by Skye Warren
She snorts. “Get yourself a free fuck, did you?”
“That’s not how I would’ve put it, no,” he says, though he doesn’t seem surprised by her sharp words.
“I bet.”
“You have a problem with me?”
“Several, actually.” She smirks. “I know who you are.”
Her words sink in like ice through my skin. She knows something about Kip that I don’t. Unless she’s lying. But his expression goes completely blank, stripped of emotion. And I know it’s real.
“Good for you,” he says, just as flat.
Her gaze slides over to me, her eyes way too innocent to be real. “Does she know you’re related?”
“What are you talking about?” I ask. Related to who?
“Why don’t you fill her in?” she tells Kip. Then she drops her cigarette and strolls back into the club, using her stage walk to swing her hips.
I turn to Kip. “Tell me.”
He shakes his head. His eyes are opaque, as solid as the brick wall behind me. “There’s nothing to tell. My brother is an asshole. He had a reputation around here.”
“So do you, apparently.”
That makes him smile. But I know that’s not the whole story. He’s definitely hiding something. Candy knows he’s related to some asshole, but why would she think I’d care about that? It brings home the fact that there’s a lot I don’t know about Kip. More than just who his brother is. I don’t even know his last name.
The he does something that makes my gut clench. He reaches to his back pocket—for the gun? Maybe he’ll try to give it to me again. But I can’t take it. Or his wallet? For money. And not just because of Candy’s jab. He once told me he’d always pay for the privilege. He promised me that. It had been his line in the sand, but I’m erasing it.
I know it’s messier this way.
“No,” I say. “Don’t.”
He cocks his head to the side. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t make this cheap.”
* * *
Everything is hazy and dark. Not like the stage, too bright to see. Blinding me. The woods are so dark. I can just barely make out the pale path ahead of me. I follow it, hoping to find an open space soon. Somewhere safe to rest. But the trees seem to grow closer and closer on either side until I can barely breathe. In the dark wall of the jungle I can see green eyes blink at me. I can hear the hiss of a snake.
I bolt awake.
I’m drenched in sweat. Like in my dream, it’s dark. I can barely make out the faded floral bedspread covering me. The walls are pitch-black and looming. But this isn’t a jungle. It’s the motel room.
My heart is pounding a million times a minute. I pull myself out of bed and get a drink of water from the bathroom. Then I stand beside Clara’s bed and watch her sleep.
I get comfortable watching, sitting on the edge, tucking a foot under me. Even with my eyes adjusted to the dark, I can’t make out her face. It doesn’t matter. I know her face as well as my own. I can see the bedspread rise and fall ever so slightly. That’s what matters. Maybe it’s creepy to watch her sleep. I don’t care. As long as she’s breathing, as long as she’s safe, then what I’m doing is worth something. I’m worth something.
She must sense me there, because she stirs. She rolls over, toward me. Does she have bad dreams too?
Her eyes blink open. They’re bright in the darkness. Not green, though. Not scary.
“Honor,” she says, voice thick with sleep.
“Go back to sleep,” I say, soothing. “Everything’s fine.”
I hope I haven’t scared her. And I haven’t. She trusts me to protect her. The only problem is I don’t know how. My life has never been about safety. It’s a foreign idea, like landing on the moon. Or falling in love. All I know is how to survive.
“Are you okay?” she asks, still in that distant voice. She must have one foot still in her dreams.
“I’m fine,” I promise. And I know I should leave it at that, but something pushes me onward. She’s vulnerable now. She’s more honest than she’d ever be waking. “Are you okay, Clara? Are you happy here?”
“Not happy. Can’t be happy.”
I flinch. I should have known the answer—maybe I did know all along—but I wasn’t prepared to hear it. Not in the middle of the night, so soon after the nightmare.
“God, Clara,” I whisper. “What have I done?”
I know we couldn’t have stayed there. I could never let Byron or his friends touch her. But this isn’t okay either, this shitty motel room. Can’t be happy.
“She’s hurt,” Clara whispers. “She’s hurting.”
Who is she talking about? Herself? I search for my voice, for some comfort I can give. “No one’s going to hurt you, baby.”
“They’ll kill him.”
I shiver.
Her hand reaches over the blanket and grasps mine. She feels ice-cold. I squeeze her hand. In those final moments she’d been fully lucid. I could feel her slipping away now, back into sleep. That is for the best. She probably won’t even remember this tomorrow.
They’ll kill him.
The truth is, they probably already did kill him. A young man who lived on our father’s estate, the son of one of his guards, helped us escape. I wait until her breathing evens out and her grip around my hand loosens before I get up. I’m still nowhere close to sleep, so I wander over to the window. The drapes in the motel room are heavy and wide. They block out most of the light. So when I push them aside to peek through, even the faint light pricks my eyes.
The sidewalk is empty. Everything is still and quiet.
My hand brushes the Madonna statue, and it wobbles on the sill. It’s light, hollow. Made of plastic. I’m not sure who would buy a statue like this as a religious symbol. It’s too irreverent. But we’re using it as one.
She looks over us, this mother holding her child. She protects us. It’s worked so far.
I put my fingertip on the top of her head. Just a little while longer. Once I get proof against my father, I can use it as leverage. We’ll be free of him then.
We won’t need the protection of a burned-out light-up Madonna anymore.
* * *
My father is a descendent from one of the original leading families in Las Vegas. Due to the path of our family tree and criminal politics, he didn’t play a major role in the larger organization. But he was still respected. Still feared.
He would tell me bedtime stories with delitto d’onore. Honor killings. About men who disrespected their families and had to be put down. I didn’t realize until later that delitto d’onore is why he might have killed my mother. Didn’t realize it until later that it’s why he might kill me…if he finds me.
Maybe one day I’d figure out what honor really meant, because I couldn’t be like him. I couldn’t give Clara away to one of Byron’s friends. I couldn’t let her be all but sold to a monster—all in the name of family honor.
Like I had been.
I’m done with honor. I’m ready to be bad. To break the rules for more than just money. Except, of course, the man that I want to break them with doesn’t come back. For five nights. Five long nights of dancing in a smoky room, of evading grabbing hands. The girls figure out something is up with me.
“I told you not to date them,” Lola says.
I don’t look up as I pull sweatpants and a tank top on. I’m naked underneath, but the soft fleece is a relief after the harsh elastic and even harsher lights onstage. “Who says I did?”
“You have the look. Let me guess. He bought you dinner, got a blowjob, then didn’t call again.”
That’s close enough to the truth that I can’t refute it. But it’s not the whole truth. It doesn’t take into account that he seems to want more than sex. It doesn’t take into account that I can’t give him that.
“It doesn’t matter,” I say. “It’s over.”
Lola rolls her eyes. “Of course it’s over. We’re not the girls they take home to mama. We
’re not the ones they keep.”
I shudder. I’d been the girl that got kept before. If I was lucky, I’d never have to go back. “Maybe I’m the one who didn’t call him. It’s not only men who want sex with no strings attached.”
She laughs. “Oh, sweetie, you’ve got so many strings you’ll never get free.”
My heart clenches because she’s right. I’m running and running, trying to stay safe, desperate to keep Clara safe, but I’m failing. It’s easy to see that I’m failing, standing in the dressing room of the strip club, feeling pathetic over some guy. Over a customer, of all people. I’m working as hard as I can, giving up everything—even my dignity—and it isn’t enough.
You’ll never get free.
A knot forms in my throat. I couldn’t speak even if I knew what to say.
Lola’s face falls. “Shit. I didn’t—”
“Don’t worry about it,” I say, my voice rough. And I push past her before she can stop me.
Chapter Twelve
I enter the dressing room the next day and immediately know I’m in huge trouble. The room is empty. No Candy, no Lola, no other girls. Just Ivan, sitting on my stool.
He’s waiting for me.
I can see that from the stillness of his body, the watchfulness despite his casual pose. He looks huge on that stool where I sit, huge next to the vanity I use. It’s a reminder of how much power he has—both physically and otherwise—and I’m guessing he planned for that.
“Honor.”
I flinch, and I’m not even sure why. No one else is here, but it hurts to hear him say my real name. I’m not really Honey—that’s just a facade. But I’m not Honor either, that locked-up girl back home. I’m someone else, someone without a name. “Is something wrong?”
“Apparently.” He pauses, watching me. Like he wants me to confess.
“Did you find something about my mother?”
“I’m not sure why I’d be expected to hold up my agreement when you aren’t holding up yours.”
Fear grips my chest. “I’m dancing for you. That was our agreement.”
“And as one of my dancers, you do what I tell you. So if I tell you to stay away from Kip, you stay away.”
I flinch. “How did you—”
“Does it matter? I find out about everything that happens in this club eventually. And you’ve been spending too much time with him for it to go unnoticed. Private dances are one thing. But outside the club? You deliberately disobeyed me.”
I bite my lip against all the apologies and pleas that want to slip out. I’ve lived my life under a powerful man’s thumb. I know what it is to beg and scrabble for the smallest freedom. But I left to get away from that. It’s a hard thing, being used by every man I meet, placating their demands to earn a little more time. Sometimes I feel like I’m buying freedom with freedom, debt piling on debt, until I’ll owe the whole world just to die.
But he has something I want. Something I need. Information.
I can see the gleam in his eyes. He wouldn’t have come to a bargaining table without the upper hand.
“I’m sorry,” I finally say, although too late and insincere to be useful.
His eyes darken. He stands up and approaches me. I shrink back from the dark look in his eyes. He doesn’t stop until I’m backed up against the wall.
“Did he fuck you that well?” he whispers, mouth an inch from my cheek. “You couldn’t say no?”
He’s just trying to scare me. I know that. I can recognize that fact, but it doesn’t stop it from working.
“All this time he never comes into my club. Now suddenly he’s a regular customer.” Ivan runs a finger down my cheek. “Although I guess we can’t really call him a customer.”
“I just…” My voice wavers. “I didn’t think it would hurt anyone.”
“So worried about other people. When really it’s you that’ll end up hurt.”
“No, he wouldn’t—”
“Maybe you should get down on your knees again. I can see what you’ve been giving him.”
My heart pounds. I offered him this in his office, but it’s different out here in the dressing room. And maybe it’s different because of Kip too. He’s changing me. He’s making me stronger, and in my life that’s not really a good thing.
“No,” I whisper.
“What did you say?”
“She said no.” The voice comes from the doorway. Both Ivan and I look over. Kip.
Oh Jesus. He’s never come to the dressing room. Why is he here now?
That’s answered for me when I get a glimpse of Candy behind him. She must have known Ivan was going to talk to me, must have known I was in trouble. And she called Kip to protect me. But it will only make it worse. Ivan and I are tinder, brittle and dry. Kip is the match.
He looks seriously pissed, brows furrowed and mouth set in a grim line. “Honey.”
Just that one word and somehow I’m going to him, obeying his tacit command, choosing him over Ivan before I can process what a monumentally awful idea that is. Kip is just a customer. Not even that. But Ivan is my boss. He’s also a man holding the key to my past. I need him to like me. I need to be on my knees in front of him right now, but instead I’m behind Kip as he steps in front of me—protecting me with his body.
Ivan raises an eyebrow at Kip. “Sticking your nose in my business?”
Kip is like some kind of avenging angel, standing in front of me, fearless. “She said no.”
Ivan laughs, incredulous. “She’s one of my girls. She does what I say, when I say. If I want her to fuck half of Tanglewood, she’ll spread her fucking legs.”
Kip doesn’t immediately react, but I feel his anger spread like wildfire, forming around the three of us, locking us in this battle. When he speaks, it is quiet, barely above the roar in my ears. “She belongs to me now.”
The words ring through me like a bell, echoing inside me. What? Ivan sounds surprised too. “She’s a stripper.”
“Not anymore.”
I can’t catch my breath. What the hell is he talking about? She belongs to me now. It’s barbaric. And considering I need Ivan, a really inconvenient time to be getting possessive. So why does pleasure spread from the inside out, warming me, raising goose bumps on my skin?
Then I can’t hold it in anymore—I peek around Kip’s arm to see Ivan looking calculating. I expect him to say something sharp or threatening. His power around here is well known. The men who come to visit him are scary characters in their own right, but they are always deferential to Ivan. If this were a high school yearbook, he’d get voted most likely to terrify, and I’m terrified for Kip.
But then something strange happens.
Ivan’s gaze turns considering. He sizes Kip up. His gaze flicks to me. Acknowledgement turns his eyes cool. “Yours?”
“You have something to say to her, go through me.”
And just like that, he backs down. Ivan’s gaze flicks to me, then back to Kip. “You can tell your girlfriend that what she’s looking for isn’t here. It never was.”
My mother. He means she never arrived in Tanglewood. It’s hard to breathe. I always knew she never left Las Vegas, but hearing it confirmed still hurts. I guess when you see that gleaming closed casket, there’s always a part of you that hopes. Some small part of me that imagined her finding some other way, driving off into the sunset. Alive. Safe. Betrayed by both her husband and lover.
Ivan strides from the room, leaving us alone.
I swallow hard. Kip may have won this round over Ivan, but I can’t trust that. And no wonder, considering what happened to my mother. I have issues. But I can’t leave Kip either. Can’t do anything but stand beside him. He defended me from Ivan. He’s protected me all along.
And now he’s claimed me.
* * *
There’s a motorcycle waiting a few yards away. Kip walks over and picks up the helmet.
He holds it out. “Let’s go.”
It doesn’t even occur to me to walk
away. He came for me; I’m going with him. I can’t offer him any kind of relationship or commitment. At some point I’ll have to explain that, but not now—not so soon after he stalked into the Grand and shielded me with his own body. Not right after he said I was his. He’s won this. He’s earned me. It’s a fantasy we can live together for one night, an hourglass with each kernel of sand bringing my enemies closer to me, one more breath facing the open mouth of a gun.
“Where?” I ask, already taking the helmet anyway, because it doesn’t matter where we go. Anywhere. “I need to be back by sunrise.”
The corner of his lips lifts, and I’m riveted by the scruff that frames them. The whiskers that are sharp against my skin, leaving red marks. The mouth so soft and talented. “Already planning to get rid of me?”
The truth is we were always bound to end. The truth is we should never have started. “I want every second I can get with you,” I tell him honestly. To prove my point, I put the helmet on.
Take me away.
And though I can’t voice my desire, he seems to know. He grabs my hand and steadies me as I hook my leg over the bike. It’s bigger than I expected—taller and wider. I’ve never been on a motorcycle before. I was more likely to ride in the back of my father’s Rolls. At least when I was allowed to leave the house. My feet come off the ground. Between the helmet and his broad back, I can’t see anything. I’m completely at his mercy like this.
“Hold on.” The words are more a rumble through his body—and into mine—than a sound.
I wrap my arms around his waist, soaking up his solidity like a cat in the sun. It’s been missing from my life, only coming in my dreams: safety. Stability. I take it all into my body, store it deep, hoarding the feeling for the time when I’m on the run again.
He’s wrong for me. Dangerous.
Desire doesn’t ask questions. Neither does love.
The roar of the engine is deafening—almost blinding, like the lights onstage. There’s a moment. There’s a shiver down my spine. There’s a doorway into a new place. But this isn’t a stage. These aren’t hands to grope me. This place is the rush of air over my skin as we take off. It’s the steady rumble of the machine beneath my legs, the hard body of the man I’m holding.
