the park, his hand still cupping my elbow. I’ve brought him into this mess with Mike, and now he isn't safe either.

He turns down a street I don’t recognize. How sad is it I know so very little about the city I’ve lived in for ten years? So many places I’ve never been: places I’m not welcome at or that I never have time to visit. There really is life beyond the Strip. Mike keeps us on such a short leash, probably because he knows if we saw everything, we’d never be content with him again.

Though I’m not sure content is the correct word.

It’s not too much longer before we reach a set of nondescript condos. They’re older and look a bit sad and rundown. The roofs need repair and paint is peeling in several places along the wooden trim. It’s definitely a lower-middle-class neighborhood. Most of the cars parked in the spaces are older models, and many have dings and scratches. But for me, the entire scene represents freedom and a new start.

“It’s not much, I know.” He fumbles in his pocket for keys.

“It’s perfect.”

An old lady walking a tiny dog turns the corner, and her eyes latch onto me at once. I groan. I’m wearing jeans and a tee, but I’m sure she knows exactly how I earn my living. After a few years, we all seem to take on a certain look or have a certain vibe. At least, that’s the way I feel. The dog barks and pulls at his leash as they get closer.

“Your neighbors are going to think you’re paying me by the hour.” I fidget in an effort not to pull at my shirt. I’m just an average woman, standing here doing average things.

“Sorry to burst your bubble, but you look like you’ve been to hell and back. Highly doubtful anyone is going to think you’re leading me down the road to ruin.” He waves to the lady. “Hello. Beautiful weather we’re having, isn’t it?”

“It’s Nevada.” She pulls the dog to a stop, which only makes him bark more. “It’s hot.” Her hawk-like gaze travels up and down my outfit. Her nose wrinkles, and she turns to Isaiah. I guess the average vibe didn’t work. “I don't normally see you out when I walk.”

“I’m usually out by six-thirty,” he says with a smile, but it’s not the smile I’m used to seeing. It’s fake and doesn’t light up his face.

The three of us stand there. She’s not moving, and Isaiah isn’t opening his door, though he has found the keys.

“Beatrice Brightman.” She breaks the silence and holds out her free hand.

“Athena Hamilton.” I shake her her hand. “I’m an old friend.”

Her expression says she doubts that very much, but is far too polite to mention as much.

“Let’s get you situated,” Isaiah finally says and unlocks the door.

Beatrice’s mouth drops open, and I take the opportunity to get a word in. “Nice meeting you.” I glance down at the still-yapping dog. “And your dog.”

She huffs, but pulls the little monster along, continuing on her way.

Isaiah watches her with an amused expression. “Lovely lady.”

“You’re a pastor. You’re not supposed to lie.”

He laughs and opens the door, stepping aside to let me pass by him. It’s smaller than my place, filled with secondhand furniture, and someone on the floor above us is bouncing a basketball.

An old couch, probably slipcovered so often no one knows its original color, takes up most of the living room. I sit down; it’s comfortable, though. He settles beside me and the couch shifts slightly under his weight.

My gaze falls on the one picture he has out. It’s of his mom.

Isaiah's mother is descended from what we called Southern royalty.  She can trace her family tree through several Confederate officers and her great-great-something fought the British in the Revolutionary War. I remember her as stark, stiff, and never without a strand of pearls.

My family wasn't rich, but my father worked as a manager in her in-law's company, and that made us acceptable enough in her eyes. My mom spent a lot of time trying to measure up to Mrs. Martin's exacting standards of Southern Womanhood. She always wanted the frosting on the cupcakes to be just right and the cucumber sandwiches to be cut just so.

“How is Mrs. Martin these days?” I ask.

There’s a brief flash of surprise in his eyes, but it goes away when I nod to the picture.

“I haven’t talked to her since I moved here. She’s upset I decided to live in Sin City.” He checks his phone and types something in. “Said if I had to be a preacher, couldn’t I go somewhere worthwhile like the Congo?”

“She’d hate for you to go overseas.”

“Of course. But it’s more impressive to the Ladies Garden Club members if your son’s a potential martyr in the wilds of Africa than if he’s living the good life in Vegas.”

“Your mom’s sick.”

“I like to say she’s misguided.”