by Skye Warren
Tip outs are money paid to the bouncers and other staff members for helping us. Like if the DJ cuts you out of the lineup so you could work the floor longer or if a waitress brings extra drinks around to get a client spending. The client wouldn’t exactly tip the staff extra for their service—they especially wouldn’t tip a bouncer for throwing them out. So the girls say thank you with cold hard cash.
Curiosity fills Candy’s blue eyes. “You can’t do it yourself when you see him?”
“I don’t want to see him tonight.” Or ever, but that’s hoping for too much.
Hoping for anything is too damn much.
“Then don’t. Blue isn’t going to stop doing his fucking job because you didn’t pass him a twenty.” Her smile is sly. “In fact I don’t think he’s going to stop watching over you like a hawk no matter what you do.”
I shiver. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”
The Grand doesn’t have mandatory tip outs per night. It’s optional. The owner, Ivan, is a scary fucking dude—but he’s fair. For that reason and many others I won’t strip at another club. Even so, we still sometimes tip the staff for going above and beyond, and I definitely want to pay Blue for what he did.
I don’t need to owe him anything more.
She shrugs, one slender shoulder rising and moving the pale pink silk ruffles of her bikini top. “Why are you so sure he hates you? From where I sit, it looks like he wants to fuck you.”
“What’s the difference?” Hating. Fucking. They’re the same thing. I swallow hard, forcing down my fear. And my desire. There isn’t much difference between those two either. “We have history.”
“Oh no, honey. You can’t tell me that and then just stop.”
I sigh. “It’s not a pretty story.”
“Those are the best kind.” She pats my feet, and I scoot them out of her way so she can curl onto the couch next to me. It feels good, having her close, feeling her body heat. Comforting.
I was never the girl with a bunch of friends in school. I got moved around too much for that, foster home to foster home, wearing clothes that didn’t match and didn’t fit. I learned early on that if a boy liked me—if the toughest, meanest boy in the school liked me—then no one else could touch me.
So I learned to make that boy like me however I could. Until Blue.
“He was in one of my homes. My foster homes.”
Candy says nothing, just strokes my ankle lightly, her gaze on the empty dressing room we can see from the sofa. Maybe she knows it’s easier to talk if she isn’t looking at me. I wonder what secrets she’d have to tell if I stopped looking at her.
My throat gets tight as I think about those first days when Blue showed up. I’d been scared of him. Turned on by him. Confused by him. And by the end, he’d made me the happiest I’d ever felt then or since.
“I got him in trouble,” I whisper.
“What, like you told on him?” Candy’s words are challenging, almost mocking, but her voice is soft—like she knows. She knows that whatever happened between us, it was more than pulling pranks and sibling rivalry. “Was he doing something bad and you told someone?”
“No, just the opposite,” I say, my voice thick. “He didn’t do anything wrong. But I said he did. That’s why he hates me. Because of me, because I lied, he got sent away. And one of these days, he’s going to pay me back.”
Chapter Three
I guess it’s an acquired taste because by the second glass of this stuff, I’m feeling really good. I’m almost floating; that’s how good it feels. Though maybe that’s because of whatever pill Candy gave me.
That stuff should just be…breakfast. I should have it every morning and go through the rest of my day like this, seeing beautiful things everywhere. Even the crack in the wallpaper in front of me looks beautiful. The corner of this sofa cushion with stuffing poking out looks beautiful.
“You’re beautiful,” I tell Candy.
She giggles. “And you’re drunk.”
That is probably true, but her laugh sounded very drunk too. I think we might both be drunk, and that seems like the greatest thing ever. Every day men are coming in here getting wasted while we work our asses off. Now it’s our turn to get drunk.
I sigh with total relaxation. “I never want this night to end.”
“We should just not end it,” she says seriously.
“God, that’s a good idea.” It’s actually the best idea I’ve ever heard. I never want to leave this couch, never want to stop floating, never want to crash. “Let’s just stay here.”
“It’ll be like a sleepover, except without the sleeping.”
I raise my glass, which is now sadly empty. “And with alcohol.”
She tilts her head. “Did your sleepovers not have alcohol?”
“I never had a sleepover,” I confess. “I also never had friends. Or, you know, a house where they could sleep at.” Not unless I wanted them getting pawed by whatever foster father or brother happened to live there. Which I did not.
“That’s sad,” she says, sounding like she’s about to cry.
Suddenly I feel like I’m about to cry. And then I am crying, tears wet and thick down my cheeks. God. I’m so drunk. “No, really,” I say, sniffling. “What the hell did we just drink?”
She just smiles with her eyes closed, head leaned back on the sofa like she’s sunning on the goddamn beach. “Happiness.”
Silence fills the small lounge for a brief moment before we both bust out laughing. I don’t even know what’s funny, except that it is. The dressing room is quiet and dark. All the girls have packed their shit and left. It must be late. Or early.
I squint toward the doorway as if I’ll somehow be able to see outside that way.
And then I can’t see anything. There’s just a broad chest filling the opening. A chest I did not want to see tonight.
Even if it is a very nice chest. Beautiful, even.
I want to cry again.
“Ivan wants to see you,” he says.
Candy stiffens beside me. We both know he’s talking to her. Ivan is the only person, man or woman, who intimidates her. And I think he might enjoy doing it.
She pouts. “We’re having a sleepover.”
Blue’s lips twitch. “Is that what I should tell him?”
“Of course not. That would only make him jealous.” She stands and crosses toward the door—somehow steady even though I can’t sit upright. Blue steps aside, and she turns back to wink at me. “Don’t wait up.”
My cheeks heat as Blue studies me. Could she have been any more obvious? I don’t want to give him any ideas. Not that I think he’s struggling for them. No, I can feel him thinking, calculating, weighing what I’ve done every time he sees me.
I don’t even see him cross the room. Suddenly he’s standing right in front of me, his eyes narrowed. “Are you drunk?”
“God,” I say. “No.”
I’m not sure why I say that when I must smell like I bathed in whiskey. And he doesn’t exactly believe it. If anything his expression becomes more severe. “Are you high?”
“Nooo,” I say, drawing out the word as if that will convince him. Or at least make him stop looking at me. Because it’s uncomfortable in a twisty, hot, itchy way. “I would never do that.”
“Liar.” His voice is mild, but I know he’s not just talking about right now.
“I don’t owe you anything,” I shout. Then I cringe, like he might slap me. Tears sting my eyes. I need to get control of myself, but whatever was in that bottle and that pill, whatever happiness means, I can’t seem to think straight.
“Christ,” he mutters.
“Don’t hurt me.” My voice is small and weak, and I really wish I’d stop saying everything I feel.
He just studies me, judges me. Another man might reassure me. I’m not going to hurt you. But he doesn’t say that. He doesn’t lie. We both know he’s going to hurt me, even if he hasn’t yet.
And if I’m really honest, he alread
y has.
“Let’s get you home,” he says instead.
“I don’t need your help.” But when I try to stand and tumble into his arms, I prove myself a liar. He’s strong and firm and warm. Like a bear. I think he’s like a big beautiful bear. And even in my drunken state, even now I know you’re never supposed to run from a bear.
“You can barely stand up, much less walk.” He sounds disgusted. “I can’t believe she got you high knowing you’d have to walk through one of the most dangerous neighborhoods in the city.”
“We were having a sleepover,” I sniff.
He doesn’t respond to that. Instead he leans me against a wall and finds some clothes in my bag. He holds them out to me. “Get dressed.”
I don’t take them. Clothes seem so complicated. I mean, I’m a stripper. What’s even the point? Taking them off, putting them on. “Why?”
“Because if you go out into the street like that, you’ll start a fucking riot. Now get dressed.”
He shoves the clothes at me, and I catch the shirt while the sweatpants fall at my feet. It’s not that I want to philosophize about clothes right now. It’s just that all the holes and directions seem like a puzzle. And I can’t really bring myself to care. Or stand up straight.
“Christ,” Blue says again, but with more anger. I like that because it seems more honest.
And beautiful. He’s so beautiful when he’s angry.
He takes the shirt back and helps me put it on. Then he puts my legs into the pants and pulls them up.
It takes me a few moments to process that. He just dressed me like a doll. And now he’s talking to me, saying something like, can you walk?
“Duh. Can you walk?”
He shakes his head, but I don’t think he’s saying no. I think he’s frustrated with me. “God, Hannah.”
I flinch, because that’s not my name anymore. I’m Lola now, fierce and sexy. On top of the fucking world, that’s me. Hannah is my old name, the old me. The one who gets pushed around. The one who gets touched.
Like I got pushed around today. Like I got touched.
“I want to go home,” I whisper.
“I’ll take you there.”
He doesn’t know that I don’t really have a home. Not one that’s mine. Nothing much has changed after all. Lola’s just a name. She’s not a real person. In the end I’m still dumb little Hannah, with nowhere to go and no one to care.
Except Blue.
Chapter Four
“Did you see the new boy?”
I don’t look up from applying lipstick at the mirror. It’s not my lipstick. I swiped it from one of the older girls before she ran away. It’s also not my mirror. Nothing here is mine except the vacant eyes staring back at me. “I’m not looking for a boyfriend.”
Lucy smirks. “They say he’s dangerous.”
I have a lot of experience with dangerous boys. “I’m not afraid.”
“You will be.” She lowers her voice. “They say he killed another kid at his last home.”
My eyes widen. Okay, that’s new. I’ve been in the system a long time. I’ve been in homes with a lot of strung out, violent kids. But I’ve never met a murderer. “What for?”
A shrug. “Dunno.”
It’s enough of a mystery to propel me to the window. I look downstairs where a maroon town car sits in the driveway. Mrs. Moreno is my caseworker too. She stands with a clipboard, her gray hair frizzy in the summer heat. A boy lounges against the hood of the car, his body relaxed, his expression bored. He’s wearing a plain white T-shirt, jeans, and black boots.
Was he wearing the same thing when he killed a boy?
All I can think about is if the blood spattered on his white T-shirt.
* * *
He doesn’t walk me home. I guess that would be too sweet, some twisted version of wholesome. We could have held hands as if we were coming back from a date instead of leaving a strip club. I would have pretended the Grand was still a theater and that my whole life was just a show, something I could leave behind at the end of the night.
That was just a fantasy. In reality he led me to his beat-up truck and pushed me inside.
“Which way?” he asked as he turned out of the parking lot.
“Toward the freeway.”
A mechanical click from the door makes me jump. The locks. Right.
The Grand isn’t that safe, but near the freeway, where I live, is closer to a war zone. I don’t have much of a choice. It isn’t even my house. Stripping pays for the electric bill and keeps the fridge stocked, but I can’t move. Not yet.
He drives with a cool efficiency I envy. I’ve never driven a car. I don’t even have a license. Driving lessons aren’t exactly a priority when you’re living on the streets. But Blue knew how to drive when I first met him. He’d told me about the way he used to race the cars owned by his previous foster dad before he got kicked out.
There’s a new alertness to him now, a competency born of experience. He’s been to the military, driven through a real war zone, and I imagine he looked just like he does now, focused and calm.
“Why’d you come back to Tanglewood?” I ask softly. The alcohol has worn off, along with the laughing, blustery high I’d been on. Now I’m just thoughtful and curious—and uninhibited enough to act on it.
“Where else would I go?” His voice is bland, as if he doesn’t care where he ends up.
“And the Grand? Why work there?” I don’t know why I’m pushing him. It’s like pressing on a bruise. I know it’s going to hurt, but I can’t help myself. As sick as it is, I crave the pain.
And at least if he tells me why he’s here, at least if he pushes back and holds me down—that will be honest. It’s worth a lot to me, honesty. After a life of lies, it’s worth everything.
He grunts, and I think that’s all I’ll get, a caveman answer. A refusal. After a beat, he adds, “The pay is good.”
That makes me smile. “Yeah, it fucking is.”
His glance is dark, expression intent. “So that’s why you do it?”
My defenses go up fast and hard. “Do what? Fuck men for money?”
“You don’t fuck them.”
I hate how sure he sounds. I hate how right he is. “How would you fucking know what happens in the VIP rooms?”
“Because I watch you.”
I cross my arms to hide my shiver. We go under the big freeway bridge, the wide shadows smoothing over us like we’re underwater. “Take a right at the next light.”
He nods and keeps driving. I watch his profile in the moonlight, how hard it is, how fierce. I imagine him on a mission like that, heading off to kill someone. I wonder if he’s killed a person. No, I know he has. I just wonder how many. Maybe he’s on a mission right now. Maybe he’s planning on taking me down. Not by killing me. That would be too easy. He’s going to make me suffer.
Candy thinks I’m wrong. She thinks I’m overstating how much he hates me, that he doesn’t want to hurt me at all. Some days I want to believe her. He just wants to fuck you, she says, and some days—God, some days—I think I wouldn’t mind that at all.
But then I see those big hands grip the steering wheel, relaxed and powerful. I see his forearms flex. I see the memories in his eyes when he looks at me. And I think he can’t possibly forgive me. Not when I can’t forgive myself.
I point in silence at the remaining turns, one after another, rats in a maze.
He pulls into the driveway, so cracked down the middle we dip and roll in the seat. Before I can get out or even reach for the door, he has the engine turned off. Then he’s stepping out of the truck.
“No,” I say. “You don’t have to…”
It doesn’t matter. He can’t even hear me until he opens the door beside me. By then I’m too shocked to speak. No one has ever opened the door for me. It feels like some kind of extravagant gesture, one that can’t possibly be real. And definitely not sincere. It’s like he’s mocking me with it, making me see how it would be if we
were actually dating, if he actually liked me, if I actually deserved for him to.
I step out of the truck quickly, stumbling in hurry and shame, still drunk but mostly sad.
I don’t wait for him to say anything. I just walk quickly to the door. His footsteps follow me. His heat follows me. Even his musky scent follows me, and I duck my head as if that will help me escape him. The door is blocking my path. To get through I’ll have to dig through my purse and find the key.
I’ll have to face him.
When I do, he’s standing two feet away. He has his hands in his pockets. It makes him seem strangely vulnerable. At the same time it makes his arm muscles thicken, and I can’t help but be aware of his strength, the inherent threat of his body.
“Good night,” I whisper, because I want him to leave.
“Hannah,” he says, his voice so low I barely hear it.
“My name is Lola.”
He sighs and steps closer. “Hannah, you and me, we have unfinished business.”
My throat tightens. I’m not ready for this. I’ll never be ready. “That was a long time ago.”
“Maybe so. But I haven’t forgotten. I haven’t forgotten how we were together. Or what you did. Have you?”
There’s a stampede in my heart, thundering loud enough and hard enough I think I might pass out. God, I want to disappear. I want to melt onto the warm night’s pavement. “Blue, I—”
The door opens behind me, and I gasp. I don’t like things sneaking up on me. Nona is standing in the doorway, a confused look on her face. “Hannah? What’s going on out here?”
It scares me to think she doesn’t know, that Blue could be any strange man and she still would have opened the door. That’s probably true. I could be getting attacked in an alley and she’d come to my defense. She’d get herself killed to protect me, and in this neighborhood, that’s a reasonable outcome. But I can’t leave her here. She needs someone to make sure the stove is off and the doors are locked. She needs someone to pay the bills.
Blue is looking at her, speculating. He puts his hand out. “Blue Eastman.”