Chapter 2
Willow's POV
The beam of my flashlight cut through the darkness, dancing over the churning surface of the Los Angeles River. At 2 AM, this wasn't how I planned to end my night after a six-hour shift at the Sunset Strip Lounge. But I'd definitely heard someone shouting for help.
"Hello?" I called out, sweeping the light across the water. My arms ached from mixing drinks all night, and my feet throbbed in my boots.
A flailing arm broke the surface. "Help! I'm drowning!"
Shit. This was real.
The stage makeup from tonight's performance was still caked on my face – heavily lined eyes, contoured cheekbones, and deep red lips to give me cheekbones that could cut glass. My black crop jacket squeaked against my skin as I moved closer to the edge. Not exactly rescue-appropriate attire, but there wasn't time for a wardrobe change.
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. Thank God for mandatory safety equipment. 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 (hauling handsy drunks out of the club had given me decent upper body 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."
In my flashlight beam, I made out an expensive suit, now ruined, and a face that seemed oddly familiar.
"Wait a minute," I murmured. "I've seen you somewhere... Forbes magazine, maybe?"
He didn't respond, eyes fluttering between consciousness and something else. I quickly wiped my thumb across his lips, erasing evidence of my gothic kiss.
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. 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. I was too busy trying to keep Mr. Millionaire alive to feel it.
The ambulance arrived quickly. The paramedic asked if I knew him.
"No idea," I replied. "Just pulled him out. Had to give him CPR too."
"You coming along?"
I glanced at my watch – 3:15 AM. I had to be at ValueMart by 6. Another day of double shifts stretched ahead of me. "Yeah, I'll follow you."
As I rode downtown, the city revealed itself in all its insomnia-fueled glory. The cold air bit through my damp clothes, raising goosebumps on my skin. Traffic lights changed for empty intersections, and neon signs flickered like mechanical fireflies. Los Angeles never truly slept – it just shifted into a different kind of awakeness.
When I approached the financial district, my eyes were drawn to massive billboards. And there she was – Chloe Sinclair, her perfect profile gazing from three different buildings. One ad for luxury perfume, another for designer handbags, and a third announcing her charity gala next month.
My stomach knotted at the sight of her face – my face, but polished to high-society shine. The sister I'd never known until three months ago, the twin who'd been kept while I'd been given away. I gunned the engine, accelerating past her fifty-foot smile.
"Must be nice," I muttered inside my helmet. "Being the version they decided to keep."
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. "Ms. Chloe Sinclair? Is that really you? With this... unique makeup?"
I froze. Chloe Sinclair – the notorious socialite, LA's golden girl, and apparently my doppelgänger. The woman whose charmed life I'd watched from afar, wondering what twist of fate had separated us.
"Um, yeah," I mumbled, deciding explanations would only complicate things.
Her demeanor changed instantly. "We'll take excellent care of your friend."
I winced as I typed my PIN, watching my bank balance shrink dramatically. The doctors assured "Ms. Sinclair" that the patient was suffering from mild drowning symptoms and severe intoxication, but would recover fully.
Before leaving, I scribbled a note: "If you wake up, remember you owe me money. Rescue fee: $2,000. CPR fee: priceless. Call me." I added my phone number and left it on his bedside table.
It was almost 4 AM when I got back to my motorcycle. Two hours until my ValueMart shift. I texted Jenny: "Emergency SOS. Can you cover my 6-11 AM shift today? Literal life or death situation. Please??"
Her quick response brought relief: "Sure thing. You OK? Also you owe me one of those fancy coffees you hate."
"You're a lifesaver," I replied. "Coffee with all the stupid whipped cream. Promise."
As I rode toward my apartment in Angelino Courts, I couldn't help wondering about the drunk millionaire. Would he remember his promise? Even a fraction would help with my adoptive parents' medical bills.
But I'd learned long ago that in Los Angeles, promises from rich men usually evaporated faster than morning dew under the California sun.