by Lexi Ryan
I leave her before she can reply and before I can say anything worse. Apologies won’t change what happened on New Year’s Eve. They won’t fix Brogan, and they won’t bring her brother back from the dead.
Gwen told me to fix whatever’s wrong between Arrow and me, and I slapped him.
Good going, Mia.
I pick up Gwen’s lingerie, carefully fold it, and add it to the pile with shaking hands. My job with the Woodisons goes beyond watching the couple’s infant daughter. That task isn’t nearly enough to warrant my generous paycheck. I also do the laundry, cook the meals, and keep the house clean. For two months, it’s been going just fine. I tend to Katie. I scrub the toilets. I cook dinner and make sure there are fresh flowers in the dining room.
I should have made the extent of my duties clear to Arrow, but for some reason I couldn’t stomach him thinking of me as the maid. Uriah Woodison’s last maid was my mother, and I don’t want Arrow equating me with her. Not tonight, when his return still stings like a sticky bandage repeatedly ripped off a wound. Does he really think I’m fucking his father, or is he just trying to drive a bigger wedge between us?
I want to be angry with him. To hate him for the things he said tonight, and worse, what he didn’t say, the comfort he didn’t offer. No one but Arrow can understand how empty I’ve felt since the accident. No one but Arrow can understand the weight in my chest that is equal parts grief and anger.
But I can’t blame him when I’m almost relieved to have animosity as a buffer between us. I’ve always had a soft spot for Arrow Woodison. Maybe that explains why I betrayed Brogan for one night in his arms.
“Quit acting like you were cheating when you were broken up.” I can practically hear my best friend Bailey’s voice in my head. It’s a lecture she’s recited enough times. I’m sure we both have it memorized. But it doesn’t change how I feel about the things I did and the decisions I made.
My phone vibrates on the nightstand, and Bailey’s name scrolls across the screen as if she knew I was thinking about her.
I snatch it up. “Hey, you.”
“How’s it going, lovely?” Bailey asks. “I hear the prodigal son returned home today.”
“Yeah.” I risk a glance toward the door, but I’m still alone. I walk over and close it quietly.
“So?” she asks. “Did you get the scoop? What is up with him? The only one of us who had a sure ticket out of this fucking town, and he screwed it up. I just don’t understand.”
“I don’t know,” I murmur. But it’s a lie. I understand why Arrow spun out of control like he did. He wasn’t the type to drink to excess and never touched drugs. Then on New Year’s Eve, our worlds went to shit, and he lashed out.
“I envy you,” Bailey says. “I wish I got to spend my summer watching Arrow shirtless at the pool.”
Bailey is convinced that working for the Woodisons means a life of leisure, as if they hired me just so I could sit at their pool drinking mai tais all day. So far from the truth, but I’d be lying if I acted as if it were a rough gig. The hardest day at the Woodisons’ is easier than the best at home. Of course, if my dad knew I was working here, he’d lose his shit, but I’ve made sure he won’t find out.
“I thought you were working tonight,” I say, changing the subject.
“I’m on a break. You’re coming to my party tomorrow, aren’t you?” she asks. “You never come out anymore. I want to get drunk with my girl.”
“I’ll think about it.” Another lie. I haven’t been to a party since New Year’s Eve. Just the scent of alcohol makes my stomach churn. The last thing I need is to be surrounded by a bunch of drunk people.
“Oh, crap. Mia, wait a sec, okay?” I hear the muffled sound of her talking to someone with her hand over the receiver, then, “Your dad’s here.”
I wince. Bailey works at a strip club, and Dad thinks strip clubs are an abomination. He’s been known to drunkenly stumble the quarter-mile between the trailer park and the Pretty Kitty to tell the dancers they’re “tempting good men.” I’m sure his eyes never stray to the girls on the stage. Yeah, right. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
I pull on a bra under my tee and trade my sleep shorts for a pair of cutoffs before heading downstairs to find Gwen. She’s stretched out on a chaise by the pool, sipping a glass of wine and staring into the distance.
“Gwen?”
She startles at the sound of my voice, then surreptitiously wipes at her cheeks. “Mia, what can I do for you?”
My heart aches a little for her. It’s not like we talk—we don’t have that kind of relationship—but I know she’s been unhappy since Katie was born. She spends so much energy trying not to show it, so I pretend not to notice. I’ve considered speaking up a few times, worried she’s suffering from postpartum depression, but in the end I keep my mouth shut. Gwen’s not the type to appreciate life advice from anyone she deems “the help.”
“Is it okay if I leave for a couple of hours? My dad . . .” I don’t want to finish, even if she deserves an explanation.
“Sure. No problem. Katie’s sleeping?”
I nod. “She just finished a bottle and drifted right off. She should be set for a few hours, but I’ll be back as quickly as I can.”
She waves a hand. “Take your time. Despite what my husband may have led you to believe, I’m perfectly capable of getting out of bed to tend to my daughter.”
“I know you are.”
She nods toward the front of the house. “Go on, then.”
“Thank you.” I take a few steps toward the gate and stop to turn back to her. I know what it’s like to be isolated, to suddenly find yourself in a world where you don’t belong, and I feel like I should say something, like I should let her know she’s not alone.
She speaks first. “Please don’t tell Mr. Woodison I was crying. I was just having a moment. Hormones. You know.”
“Of course.” Again, I want to speak up, tell her there’s no shame in getting help.
She stands, her eyes glittering in the low light from the lamps lining the pool deck. “A piece of advice, Mia?” she says. “Tempting as he might be, you’d do best to keep your legs closed.”
I open my mouth but have no idea what to say. I’m not sure if I’m more surprised that she’s offering this piece of wisdom, or insulted that she thinks that’s the kind of advice I’d need. Who is it she thinks I need to be warned away from? Arrow, or her husband?
Not trusting myself to reply, I press my lips together and rush to my car.
I don’t let myself think about what Gwen must think of me or why, and I definitely don’t let myself think about how much I hate driving the curvy roads into Blackhawk Valley at night. I’m going to do the same as I’ve done for the last four months—whatever is necessary. Just because Arrow is home doesn’t mean anything has changed.
When I open the door to the strip club, the smoke and pounding music hit me in the face. Nobody cards me or cares that I’m underage. In this kind of place, boobs are more likely to get you through the door than a valid ID.
The place is packed with college guys tonight. They all look the same to me—white boys in jeans and fitted T-shirts trying to act the part of grown men by gawking at bare tits and drinking too much overpriced beer. Once, I told my brother, Nic, that I just didn’t get strip clubs. Here are all these good-looking guys, many of whom already have a girl at home, paying to see what they could have for free.
Nic just laughed and told me getting into a girl’s bed might be easy, but getting out is another matter. “Strip clubs mean boobs without expectations.”
My brother was such a sexist asshole. I’d give anything to have him back.
I scan the faces at the tables and by the stage, but I don’t see my father. “Fuck,” I mutter, pushing my way through the crowd.
A guy at the bar shoots his hand out and grabs my arm. “Hey, beautiful. You work here?” His thumb strokes the bare skin above my elbow, and the touch makes my skin crawl.
“No.”
“You should,” he says, his words slurring together. “You’re prettier’n the rest of ’em.”
“Hands off, dirty.” Bailey appears at my side and pulls the guy’s hand off my arm. “You touch another girl tonight—stripper or not—and I’ll have your ass thrown out of here.”
She pulls me away from him, and I mutter a weak, “Thank you.”
“I swear, Mia, the creeps see you coming from a mile away. It’s a special gift.”
“I’ll be sure to add it to my résumé,” I say. “Where’s Dad?”
“I stuck him in the GM’s office. Found him in the ladies’ room asking the girls to go home with him.”
“Seriously?”
She rolls her eyes. “Says he wants to save them. Take them to church. Show them there’s a better way to live.”
My father. World’s biggest hypocrite.
She gives me a sympathetic squeeze on the shoulder, and I follow her through a set of doors and into the back hallway that runs behind the stage. The doors swing closed behind us, and the music drops to a dull roar.
She opens an office door and says, “He’s all yours.”
Dad’s slumped in the chair beside the desk, eyes closed, spittle dangling from his bottom lip. Way to be a cliché, Dad.
“I convinced my manager not to call the cops, but you’ve gotta get him out of here.”
I sigh, nodding. “Of course. Thank you.” I turn to her and force a smile. “For everything.”
She wraps me in a hug and squeezes tight. “Anything for you, chica.” When she pulls back, she offers a half-smile. “You good? Everything okay at Palace Woodison?”
I shrug. “It’s a little tense since Arrow came home.” Tense. Considering I slapped him less than an hour ago, that’s probably an understatement. I need to talk to him and soon. But what is there to say?
“You know what fixes tension, don’t you?” She cocks her head, waiting for my guess, then grins when I stay silent. “Fucking, Mia. A well-fucked man is rarely a pissy one.”
I roll my eyes. “Bailey!”
“Give it a try and tell me if I’m wrong.” Her grin rockets up a notch. “Scratch that. You had your chance with Arrow and decided he wasn’t worth the trouble, so I’ll take care of it for you. I’m a saint like that, making sacrifices for my friends.”
I know she’s joking. She’s never been interested in Arrow.
She tilts her face to the ceiling and sighs. “And with Arrow’s body, I might just sacrifice again and again. And again.”
I can’t help it. I burst into giggles, and my dad stirs in his sleep, grunting something. Back to reality. “Come on, Dad.” I slide my hands under his arms and help him up.
He’s unsteady on his feet and blinks at me. “You’re working here now, too? I won’t have a daughter of mine working in a strip club!”
“I don’t work here, Dad. I’m here to take you home.” I duck under one of his arms. The weight across my shoulders feels like a thousand pounds, but I take a deep breath and lead him forward.
“Got him?” Bailey asks, following us out of the office.
“Yeah. He’s fine.”
As we head back through the club toward the front doors, I immediately feel eyes on me—people staring as I lead my drunk father to the door. I’m not embarrassed anymore. Someone needs to take care of Dad, and with Nic gone, that falls to me.
“Have a good night,” I tell Bailey.
“Oh, I will,” she says. “There’s a table of BHU guys over there who are going to pay for my fall tuition if they keep it up with the tips.” She winks at me and saunters away.
Dad jerks his head up and stops walking. “Where’s Nic? I need Nic to take me home. I need my son.”
I’m waiting for the day that hurts less, but the words slice through me every time. “Nicholas is gone, Dad. Remember? We lost him.”
“Good riddance,” says a man a couple of tables away. His eyes are on the tits of the shirtless girl grinding on his lap, but I know he’s talking about my brother.
“Too bad he had to take one of the good ones down with him,” another man says in a low rumble. The night my brother died, he’d been clean for months. Not using. Not selling. But nobody cares. If your last name is Mendez, you don’t get a second chance. Not in this town.
Ignoring them, and the ache in my chest their words threaten to wake, I say a quick prayer that my dad’s too drunk to process their words.
“Come on, Dad.” I urge him forward, knowing we have an audience and determined to keep my chin up.
“Why’d God have to take my only son?” my father whispers. I hear the tears in his voice and move my feet faster. I need to get him home before he breaks down.
No one here is going to have any sympathy for him if he starts wailing about losing Nicholas. All they see is how the accident hurt one of their own, Brogan Barrett. And in my brother’s death, all they see is a scapegoat, an easy way to answer the unsolved mystery of the hit-and-run. Even the local paper was happy to report the accident as “likely gang violence” without any real evidence to support such an assertion.
The second I ease Dad into the passenger seat, he closes his eyes and his head lolls to the side. I buckle him in and take the short drive in silence.
A dark SUV passes me and makes me do a double take. It was a dark SUV that flew over Deadman’s Curve and hit my brother and Brogan on New Year’s Eve, and every time I see one, my gut twists with too many emotions.
I don’t bother with the radio. I wouldn’t be able to hear it over the clamor of my heartache anyway.
I slam a third cabinet door shut and open another, looking for the fucking skillets.
Mia left.
Did I piss her off that much, or did something else call her away? I stood in my room and watched her car roll down the drive and cautiously through the gate. I’m going to have to make my peace with her working here. And I can. I will. Fuck. It just took me by surprise. I came home from rehab mentally prepared to serve my house-arrest sentence. The judge acted like he was doing me a favor by letting me serve time here. He obviously doesn’t know what it’s like to be Uriah Woodison’s fuck-up son.
I thought I was prepared—for Dad’s disapproval, for his anger and disappointment—and then Gwen launched the curveball at me.
Mia Mendez is living here while she helps with the baby.
Mia Mendez is eating in my kitchen, sharing my shower.
Mia Mendez is sleeping on the other side of my bedroom wall in a cotton sleepshirt so thin it makes my hands itch to slide under it.
I yank open another cabinet and finally find the skillets. Christ, I just want some food, but I’ll be fucking damned if I’m going to eat any of the meals in the fridge. My stomach clenched when I saw them—perfectly balanced, prepared meals labeled in Mia’s neat handwriting: quinoa and chicken, peppered flank steak and green beans, fajita frittata.
She’s not just helping with the baby. Dad has her doing his meal prep. As if she’s the Alice to his Brady Bunch or some shit. So fucking twisted. Count me out.
I put a skillet on the stove, pour a little olive oil in it, and look around while it heats.
Gwen remodeled this space while she was pregnant. Contractors came in and ripped out the cherry wood cabinets my mother had chosen and replaced them with a stark white variety that feels so sterile you almost expect the place to smell like bleach and commercial disinfectant.
It’s everything my mother’s kitchen wasn’t—cold to the warm, white to the dark, showpiece to the functional. It’s as if she ripped the heart right out of my house.
“That’s fucking dramatic,” I mutter to myself.
I grab the eggs from the fridge and crack them against the side of a bowl, dumping the egg whites and tossing the yolks in the trash. I chop fresh basil and beat it with the egg whites before pouring the mixture into the skillet.
My phone buzzes, rattling against the white marble countertop.
Keegan: S
omeone told me they saw Mia Mendez walk into the manager’s office at the Pretty Kitty. I’m heading that way. If there’s a god, she’ll be on stage tonight.
My fist tightens around the phone, but before I can do something stupid like throw it against the wall or, worse, let Keegan know exactly what I think about his hopes for the evening, it buzzes again. And again. Two, three, four messages all coming in at once, making me realize this wasn’t a text he sent just to me but one of those mass-group texts that guarantees to keep my phone rattling for the next half-hour.
I read through the conversation as I stir my eggs.
Mason: You fucking wish, loser. Mia wouldn’t strip.
Trent: If you love me, you’ll tell me if this happens. But I heard she was working at the Woodisons’—that true, Arrow?
Mason: Not that I object to the idea in theory. Because damn.
Keegan: Why work for the Woodisons? Ass like that and she could make BANK stripping.
Chris: You’re all so low. This is Brogan’s girl you’re talking about. Show some respect.
Brogan’s girl.
I stare at those two words for so long that time drops away. Brogan’s. Girl.
I draw in a breath and my throat burns with smoke. Shit. I throw the exhaust fan on full blast so my burned eggs don’t set off the smoke alarm and wake up everyone in the house. I toss them into the trashcan and put the pan in the sink to soak. Not wanting to embark on another failed cooking attempt, I grab a protein shake from the fridge.
Chris’s mention of Brogan predictably silenced the conversation, but I turn off my phone anyway, shutting it down before I can say something I’ll regret, or worse—find out that she really is stripping.
I twist the cap off my drink, sink into one of the living room couches, and turn on ESPN out of sheer habit.
