Better When It Hurts

by Skye Warren

  “In county lockup. The judge didn’t know where to put me. He thought I was guilty but knew the charge wouldn’t stick, so he fucked up the paperwork so bad I was basically convicted and sentenced without a trial. The public defender couldn’t do shit and didn’t care anyway.”

  I shiver. I hadn’t known any of this. “I’m sorry,” I whisper.

  He laughs, hollow and cold. “I would have preferred to get sent to prison. County lockup is a revolving door. I was stuck in a cell with a different fucker every night, most of them drunk, all of them violent, sleeping with my back to the wall and a sharp plastic knife in my hand. Still think I had it good, gorgeous?”

  Tears are in my eyes, imagining him like that. The hard man he is now would make any man think twice. But for all that he’d been tough back then, for all that he’d already killed someone, he was still just a boy then. And he’d been thrown to the wolves.

  I’d thrown him to the wolves.

  “The honorable judge made a deal with me that he’d let me go if I enlisted. I signed the army paperwork while I was still in a cell. And when I got overseas, it wasn’t much better. I got to huddle in a tent and walk around the fucking desert and hope I wasn’t stepping on an IED. When other soldiers got care packages and naked selfies from home, I had nothing. Nothing but the thought of how I’d make you pay.”

  “I can’t.” My hands are tight fists. I want to fight every person who ever hurt him. I want to fight him. I want to take on the world, but I’m helpless—just like I’ve always been. I can put on lipstick and heels, but I can’t change that one painful fact.

  “One week,” he says flatly. “I want you under me again in one week. I’m going to get what I’m due if I have to drag you there with my bare fucking hands. Don’t cross me, gorgeous. I’ve been waiting too long to be denied.”

  * * *

  It’s been three days since Blue confronted me in the Grand. He’s been ignoring me ever since.

  If you don’t count the way his gaze follows me everywhere.

  It’s a relief to be out of the club, to be free of his intensity and his desire. It’s also strangely a disappointment, almost as if I miss him. That can’t be true. I can’t miss the way he hurts and humiliates me. I can’t miss the way he hates me.

  I walk home from the grocery store, both hands full. I speed up along the cracked sidewalk as plastic presses into my fingers, cutting off circulation. My fingertips are already red, but I don’t like leaving Mrs. Owens alone for too long. Especially when I’m not working.

  My next shift is tonight, in about two hours. I’m hoping I can give her dinner and put her to bed, as long as she doesn’t wonder too much about why it’s still bright outside. That way I can dance without worrying about her.

  I manage to turn the doorknob with my hands full and shoulder my way inside. I’m busy dropping the grocery bags—gently, slowly, there are eggs inside. So I don’t see someone else at the dining table until he speaks.

  “Hi, Hannah.”

  I stumble, almost tripping over the bags. “Blue? What the hell are you—”

  The question dies in my throat as I see Mrs. Owens, her face flushed and smiling, a light in her eyes that’s becoming more and more rare.

  “I didn’t know you had a gentleman,” she says, sounding positively charmed.

  I manage not to laugh at the term. Gentleman? Hardly. I think he wants to tear me apart. He wants to fuck me, to bruise me. He definitely doesn’t want to pull the chair out for me.

  She comes from a different generation, a time when chivalry wasn’t dead. And she wants the best for me. She believes the best of me. She has no way of knowing he despises me. No one could tell that from the way he smiles at me, as if he’s genuinely pleased to see me.

  He stands. “Let me help with those.”

  “Sit,” I snap. I have no idea why he’s here or what the hell is going on, but the last thing I need is him looking through our bags, seeing the bags of noodles and the cheap store-brand stuff. Only the tea is expensive, imported, because it’s the only thing Mrs. Owens still remembers.

  “Let me pour you some,” she says, reaching for the teapot in the center of the table.

  “Allow me,” Blue says.

  And I watch, dumbfounded, while he lifts the delicate china pot and pours water into a teacup. I’ve walked into some warped parallel universe where big, surly, pissed-off men have tea parties in the afternoon.

  “We couldn’t get the stove to work,” he says as if that explains anything.

  I sit down in the chair—because I need to. My legs are giving out. Confusion and a strange emotion like tenderness presses down on me. “I unplug it,” I respond, almost absently.

  “Huh.” With one blunt finger, he pushes the saucer and cup in front of me. “This works just as well. And won’t keep you up at night.”

  “Here here,” Mrs. Owens says. “I’m always telling this girl not to stay up so late. Sometimes it’s the middle of the night and I can’t find her anywhere.”

  My gaze snaps to Blue. His expression doesn’t change, but I feel his awareness. Of course Mrs. Owens doesn’t know what I do for money. She doesn’t even know I pay the bills—or that we have bills. Most of the time she doesn’t know anything that doesn’t relate to her tea.

  And apparently she does look for me at night. My heart clenches.

  “I’m sorry,” I murmur, taking a sip of water. “I thought you would be sleeping.”

  She waves her hand. “I’m sure I do plenty of that too. And then sometimes I’m sitting there in the middle of the day, thinking, how am I going to make tea? The stove never works. So I go and look for you, and you’re sleeping. At two o’clock in the afternoon.” She looks at Blue. “What do you think of that?”

  Blue’s expression is serious. “I think she must work too hard.”

  That seems to please Mrs. Owens. “You’re right. You’re absolutely right.”

  Warmth spreads through my chest, forbidden pleasure and regret rolled into one. “You can wake me up anytime, Mrs. Owens. I’ll make you tea whenever you want.”

  “Of course I’m not going to wake you up. You need your sleep. If I could only figure out that darned stove.”

  I bite my lip, on the verge of tears. I don’t want to cry in front of her. And I sure as hell don’t want to cry in front of him.

  “Excuse me,” I manage before shoving away from the table.

  I leave the groceries on the floor of the kitchen, waiting to be unpacked. I leave the teacups filled with water. I leave the strange man at the table, both hateful and kind, a symbol of everything bad about me—and a beacon of hope all at once.

  The hallway is a blur, and I almost run into the wall. Hot tears sting my eyes.

  I push into the small bathroom and shut the door, leaving the light off.

  There’s only a second of peace before I hear footsteps.

  He doesn’t call my name. He doesn’t even knock. He simply comes into the bathroom and shuts the door behind him, locking us inside.

  “Why are you—”

  I don’t have a chance to finish my question. Why are you here? Why are you being nice to Mrs. Owens?

  Why are you being nice to me?

  Before I can get the words out, his mouth is on mine, his hands are in my hair. He’s breathing me in, sliding his tongue against mine. I let out a shocked breath before my body betrays me—returning the kiss with the same ferocity, the same hunger. It feels almost like an apology, this visit, this kindness. This kiss. Like he’s sorry he was cruel to me, but he’s not planning to stop.

  “This is why you dance,” he breathes against my lips.

  It’s not a question, so I don’t answer. I pant against the wall, waiting for him to make me strip, make me touch him, make me get on my knees and suck him off. That’s the only reason to be in a dark bathroom with the door closed. That’s the only reason he’d follow me here, the only reason he’d be in this house at all.

  He runs his hands ov
er my shoulders, my arms. My breasts. The touch is sexual and possessive but also sweet, as if he’s assuring himself that I’m all there. That I’m all right.

  That he didn’t hurt me too bad.

  “Wednesday night,” he says gruffly. Then he’s gone. From the bathroom. From the house. Gone from Mrs. Owens’s memory just minutes later.

  Leaving only an empty teacup to prove he was ever there.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The same doorman greets me at the shiny apartment building. There’s no sneer in his smile, no coldness in his eyes. I see a lot of men, most of them with wads of cash in their pockets. It’s strange to see one with any amount of respect.

  He must think I’m Blue’s girlfriend.

  My stomach twists, fast and hard. It’s a mix of embarrassment and guilt and a hope that will not die. There’s a part of me that wishes that were true. The doorman doesn’t know that Blue would never date me. He wouldn’t even be seen fraternizing with me at the club. The only reason he lets me come to his place is because it’s more convenient for him to fuck me here.

  The elevator ride feels way too short. Before I can breathe again, I’m standing in front of his apartment door. It doesn’t open on its own this time. He’s not there to push me away and drag me back. It’s only me standing there, only me deciding to knock. Only me waiting for his footsteps with dread and anticipation.

  He’s wearing a T-shirt again, well-worn and snug around his chest. He’s got jeans and no shoes—perfectly comfortable at home. There’s something deceptively casual about what he wears and the way he holds himself, so distinctly different than the hard, intimidating front he has as head of security of the club. And yet I know this man is more dangerous to me, more willing to hurt me in ways he wouldn’t at the Grand, more pleased to see the results of his work.

  Dark eyes scan me from the blue eyelet blouse to the white skirt with bold-colored flowers.

  No surprise shows at all. “You look gorgeous,” he says in that same conversational way he’d tell me nice set or be careful out there. The same voice that means he thinks the opposite.

  “I didn’t have time to change.” I don’t tell him where I’m coming from, that I just spent four hours on a cramped plastic seat while Mrs. Owens gets dialysis. There are places that’ll come to your home and nurses that work around the clock, but stripping doesn’t pay for any of that. It just keeps us warm and dry and fed.

  My life isn’t about luxury. It’s about survival.

  He stands back, leaving the door wide open. “You hungry?”

  My stomach chooses that moment to grumble. “No,” I lie.

  He raises one eyebrow but doesn’t say anything as I walk past him.

  The dining table is set for two. I freeze, staring. Uncomprehending. Actually I’m starving. The last thing I ate was a package of roasted peanuts from the vending machine at the dialysis place. Mrs. Owens doesn’t like to eat after she’s had it done, so I settled her into her bed at home and came directly here. The idea of eating sounds amazing. The idea of eating with Blue, that he would have set up some kind of meal for me, that he would have planned this, feels like a dream.

  I whirl on him. “What is this?”

  His expression is unreadable. “Dinner. If you want it.”

  “Is this some kind of date?”

  “Does it look like a date?”

  I look again at the place settings for two, the low candles in between. My mind rejects that, like an optical illusion that you can’t stop seeing. “It does, but I know that’s crazy.”

  There’s a pause where he seems to weigh how much to tell me. I don’t know whether he decides to tell me a lot or a little, but when he answers, his voice is grim. “It’s just food. Something to keep up your strength because you’re probably going to need it.”

  There’s the Blue I know and fear. Of course you don’t need candles to eat. “Is that all?”

  “What else would there be, Lola?” His lids are lowered, his mouth set in a flat line. The displeasure on his face makes it clear how dumb my idea about a date would have been.

  “Nothing,” I say, feeling sullen and hurt even though I know he’s right. He never promised me anything. Actually he did promise me things. He promised to get me back. And that’s what he’s doing. The disappointment shouldn’t feel like acid on my wounds.

  “Then get in the fucking chair.” He nods to the far end, where I guess I’m supposed to sit. And be served food? His expression turns hard. “And take that fucking top off. I want to look at your tits while I eat.”

  * * *

  He made lasagna and warm breadsticks. He pours me wine. It’s the most romantic thing anyone has done for me. And through it all, my bare breasts make it painfully clear that this is not a date. This is not because he likes me and wants to please me.

  This is for him—either to fulfill some fantasy of his or simply to humiliate me.

  Maybe to him, those are the same things.

  “How do you know Mrs. Owens?” he asks.

  My gaze snaps to him. I don’t like him asking about her. I don’t like him even knowing about her. She’s personal. Far more personal than my breasts, which men see all the time. Hell, he sees them all the time, even if it’s only part of his job. “How do you know her name?”

  One large shoulder lifts in a half shrug. “Simple to find out.”

  “So you were snooping.” I can’t help but make a face. Emotion is showing weakness, and he is my kryptonite. “If a guy at the club did that, you would kick them out.”

  Amusement flickers across his face. “Guess that’s a benefit of being in charge.”

  My eyes narrow. “Speaking of that, why did you decide to work at the Grand? You knew I was working there.”

  “Had to do something after I left the army.” His expression hardens. “I imagine it’s for much the same reasons that you work there.”

  I snort, looking at the crown molding and modern chandelier above us. He was obviously doing very well, not counting pennies to make the mortgage. Strippers made a lot but supporting even a small house and medical bills was expensive. “I doubt that.”

  Something shifts in the room, and in him—an alertness that’s too subtle to see. Only feel. “She’s not your mother.”

  Foster kids learn not to share much about their pasts with whatever new foster brother or sister is around. It makes you vulnerable to people who have their own issues and may very well lash out. Besides, you’ll most likely get shuffled around soon.

  I was pretty much the same, except with him. I told him how my mother had died, the way she’d braided my hair and let me play at her makeup table. I told him how my father had been in a motorcycle gang and gotten himself thrown in prison. So when she killed herself, I entered the system. There was one important detail I hadn’t told him.

  “My mother was a stripper.”

  Shock reflects in his eyes for seconds, so swift I wonder if it was even real. For half a second it looked like he cared. I expect him to ask if that’s why I strip, even though the answer must be obvious. So maybe he’ll just mock me for it, a verbal version of humiliation to match the nakedness of my breasts. I’m flushing, my neck and chest pink from embarrassment of what I’ve already admitted.

  It’s not much of a legacy she left me. It’s all I have.

  Instead he prompts, “So Mrs. Owens?”

  He’s like a dog with a bone. And well, I’m the bone. “One of my foster moms.”

  That alertness again. “After?”

  After he left, he means. After I sent him away. After I lied. “Before. I would have stayed there longer, but she was already old. I was the last foster she had. They removed me after her official diagnosis.”

  “Kidney disease?”

  My hands clench. He’s done more than a little snooping if he knows about that. “Dementia was the main problem. She’d forget to go to the store, forget to meet my caseworker.”

  So they’d removed me from the home, but no one h
ad thought to help her. It was a wonder she’d survived as long as she had before I’d turned eighteen and found her. Though the heat had been turned off and rats had made nests. I’d gotten the biggest paying job I could find—at the Grand—and moved in to help her ever since.

  She may not have been very capable by the end, but she’d genuinely cared about me. Don’t let them get you down, she’d tell me when I came home with bruises on my arms and a split lip. They can never touch you on the inside.

  She didn’t know I sought out boys like that, ones tough enough to protect me. Even if that protection was just a twisted form of ownership. A dog with a bone—like Blue.

  “I’m sorry,” he says, his voice soft enough to be sincere. His eyes hard enough to make me shiver.

  “She’s doing fine.” Despite what the doctors say. “She’s stronger than they think.”

  Those cold eyes soften by a small degree. “So are you.”

  It’s strange to be talking about any of this while I’m naked from the waist up, while he can see my breasts—even if he’s mostly been looking directly into my eyes, as if he can see deep inside, as if he’s uncovering my secrets brick by brick. Even after all the time I’ve spent naked, being exposed, I’m still not comfortable this way.

  “They always think I’m strong,” I tell him, lumping him in with every client, every man. “I’m not like Honey was, or even Candy now. Men come to me because they know they can be rough with me and I won’t break.”

  The words hang in the air between us, a challenge I didn’t mean to make.

  His lids lower. “No, you won’t.”

  My breath catches at the promise in his voice. Mine comes out as a whisper. “I’m doing everything you ask me to.”

  Sometimes I don’t know why I’m doing that, but the fact is that I am. And this is a form of asking for mercy, of placing myself in his keeping.

  His gaze flickers to my breasts. “Yes, I think you’ve been very obedient. You’ve been sweet, even. That’s what I thought about you all those years ago. Did you know that?” He laughs. “That you were sweet.”

  A current of shame runs over my skin, making goose bumps appear over the hills of my breasts, turning my nipples into tight buds. “I didn’t mean to—”