The Devil in Me

Cara

My rock bottom is a dirty martini in an upscale hotel bar.

It's drinking on my husband's dime-my ex-husband's dime-and knowing full well this money won't last much longer.

It's having no friends, no prospects, no income, alone in a strange city with nowhere else to go.

But at least I have a dirty martini and another on the way.

"Excuse me, miss?" The bartender is a young guy with an ironic mustache. He leans across the bar and, based on his body language, maybe that second drink isn't coming after all. "Your card was declined."

Panic slams into my chest.

But no, keep it together, it's okay, I was expecting this.

Maybe it's happening sooner than I thought but Christopher wasn't going to bankroll my escape forever.

I'll have to move on when this drink is finished, and hopefully I can find somewhere safe to sleep tonight.

I ended up at the Drake Hotel out of sheer desperation. It's the only place I recognized in Chicago based entirely on driving past it once or twice.

Christopher took me on a couple tours in the back of a town car in those first few hectic days after our move from Philadelphia, but those two short trips are everything I know about this city.

The Drake is entirely too fancy, way too expensive, and far out of my league-a girl in jeans, a zip-up sweatshirt, and my favorite sneakers, the only pair I could bring with me.

"I'm sorry," I say and reach into my pocket. I drop ten different credit cards down onto the bar in front of me. "One of these should work."

The bartender stares at the cards like they're made from slime.

I smile at him sweetly, batting my eyes a little bit, trying to come across as nonthreatening and cute.

Instead of completely psychotic.

It's not working. A few of the suit-wearing businessmen glare at me like I'm a walking trash pile, but I refuse to let them know how mortified I feel right now.

I used to be respectable. I had a husband, a house, a life.

Now, I'm one annoyed bartender away from getting thrown out of this hotel.

"You want me to run all of these?" The bartender's eyebrows shoot up as he raises one of the cards in the air, a pretty little black Amex. "Are you Christopher Conti?"

"I'm his wife." Which is true, technically speaking, and I don't have any clue how I'll take care of that nagging issue. But one world-ending problem at a time.

"Right," the bartender says and his expression flattens as he puts the card back down. "Sorry, miss, but I can't use this. Do you have one with your name on it? And some ID, please? Or maybe you can pay in cash."

I definitely can't pay in cash.

I left the house two hours ago with nothing but my shoes, the clothes on my back, and the stack of credit cards Christopher kept in the top drawer of his nightstand.

This was not the most well-thought-out plan ever.

But it was either leave with no warning and nothing to weigh me down, or risk him finding me and dragging me back.

I'd rather face the wrath of this hipster bartender than my ex-husband.

The bartender probably won't punch me in the face.

I nudge a metal visa at him and toss out another prize-winning smile. "Try this one. It's also in my husband's name, but-"

"I'm sorry, I just-" he says, interrupting me.

I talk louder. Confidence! Big smile! "It'll be fine, this one will work, can you just-"