Chapter 1
Willow's POV
The neon sign of Sunset Strip Lounge flickered in the darkness as I hurried through the back entrance. The bass from the speakers already thumped through my body, setting the rhythm for what would be another long night. Mike, the bouncer, gave me a nod as I rushed past.
"Cutting it close tonight, Wildfire," he called out, checking his watch.
"Traffic was a bitch," I shouted back, shaking out my hair. "Marco in yet?"
"Been asking for you. Better hurry."
I darted through the dimly lit corridor toward the dressing room, nearly colliding with Carlos as she emerged from the bar with a tray of empty glasses.
"Whoa there, speed racer," she laughed, deftly balancing the tray. Her dark curls were pulled back in a messy bun, bartender's apron already splashed with cranberry juice. "Marco's on the warpath. Said if you're late again, he's cutting your set time."
"Like hell he will," I muttered. "Save me a lemon water for after?"
"Always do," Carlos winked. "By the way, I got those painkillers you asked for. They're in your locker. For your dad?"
I nodded gratefully. "Thanks, Carlos. You're a lifesaver."
"That's what friends are for. Now go get ready before Marco combusts."
The dressing room mirror reflected a woman I barely recognized—heavily lined eyes, contoured cheekbones, and deep red lips. Perfect. No one would connect this face to the cashier who scanned groceries at ValueMart during daylight hours.
My stage time passed in a blur of music, movement, and the steady rain of dollar bills. When a particularly enthusiastic patron tried climbing onto the stage, Beckett Wilder was there in an instant, smoothly redirecting the man while making it look like part of the show.
Without missing a beat, Beck grabbed the mic, his messy dreadlocks bouncing as he jumped onto the stage beside me. He launched into an impromptu rap that had the crowd roaring their approval.
"That was fire," he said afterward, handing me a glass of lemon water at the bar. "You okay? You seem distracted tonight."
"Just tired," I replied, gulping down the water. "Two jobs, not enough hours in the day."
"My offer still stands. Come by the studio, make some real money."
I shook my head. "Maybe another time."
It was past 2 AM when I finally headed home, my tips secured in a hidden compartment of my motorcycle. The night air had turned cold, cutting through my jacket as I twisted the throttle of my fire-red Western, sending it roaring down the empty streets.
My thoughts were interrupted by a strange sound as I took the shortcut along the Los Angeles River. I slowed down, the rumble of my engine quieting enough for me to hear what sounded like... a cry for help?
The beam of my flashlight cut through the darkness, dancing over the churning surface of the water. At 2 AM, this wasn't how I planned to end my night after a six-hour shift. But I'd definitely heard someone shouting.
"Hello?" I called out, sweeping the light across the water.
A flailing arm broke the surface. "Help! I'm drowning!"
Shit. This was real.
The man's head bobbed up again. "Save me!" he sputtered, coughing up water. "I'll give you... one million!"
I couldn't help but laugh. "Sure thing, Tommy Vercetti. Did you swim all the way from Vice City?"
Spotting a life ring attached to a nearby post, I grabbed it and the rope. With the precision I'd developed from years of choreographed dance moves, I hurled it toward him. "Grab it!" I shouted.
He lunged for the ring, movements sluggish. The sharp smell of alcohol hit me as I pulled him closer – drunk swimming, brilliant idea. Using all my strength, I dragged him onto the muddy bank.
He collapsed face-down, motionless. I turned him over and realized he wasn't breathing.
My flashlight revealed his face clearly – sharp jawline, designer stubble, features that belonged on magazine covers. Handsome in that polished, executive way. Dark hair plastered to his forehead, expensive watch glinting on his wrist. And definitely not breathing.
"Dammit," I muttered. I'd need to give him mouth-to-mouth. The thought made me hesitate – my lips on some drunk stranger who'd been swimming in the LA River? Gross. But then I remembered: "one million." For that kind of money, I'd kiss worse things than a waterlogged rich guy.
"You better not be faking this for a free kiss," I said, tilting his head back. The stench of expensive whiskey was overwhelming – the kind they served to VIPs at the lounge, not the well drinks I usually poured.
I pinched his nose, took a deep breath, and pressed my dark-painted lips against his. I blew air into his lungs, watching his chest rise and fall. Nothing. I tried again, then started compressions, feeling his ribs flex beneath my palms.
"Come on," I grunted between compressions. "A million dollars, remember? You can't pay me if you're dead."
I gave him two more breaths, my black lipstick leaving perfect imprints on his mouth. After what felt like forever, he suddenly convulsed, water spewing from his lips as he coughed violently. I quickly turned him onto his side as river water mixed with whiskey poured out.
"That's it," I encouraged, relief washing over me. "Get it all out."
His eyelids fluttered briefly, revealing unfocused eyes. He mumbled something incoherent before slipping back into unconsciousness. His breathing was shallow but steady.
I patted down his pockets, finding a wallet with hundreds but no ID. His wrist sported a Rolex that probably cost more than my yearly rent.
I called 911, giving them our location along the river. While waiting, I kept checking his breathing and pulse. As I adjusted his position, something from his jacket came loose – a small, ornate badge that fell into my jacket pocket without me noticing.
Headlights cut through the darkness as the ambulance arrived. Two paramedics jumped out, equipment in hand.
"What happened?" the first one asked, kneeling beside the man.
"Found him drowning in the river. Had to pull him out and give him CPR. Pretty sure he's drunk," I explained, stepping back to give them room.
The paramedic nodded, already checking vital signs. "Good work. You probably saved his life."
They worked quickly, strapping an oxygen mask to his face and loading him onto a stretcher. As they wheeled him toward the ambulance, the second paramedic turned to me.
"You coming along? We need someone to fill out paperwork."
I glanced at my watch – 3:15 AM. "Yeah, I'll follow you on my bike."
The Angeles Heights Medical Institute was exactly what you'd expect – marble floors, tasteful artwork, and receptionists who looked like models. The antiseptic smell couldn't mask the underlying scent of privilege.
"We need payment information," the clerk said, eyeing my appearance with judgment. My makeup was smeared, my clothes damp, and I probably smelled like the river.
"I'm not related to him," I explained. "Just pulled him out and gave him mouth-to-mouth."
"Since you brought him in..."
I sighed. "How much?"
"The preliminary fee is $2,000."
My heart sank. That was almost half a month's wages from both jobs. So much for fixing the leak in my apartment ceiling.
When I handed over my driver's license, the clerk's eyes widened. She looked from the ID to my face and back again.
"Ms. Chloe Sinclair?" she whispered, awe filling her voice.
