by Skye Warren
I learned long ago to keep some things to myself. So I curl my hand into a fist and push out the back door. There is only one place around here I’ll find privacy. Not onstage. Not even in the motel room I share with my sister. No, my refuge is the roof of the building, behind the stairs.
Metal creaks as I climb to the top. The old fire escape isn’t remotely stable, and that means I’ll be left alone. Cracked concrete and debris, so different from the fine ballet floor my father had installed.
No one can see me here, and when I dance, I dance for myself.
A simple dance, without music—only the sound of my breath. Plié. Relevés. I dance for myself as the sun spreads over the city, yellow hands reaching building by building, until my muscles are sore and my breath comes short. I stretch my body in a grand arabesque until it becomes my own again—no longer a thing to be wrung out by other hands. I push myself now.
I make myself hurt.
If I’m too late, Clara will worry. So eventually I grab my duffel bag and head for the stairs. I climb down, yanking at the strap of my bag where it gets caught on the metal.
“Need a hand?”
I jump and almost bang my head into the railing. That voice. It rumbles through me, diving for every soft and vulnerable space, making me flinch. Kip.
I whirl to face him. “You scared me.”
He raises an eyebrow, looking wholly unconcerned. “I wondered where you went.”
My heart is still beating too fast, and I take the opportunity to examine him. He wears his usual dark T-shirt and dark jeans, with a black leather jacket. I don’t fuck around, the clothes say. I’ve seen a lot of posers come through the club, but the watchful eyes and scarred hands back up his claim. This is a man who knows how to fight. This is a man who has fought before—and won.
I have no business with a man like this. I don’t need another person to perform for.
“Don’t,” I say flatly. “Don’t wonder. If I’m not in the club, I’m unavailable. If I’m not there, I don’t even exist. Forget you even know me.”
He smiles without humor. “I’m afraid I can’t do that.”
Of course he can’t. Or won’t. But then, I can’t seem to stop thinking about him either. And not just when he’ll show up again and whether he’ll fuck me. Not just how much he’ll pay me. No, I can’t help wondering where he goes when he leaves. If there’s a woman waiting for him. Hoping there’s not.
Crazy.
I heft the bag high on my shoulder and push past him. “I’ve had a long day.”
“Let me walk you home,” he says. And then he plucks the bag off my shoulder without waiting for a response. “I already know where you live,” he says when he sees me open my mouth. “So you’re not giving anything away by letting me come.”
I snort. “Right.”
“I’m just walking. Making sure you get home safe. Then I’m gone.”
I shouldn’t believe him.
Hesitating, I wrap my arms around myself. A shudder runs through me. Sometimes I just get so damned tired of protecting myself—of protecting Clara. Of being vigilant against everything and everyone. Sometimes I wish someone would be on my side, someone I wouldn’t have to protect.
“Hey,” he says, his expression softening. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
“Aren’t you?” All my bitterness, my fiercest wish for relief comes out in the question.
His eyes widen a moment. Then he looks away.
And isn’t that my answer right there? It’s not even a surprise. The bile that rises in my throat is completely uncalled for. He’s just like all the other men in that building.
Worse, because he makes me hope for something more.
He seems to be struggling with himself. Over how much to tell me? Over whether to hurt me? As rough and cold as he is, I can’t really imagine him dragging me into the nearest alleyway and beating me. But then again, most men didn’t see Byron as a monster.
The woman. The woman closest to a man can tell you what he’s really like. Sometimes she’s the only one who knows.
“I just want to walk you home,” he says quietly, and it has the ring of truth.
And I can’t fight him anymore. He’s here with his tiny drops of kindness, and I am dying of thirst. “Fine. Walk me home then. But you have to tell me something about yourself. Something other people don’t know about you. That’s the price.”
He will have to perform for me instead of the other way around.
He doesn’t seem surprised. He nods and starts walking. I follow him, reluctantly curious to hear what he’ll tell me. I have to admit, it’s kind of nice without the strap of the bag digging into my shoulder. And it’s very nice not having to watch every shadow against some unseen attacker. No one will bother me with Kip at my side.
“My mother,” he says. “She sang. Professionally, for a short time. Plays and stuff, before she got knocked up and married my asshole of a father.”
“Wow.”
“She had a beautiful voice.” He laughs softly. “Not many toddlers get sung Madame Butterfly for naptime. She wanted me to be better than this.”
My heart clenches at the hardness in his expression, like he’s holding something back. Emotion. I guess even men who fuck strippers in back rooms and then stalk them have feelings too. I don’t want to care, but empathy creeps over me like the sun to the city—unstoppable.
“I’m sorry,” I say finally. Because even though I don’t know the end to his story, I do. Whether that asshole father was abusive and eventually killed her or whether she just died a sad death, I know the ending isn’t a happy one. I know that from the clench of his jaw and the tightness of his fists.
I swallow, thinking of my own mother. Surely she wanted better for me than this, than a stripper for a daughter. “Maybe she understands,” I say, voice shaky. “Maybe she knows you’re doing your best.”
He looks down, and I can only see him in profile. We walk another block before he brings himself under control. “You remind me of her,” he finally says.
I almost stumble even though there’s no crack in the sidewalk. And I’m never clumsy. There’s nothing to blame this on except pure shock. But I force myself to keep walking, head down. It may not be what I expected, but I know that from him it’s the highest compliment. “Thank you.”
“She had so many dreams. And no hope.”
Or maybe not a compliment. And it makes me angry for him to think of her like that. To think of me like that—so many dreams and no hope. “That’s not fair. She could’ve hoped and not told you.”
He laughs. “Oh, she told me. She told me about the mansion we’d live in and about traveling the world. We lived in the fucking rubble of those dreams. We lived on them. There was damn well nothing else. Instead of enough food for dinner, we had stories. She didn’t deserve that. And neither do you.”
“That’s not what I’m doing. I’m not waiting around for someone to come with a mansion or a plane ticket.” Actually I wouldn’t mind the plane ticket right about now. But I’ve had more than my fill of mansions and their locks and their secrets.
“Do you know how the tiger got his stripes?”
“Should I?”
“Probably not. It was in the book of stories from Kipling, the garage-sale antique.” His smile is both mocking and fond.
It makes my heart ache, imagining him as a little boy—hungry and yearning. “So what is this story?”
“It’s dark,” he warns, “as these stories often are. The animal kingdom is a violent place.”
Not so different from the human world then. “I’m not afraid.”
“Aren’t you?”
I don’t answer.
He tips his head down, hiding his expression. “So the tiger used to be the king of the jungle. Not the lion. Back then the tiger didn’t have any stripes. And he ruled with complete wisdom and mercy.”
“The good old days,” I say, voice wry.
He glances at me, lids half-lowered. �
��But one day two bucks came to him for advice, covered in blood. The tiger was taken by bloodlust and jumped on one of them, ripping out his throat.”
I swallow. Not so different from the human world at all.
“And so the tiger left the jungle in shame. When he came back, the weeds and the marshes rose up and marked him with black stripes so that everyone would see what he’d done.”
“If only the real world had that,” I say. “Then we’d know who was bad and who wasn’t.”
“I think maybe it does. Look at me. Most people know on sight that I’m bad news.” He’s talking about the tattoos that wind their way up his forearms. And maybe also the leather jacket and the boots.
And the grim air of danger that surrounds him.
“You put those on yourself,” I say softly. “Not like the tigers.”
“To me that’s what the story is about. The things we do to ourselves. The way we hurt ourselves and mark ourselves.”
It’s a cautionary tale. He’s warning me away from him.
I don’t say anything until we reach the thin, sagging palm tree that marks the perimeter of the Tropicana motel. I feel a little sick imagining a tiny version of Kip, a little boy watching his mother mourn the life she wanted. I feel sick imagining the tattoo gun piercing an older Kip’s skin while he looked on, thinking he deserved it as some kind of penance—as some kind of warning to the world around him.
But he has no idea what I deserve. “I’m sorry for what happened to her. But I’m not her.”
“I know that.”
“And you can’t save me or whatever you’re trying to do here.”
A sad smile flickers across his face. “I know that too. That isn’t what I’m doing here.”
He hands me my bag and stands with his arms at his sides as I start to walk away. My fists tighten on the straps of my bag. I stop, staring straight ahead, away from him.
After a beat, I ask, “Why are you here then?”
It can’t just be for sex. He could get that in the Grand. Why does he want to spend time with me?
But when I look back, the sidewalk is empty. He’s already gone.
Chapter Ten
I think about the feel of his hand around mine all day—warm, dry, and protective. It’s the last feeling I need to be most worried about. Protective. Am I having some kind of breakdown? Am I losing touch with reality? Because Kip is a customer, the roughest kind. He’s not my white knight. It’s men like him I need saving from.
But not tonight, because he doesn’t show up. Not even when I’ve danced my third song, not when I’ve worked the floor. A different man takes me to the back rooms, and I tell myself I’m not disappointed. I made the money I needed to, even if my hands smell like cheap cologne and come. I’m safe another day. That’s all I can ask for. That’s all I can want.
So I head back onto the floor and find a rumpled suit to feel me up. He does it discreetly, copping a feel while only paying for a lap dance on the public floor. I let him because it’s easier than making a scene—and wince when he pinches instead of pets.
He grins, drunk and sideways. “Let me take you home, Honey.”
My eyes flutter closed briefly. I’m tired of saying no. “I can’t do that, but I can put on a show for you, right here.”
His hand closes around my wrist—hard. “I want more than a show, you little tease.”
I’m tired of saying no, but I’m even more tired of being ignored. “Let go of me,” I say evenly.
Of course that just makes him squeeze tighter, until I wince. I know there’ll be bruises tomorrow. I’ll have to use my foundation around my wrist. All in a day’s work.
Then someone is standing behind me. I feel their presence and a sense of relief. But it’s a disappointment when he speaks.
“You heard the lady,” he says. Not Kip.
The man looks up at Blue, clearly unaware of the threat he’s under. He winks. “I heard, but I come here so I don’t have to listen to them talk.”
Blue does something fast and painful to the man’s wrist, and then I’m free. I stand up and back away. It’s one thing to mess with one of us, but messing with Blue is a really stupid move. Blue is a ticking time bomb. I don’t want to be near him when he goes off.
“You’re done,” he tells the man. His voice is low, but everyone is watching now. They know what’s happening—and they came here for a show, after all.
The man doesn’t leave. “What the hell? I didn’t touch her. She was just a whiny bitch.”
“Then you won’t mind not seeing her. I don’t want to see your ugly face in the club again.”
For a second it looks like the man will fight Blue, which would be insane because Blue is twice as big and three times as tough. The guy is a used-up frat boy, trying to find his kicks after a long day at the office. Whereas Blue is two hundred and fifty pounds of tatted muscle. But a few drinks and a bruised ego can make a person dumb.
The guy stands up, hands curled into fists. “Who the fuck do you—”
And maybe I am having a mental breakdown, because I reach for him then. I place a hand on the arm of this stranger. “Just go,” I say softly. “It’ll only be worse if you stay.”
I’m nobody. Hasn’t he just said as much? Not big and strong and intimidating like Blue. But the man seems to hear me. His eyes focus on mine for a second, and he takes a small step back. He mutters and curses under his breath as he grabs his jacket and walks away, but at least he doesn’t start a fight.
When he is gone, Blue stares at me. He still looks pissed. If anything, he looks more pissed. “What the fuck?” he says.
My eyes widen. He’s pissed at me? “I didn’t start anything with him. I didn’t complain.”
He shakes his head. “That’s the fucking point, Honey. You never complain. But you let him touch you. I saw it.”
I didn’t let him do anything. As if it’s up to me. “If you want me to complain every time someone cops a feel, that’s going to be all night long.”
Something flickers in his eyes. Anger? Regret? Then he snorts and looks away. “You’re done too.”
What? My heart skips a beat. I need this job. Travel is the most dangerous thing we can do. Two girls on the bus would mean attention. Someone to remember us when my father sent people asking. And I knew he would. He’d never give up. “I didn’t do anything,” I whispered.
I didn’t complain. That should have been enough. It was what I’d been trained to do.
“For tonight,” Blue said gruffly. “You’re done for tonight. Can’t dance like that anyway.”
I don’t know what he’s talking about until I feel a drop trail down my cheek. Only then do I realize I’ve started crying. Which means my mascara is surely running. I must look awful. My throat tightens. “I’ll come back tomorrow.”
Blue just grunts.
I almost run off the floor, all too conscious of the eyes on me. There are always eyes on me. Everything is a performance. I don’t even bother changing out of my sheer bra and panties. I just tug sweatpants and a tank top on and push out the door, my eyes hot with tears. But I can’t go home like this. Not yet.
The more I feel exposed, the more I need to be alone.
So I make a turn around the building and grab the fire escape. Metal creaks as I haul myself the four feet off the ground and climb the rest of the way up. I dump the duffel bag without preamble and move into a plié. Grand plié. Over and over, fast enough to trip and fall, but I don’t care. I want to fall.
“Honey,” a low voice says.
And I do trip. I’m lucky I don’t twist my ankle, but I manage to take the brunt of it on my palms. Then a strong pair of hands is helping me up, dusting the grime off my pants, inspecting my torn palms.
“Jesus,” he says. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
I look up at him, face shadowed in the moonlight. He’s so beautiful.
And so cruel to make me want him.
I push away, ready to go back down the sta
irs, but I slide on the loose gravel that collects on the rooftop like snowdrifts. My body pitches forward, far enough over that I see the glistening street and let out a shriek. Then strong hands grasp my waist and pull me back—hard. I’m flush against a wall. Not made of brick, this wall. It’s muscle and will, steady strength and heartbreak.
“Thank you,” I say, my voice low and rough like the floor we’re on.
I’m still breathing too hard, my heart beating too fast. I was so close to falling. And the scariest part is the relief I would have felt.
“You’re always afraid, aren’t you?” he murmurs against my ear.
I can’t see his expression; I’m still facing away from him. His hands are still on my hips. But I can imagine his eyes when he says it, that mix of curiosity and reluctance. As if he’s intrigued by me but he doesn’t want to be.
I can feel him thinking instead. He’s trying to figure me out. He’s trying to burrow inside me until he sees how I work. But it will never work, because I’m not real. I’m smoke and mirrors—a magic trick. If he looks too closely, I’ll disappear.
I pull away and face him.
He’s a study in textures—the shadowed stubble on his jaw, the dark pools of his eyes. The worn leather of his jacket and the thick denim of his jeans. He is his own planet, terrain to be explored, mountains to climb and oceans to drown in. My fingers itch to touch him, though I’m not sure where I would start. I think his hair, because I want to know if he can be soft there, at least. Because the rest of him is so hard.
But I don’t touch him. “What do you want?”
He looks away and blows out a breath. “To give you something.”
“Something else?” I still have the Taser he gave me in my bag. Not that I could have used it on him. He caught me totally by surprise just now.
He reaches into his jacket and pulls something out. This time I don’t need to hold it to know what it is. I don’t extend my hand either.
Instead a strangled sound escapes me. “A gun?”