Shaking my head, I watched two guys in gloves going at it with each other in one of the boxing rings. I’d gotten a job at the hottest nightclub in New Orleans because I’d heard the Fury brothers were tough. They protected their patch of the city, and stood up to the gangs, cartels, and criminals.

It made it the perfect place to hide under the radar.

“Bye, Shay.” I waved. “I need to get to work.” Glancing at my watch, I saw I had exactly fifteen minutes to shower, dress in my uniform, and hightail it to the club.

“Bye, Mila.”

In the ladies change room, I tapped the code into the locker and pulled out my backpack. The first thing I did was check my laptop was in there. It was a habit now. As I touched the cool metal, the pressure I always seemed to feel eased a little.

I also kept a stash of cash tucked into a pocket I’d sewed in the bottom of the backpack. My emergency fund. It was a little low right now, but I’d build it back up.

It took me two minutes to shower and dress. In the foggy mirror above the row of basins, I caught my reflection. It was still a jolt to see my dark hair. I’d dyed it black after I’d gone on the run, and it was half a step above horrible. I wrinkled my nose. Black didn’t suit me. I missed my caramel-blonde hair. I’d loved it, spent hours styling it.

Now, my harsh, black hair was usually up in a careless bun or ponytail.

Now, all I could do was hide and survive.

I fiddled with the shiny gold halter top. All the bartenders and servers at the club wore black trousers and gold tops. Well, the men got black shirts with gold stitching, but I was just grateful my top wasn’t low cut or strapless. The halter top was actually pretty comfortable.

After stuffing everything in my backpack, I headed out. It was a balmy summer evening in New Orleans. Growing up in Louisiana, I was used to warm temperatures and humidity.

I hurried down the street. I liked the Arts/Warehouse district. There were loads of art galleries and lots of places to eat, but it wasn’t quite as crazy as the French Quarter and Bourbon Street. Most of the old warehouses had been converted into galleries or loft apartments, and I really wished I could afford to live in one.

I walked past Smokehouse. The bar was running a brisk trade. I saw several groups sitting out on the front patio, sharing drinks and laughing. One table had a bunch of helium balloons in the center. Celebrating someone’s birthday. Another table held a couple clearly on a date, and yet another one held a family with teenagers hunched over their cellphones.