by Skye Warren
I am cautious, looking left and right before using the key card. I am always cautious, because if someone tracked me here and really wanted to hurt me, I’d be screwed. My only saving grace today was that Kip hadn’t tracked me all the way home. And that he hadn’t wanted to hurt me.
No, he just wants to fuck you.
All the lights are off, even the bathroom. “Clara,” I whisper.
No answer. I step farther into the room, and my eyes slowly adjust. I can make out the two beds and the table in the corner. And a dark bundle in the center of one bed, almost hidden in the shadows. I cross the room and gently shake her shoulder.
Clara blinks up at me. “Honor?”
“I’m here.”
“Oh thank God. I was so worried about you. You were late. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” My voice comes out too sharp, so I try to soften it. “I’m fine, but you remember what we talked about. If there’s trouble, I won’t bring it back to the room. You have the stash of money and—”
“I’m not leaving without you,” she says fiercely.
Worry tightens my gut. If anything goes wrong at the strip club, if I don’t come back when I’m supposed to, Clara is supposed to run. Without me. But she never quite agrees to it. Sometimes she is silent while I detail the escape routes. Other times she tells me no.
I extend my hand, and she lets me pull her up. I don’t let go, instead hugging her close and breathing deep. We may not agree on everything, but I love her. She’s my sister, and I’ll never let anything happen to her. She squeezes me back, tight enough to steal my breath.
Her voice is small. “I thought you might not come back.”
It’s easy to forget that she’s only sixteen. She’s been brave through this whole thing, but she’s still a kid. She should be worrying about pop quizzes and who asks her to homecoming.
Not living in a broken-down motel, afraid of a man at the door.
My throat feels too tight to answer. But she’s counting on me to be strong, so I am. She’s the only thing keeping me together. The urge for us to run now rises up in me. Kip’s questions hit too close to home. He knows something more than he’s telling me, but it could just as easily be about the club than my past. And Ivan… well, now he’s telling me not to leave. It’s a shit time for him to take an interest.
We’ll stay, for now. “Remember, Clara. If I don’t come back twenty-four hours after I should, you need to go. Don’t ask questions. And don’t wait for me.”
She looks down. It’s not agreement, but it’s all I can get for now.
I change the subject. “Did you do your lessons today?”
She can’t go to high school, and obviously we don’t have the tutors from home, but I still insist she does her high school course work. I’m determined that she’s going to at least have the knowledge, even if she won’t have the diploma with her name on it. One day in the future, the dust will settle.
One day she’ll be able to live a regular life. I have to believe that, or all of this is for nothing. Every baring of my breasts, every touch of a stranger—for nothing.
I see you expecting the best from the men that come through there. It’s a kind of suicide, sweetheart.
“Of course. It was easy.” Clara switches on a lamp, sending a weak glow over the tattered bedspread and furniture.
“Give it to me. I’ll check it.”
She rolls her eyes and hands over the workbooks. “Yes, Mom.”
I freeze, remembering the dark-haired, dark-eyed woman who was our mother. The woman Clara barely knew. A deep longing rends my chest. I know she couldn’t have helped us through this. In some ways it’s her fault we’re in this mess. But I still miss her.
Clara looks stricken. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”
Her cheeks are still gently rounded, as are her arms. I grew up like a beanpole, growing breasts late. They’re still small for a stripper. But Clara was always a bundle of joyful, chubby girl. She’s gotten slimmer as she grows into a teenager, her waist tightening, her curves turning womanly. But her eyes still sparkle like a child’s. Eventually her baby fat will fall away. She will no longer curl up like a child when she sleeps. But I want that sparkle to stay.
I’ll do anything to keep it. I already have.
“It’s okay,” I say softly. “I’m just sorry you didn’t get to know her longer.”
She takes my hand. “I am too. But I couldn’t ask for a better big sister.”
“God, you’re sweet.” And it strikes me then, with the force of an explosion, how similar she is to Kip. How open they both are. Maybe that’s why I seem to trust Kip, even when I clearly shouldn’t. Maybe that’s why I don’t want him to die.
Her smile is like his too—sad. “I love you.”
My hand tightens around hers like a vise. I can’t say it back. Haven’t been able to say the word love since the day I heard my mother cry out for the last time. There are too many other words crowding it out. Words like run and hide and don’t let them touch you.
And the biggest word of all, floating right at the surface, struggling to break free. Help.
Chapter Seven
The first thing I see when I walk into the dressing room is Candy’s glossy blonde hair. Relief courses through me, more than I’d even expected. It’s dangerous¸ that relief. I shouldn’t be forming attachments here. I might have to leave at a moment’s notice. Leaving is hard enough—covering my tracks and finding a new job that doesn’t ask questions. What I don’t need is to leave friends behind. Candy is a coworker. Practically a stranger.
Still, my chest feels tight when I see her safe and sound. “I was worried about you,” I blurt out before I can stop it.
She turns, and I can see the shadow around one eye and the puffiness of her lower lip. I can see the tension in the fake smile she gives me. She isn’t safe after all, isn’t sound.
“You shouldn’t have,” she says. “Just partying too hard. Having too much fun.”
I reach for her mouth, pulling back when she flinches. “That doesn’t look like fun,” I say softly.
Her gaze drops. “Things got out of hand.”
Things have a way of doing that. I drop to my knees, kneeling in front of her, hoping she’ll see me. Really see me. “Candy. Is there anything I can do? Can I help?”
Her throat moves as she swallows. “You have your own shit to deal with.”
And my sister comes first. Of course she does. If there’s only room for one person on the raft, I’d give it to Clara. I’m already doing that. But I can’t look away when I see Candy like this, bruised and afraid. I’ve been there. “Is it a boyfriend? Can you leave him?”
That makes her smile for real. “Like you?”
My breath squeezes out of me. “Sometimes it’s better than staying.”
“Out of the frying pan, into the fire. Do you think you’re safe here? I don’t know where you came from, but this can’t be much better.”
I shiver, hearing the echo of Kip’s words in hers. How about because you’re not safe there? None of you are. Candy and I may not be safe, but no one is touching my sister. No one is making her eye dark and her lip puffy. That’s a hell of a lot better.
“Maybe you should tell Ivan,” I say, standing.
She laughs. “He’ll like it too much.”
My stomach turns over. “He’s not that bad.”
“He’s soft on you. You’re made of glass. He knows that. They all know that.”
Anger rises up in me. “I’m not fragile.”
I’m not exactly strong either—something better than that. I’m already torn apart, already in pieces. There’s nothing left to break.
She stands then too, bringing us chest to chest. A challenging glint enters her pretty blue eyes. “Aren’t you? Coming in here, trying to help me, like we’re besties or something. Showing up at my place because you’re worried I’m OD’ing.”
Her words are like a harsh gust of wind, stealing my breat
h and pushing me back a step. “How did you—”
“I know some of those guys on the steps.” Her eyebrows rise. “I’ve fucked some of them. They told me a girl with black hair and small tits and the greenest eyes they ever saw—like money, they said—came and knocked on my door.”
“You could have been OD’ing,” I say with disgust—at myself. “You could have been getting a beating. And I left you there.”
“As opposed to what, camping outside my door?” She scoffs. “And anyway, the assholes on the stairs let you leave. Because you’re like a goddamn Mother Theresa, and even those hardened assholes didn’t want to touch your pale, innocent skin.”
“Why are you pissed that I was worried about you? Is it so bad that someone cares?”
“Yes, it is so fucking bad. It’s a death sentence around here, so cut that shit out.”
Realization settles over me. “Oh. You’re worried about me.”
She scowls. “I couldn’t care less about you. I was dancing before you got here, and I’ll be dancing when you’re gone. You’re a goddamn chime of the clock.”
I can’t really help the smile that spreads across my face. “You really care.”
“I really, really don’t.”
“Can we braid each other’s hair and tell ghost stories?” I tease.
An exasperated look crosses over her face, so vehement, so desperate that I think she might actually hit me. That’s how much she doesn’t want to care about me. How much she wants to stay detached, just like I did. But we can’t quite do it. Maybe that is a death sentence, but if it is, we’re already dead.
She glances to the door—empty—and then back at me. Her voice is quiet and, this time, sincere. She isn’t trying to pretend we don’t care. She’s telling me that she does. “You might be safe in my apartment. People know me there. But not on the street. Not wandering around alone. And if you got caught there, who would take care of whoever it is you’re hiding.”
My eyes widen, because I may have formed attachments at work, but I’ve never confided about Clara. She’s never been to the club, and she’ll never come here. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I’ve seen you take food from the kitchen at the end of the day. And since you’re thin as a beanpole, I figured you weren’t chowing down while watching infomercials.”
I shut my eyes. “Has anyone else—”
“Not that I know of. Even Lola doesn’t suspect. I’d know if she did because we talk about you.”
Despite my distress, my lips lift in a faint smile. “Gee, thanks.”
“It’s because we do care,” she whispers. “And we don’t want you to die.”
* * *
I’m blinded every time I go onstage, but this time is different. Because even though I can’t see, I know Kip is there. I can feel him watching me, wanting me, counting on me. When I am onstage, it’s impossible to hide. I’m exposed. And I have to face the pain in my chest, the one I feel because I’m bound to let him down.
I dance with sure feet and strong hips. I dance like this will be my last time onstage. I dance for him.
Even though I pretend not to see him near the front. For a man undercover, he isn’t hiding. He isn’t slinking near the edges, in the shadows, hoping not to be seen. He’s in plain sight—like me. We have that in common. It binds us together when I’d rather forget.
Blue finds me after my dance, when I would have gone onto the floor to make the rounds. He grabs me when I try to move past him. “What happened to Candy?” he demands.
I blink, taken aback. Sometimes he seems to almost care about us girls. Although maybe he’s just angry at damaged goods. And his fingers dig into my arm. “I don’t know. She didn’t tell me.”
“She talks to you.”
“Well, not about that.”
He blows out a breath and looks to the side. His hand falls away. “Is it the same place Lola’s gone?”
I didn’t even know Lola had left. If we are soldiers, we are falling one by one. What are we defending? I have Clara. I don’t know what Lola or Candy has. “I thought she wasn’t working today.”
“Only because she called and took herself off rotation. It’s not like her to miss a Saturday, though. Not when Ivan—” He stops abruptly, lips firming. He’s said too much, which is strange enough. But I can feel his distress, which is stranger still.
His concern feels like water tugging at my feet, an undertow. It’s swirling beneath the surface, waiting to suck me down. There’s a current in this club. I can’t see it, but I can feel it.
“Lola can take care of herself,” I say because it’s true. Between the three of us, Lola is the tough one. The take-no-prisoners one. Men need to look out when she prowls through the floor, not the other way around.
“Yeah, right,” he mutters. “Just like Candy and you.”
I flinch. “We do our job. That’s all you pay us to do.”
His grin is dark and unpleasant. “And I do my job, which is to keep you ladies pretty and available.”
It’s almost soothing to hear his crude words, having the Blue I know and loathe back. He’s an asshole, and I wouldn’t know how to deal with him otherwise. “I’m available. For those who pay.” I raise my eyebrows to let him know that he hasn’t. Not ever.
Not for any of the girls, as far as I know.
His eyes darken as he looks me up and down, taking my measure. He’s had his hands on every girl in this club, if only to rough us up or move us around. We are dolls to him, and he’s the one pulling strings. There is lust in his eyes, and a threat. But his heart’s not in it.
The startling thing is to realize he has a heart after all.
“Look, if you want to keep us pretty, check on Candy. Someone’s hurting her.”
“No shit,” he snaps. “She looks like a fucking evidence photo. How am I supposed to put her on the floor?”
Charming. “If you don’t know who’s messing with her, tell Ivan. He’ll get it out of her.”
“I bet he will,” he mutters in a tone that means exactly what Candy had said. He’d like it too much. “Maybe I should tell him about you.”
My heart thuds. Does he mean Kip? Ivan must have told him I’m supposed to stay away. So why hasn’t Blue told on me yet? What does he want from me—a bribe? “What do you want?”
His gaze sharpens. “I want you to do your fucking job.”
It’s hard to speak. “I’m doing it.”
“And watch your back.”
My chest feels tight. “I always do.”
He sighs, shaking his head.
He doesn’t believe me—or maybe he just knows it’s a hopeless cause. I can watch my back. I can watch as the tiger gets closer. I can watch as he leaps. And there won’t be a damn thing I can do to stop him.
“I know that guy,” he says. “When you’ve been in the game as long as I have, you get to know who the players are.”
“What game is that?”
A smile then. “The killing game.”
Chapter Eight
The club doesn’t have any windows, but I know it’s been raining. The customer’s clothes are wet—especially the tops of their shirts and the hems of their pants. They hustle inside and then linger over empty glasses, reluctant to get rained on again. That would be good for business, except that a bunch of horny guys who would’ve come in have decided to stay home. It’s dead here.
I finish my dances and make the rounds with minimal fanfare. When it’s time to go home, I’m exhausted, my mind numb. I wrap my jacket tightly around me as I step outside.
There’s only a light drizzle, though the hours of stormy weather have left their mark. All the surfaces are slick, from the brick walls to the metal lampposts. Puddles stretch over the sidewalk, almost touching. I pick my way through them. My feet are already aching. The last thing I need is a shoe full of freezing water.
I’m so focused on the ground that I almost don’t see anyone there.
A shadow det
aches from the wall.
I only have time to gasp and clutch the duffel bag to my body like a shield. Then a hand is on my arm, tugging me in, dragging me into the alley.
My shout is muffled by the hand that is over my mouth.
I’m pressed with my back to the cool brick, a hard body in front of me, unmovable—trapped. It’s pitch-black in the alley, with only our harsh breaths mingling, communicating before we’ve said a word.
His head lowers. I can’t even see the shadow, the shape of it. I can only feel him coming closer.
Warm lips press against my temple. It feels almost chaste, except that he’s holding me up against a wall, pressing his whole body into me, thick and hard against my hip.
I shiver.
“Easy,” a low voice says in the darkness.
Kip. Relief fills me even though it shouldn’t. I can’t trust him. He’s speaking to me like I’m an animal, a horse he has to gentle so I don’t rear up.
And maybe that’s all I am, because my instinct is to fight.
He removes his hand from my mouth, and I hiss, “What are you doing?”
I hate that my voice comes out wobbly.
“Waiting for you.”
That’s what I was afraid of. But if he wants to hurt me, he’ll have to try harder than that. I’ll make him fight for it. The killing game. I don’t even know what that means. I just know I can’t trust him. “Get away from me.”
I don’t expect him to listen—but he does. He steps back. Just enough that the streetlamp outlines his height, his shoulders. I still can’t see his expression. He is only a shadow, a deep voice. Only a question. “Who were you afraid of?”
You. “Men who drag me into alleyways.”
“I’m not going to hurt you. Only talk.”
“Is that why you kissed me?”
“That wasn’t intentional. You smelled so fucking good.”
“I smell like I’ve been dancing onstage for hours. Which I have been.”
He leans close, breathing in at my temple. Inhaling me. “So fucking good.”