More: A Body Work Novel (The Body Work Trilogy Book 4)

by Sierra Kincade

  “No thanks!” shouted Anna, in a way that sounded more like “fuck off.” Amy’s eyes shot open, and she realized that her friend had been talking to the man who’d started dancing with her. He lifted his hands in surrender and disappeared back through the crowd.

  “Thanks,” said Amy, realizing she was probably a little more than a little drunk.

  The song changed to a slower, more primal tempo, and Amy laughed as Anna danced like she was a sex goddess in a Bride-to-Be crown. She almost told her to take it off, but Anna didn’t care. She was in love and on fire, and nothing could stop her.

  Marcos joined them finally, gripping his beer like a lifeline and staring down any man who made a deliberate play at either of them. The girls danced around him, and after a while either the beer kicked in, or Marcos loosened up, because he started dancing—sort of—too.

  It was fun, until her head began to pound with the music, and her throat grew as dry as sandpaper, and the room started to pitch back and forth like she was a boat on rough seas.

  “I need some air.” She’d leaned close to Anna to tell her this, and practically shouted in her ear.

  Anna nodded, and grabbed Marcos’s hand. They followed Amy toward the bar, but midway there, a wave of nausea took Amy by surprise, and she made a sharp turn the other direction toward the bathrooms.

  Her skin turned cold and clammy, the sweat on her skin was suddenly freezing. Wet hair clung to her neck. Bile started to claw up her throat.

  Her head pounded, pounded, pounded.

  The lines at the bathroom were long, and she considered plowing through them before she threw up, but instead veered toward the green lit EXIT sign to her right. She pushed through the door, and gulped in breath after breath of night air, leaning back against a brick wall for support. The click of the door muffled the music. Her friends had not followed.

  Gradually the nausea subsided and other noises filtered in. The screech of tires on the main street. The music seeping through the closed door. She’d found her way into an alley, no more than eight feet wide. Bottles, plastic cups, and cigarette butts littered the ground. A harsh light over the door bathed the narrow juncture in an eerie, yellow glow, and highlighted a sign that said NO REENTRY.

  “Come on,” Amy muttered as her body gradually came back under control. Her throat was screaming with thirst; she would have traded her kick-ass black boots for a cup of water. As it was, she could barely stand in them. Her feet were aching. She had no idea how long they’d been dancing.

  A clatter down the way had her spinning toward the noise. She peered into the darkness, feeling the hair rise on the back of her neck. It was hard to make out any shapes in the shadows, and when she heard a cat’s high-pitched screech, she clutched her chest and willed her pulse to slow down.

  “Not creeped out at all,” she said aloud. “This is absolutely not the type of place where people get murdered.”

  Bending slowly, and keeping her eyes on the end of the alley, she reached for the phone she’d zipped into her right boot. She’d just call Anna and tell her she’d been locked out. Anna would open the door so she wouldn’t have to wait in line again.

  She pressed the phone to her cheek, but though it rang, her friend didn’t pick up. Of course she wouldn’t, Amy realized. It was too damn loud inside to hear yourself think. She’d have to head back toward the front entrance after all.

  Just then, the door opened again, and two men stepped out. They were dressed sharply—in slacks and fitted shirts, but neither looked like they’d been inside long. Their crisp, dry appearances made Amy aware of how wet and gross she was. Her makeup was probably smeared into raccoon eyes, too.

  The first man, the taller of the two, gave a wry smirk when he saw Amy. His hair was cleanly cut and nearly black, but his skin looked tough, like leather. His eyes lowered to the phone in Amy’s hand, and before she thought about what she was doing, she’d gripped it in her fist, and hidden it behind her back.

  “Aw, you scared her,” said the second man, a Northern, New Yorkish accent drawing out his vowels. Curly, raven black hair hung just over his ears. There was too much product in it; it looked like it might make a crunching sound if touched. He was halfway between stubble and a full beard, and when he stepped out from under the single overhead light, it became impossible to read his expression.

  Clean Cut made a wide arc to the opposite side of the alley, while Curly removed a cigarette from his pocket and stuck it between his lips. He didn’t light it, nor did he look away from her. Though she felt the urge to run, she found herself unwilling to turn her back on them.

  Trust your instincts. Mike had told her that during her first self-defense session all those months ago. Well, her instincts were screaming loud and clear right now, and they said to get the hell out.

  She took one step back, then another.

  “Where you going?” asked Clean Cut. He’d matched her steps, and added another, so that he was now standing between her and the street, twenty yards away.

  Amy’s heart was pounding. Any remaining buzz she’d had was gone. Phone tight in her hand, she pushed aside her inclination to keep them both in her sight, and made a break toward the street.

  “Whoa, there,” said Curly, just as Clean Cut stepped in front of Amy’s path. She slammed on the breaks before hitting him, avoiding his arms, open, as if to embrace an old friend.

  “Get out of my way,” said Amy.

  “That’s not very nice,” said Clean Cut. “We just want to talk, Amy.”

  Every muscle in her body tensed.

  “Who are you?” she asked, her voice low.

  Curly removed the unlit cigarette from his lips, rolling it between his fingers.

  “Where’s Danny?” he asked.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Amy’s jaw tightened. Thoughts sliced through her mind, each as sharp as a blade. Danny wasn’t just strapped for cash, he was in serious trouble. Men were after him. She was in danger because of him.

  She had to get away from them.

  “I don’t know,” she said honestly. She hadn’t seen him in weeks.

  Clean Cut nodded as if he understood, then stepped closer. She moved to the side, but he grabbed her arm, and in a flash twisted her wrist so hard a white-hot pain streaked up her arm. She cried out, and released the cell phone, which clattered to the alley floor.

  Before she could retrieve it, Curly kicked it away into the darkness. Clean Cut released her arm, and she gripped it to her chest, feeling the weakness in her wrist. He’d sprained it, at the very least, and that brought on a bright wave of panic, because if she needed to hit him, she’d now have to do it with her non-dominant hand.

  “Let’s start again,” said Curly. She could feel him moving closer. His body was warm behind her, and unconsciously she moved away from him, closer to Clean Cut. Her eyes shot to the ground, landing on a beer bottle beside Clean Cut’s foot. She willed Anna and Marcos to step through the exit door. She willed anyone to come outside.

  “We’re looking for Danny Elgin. You’re Amy Elgin, his wife,” said Curly.

  “Ex-wife,” Amy cut in, but Curly ignored her.

  “You have a daughter named Paisley who’s six years old. Pretty little blonde thing you take to school with that dark-skinned girl whose daddy you’re shacking up with.”

  Her body went stone still. They knew about Paisley. She felt the world spin, just like she had when she’d been dancing, though now it had nothing to do with the alcohol or heat.

  “Good, now I’ve got your attention,” said Curly. “I’m looking for Danny because he owes a friend of mine a considerable amount of money, and if you can believe it, the twat ran off before we could collect.”

  “$37,000 to be exact,” said Clean Cut. He was looking at her neck in a way that made her want to let down her hair, just to cover it.

  Amy’s mouth gaped open. She looked into Clean Cut’s eyes, just to verify this was the truth, and felt another stab of hatred when he only nodde
d. Behind her, Curly shifted, and this time when Clean Cut moved closer, Amy’s backpedaling led her straight into the wall.

  Curly leaned close, his elbow on the brick behind her. He smelled of too much cologne. “Surprised? Don’t be. As I said, he’s a certifiable twat.”

  “I don’t know where he is,” repeated Amy, glancing again to the bottle. If Clean Cut would just move three inches to the left, she’d be able to duck down and get it. “I don’t even know why he’d need $37,000.”

  “For his recording contract, of course,” said Curly. “Studio fees, and agent payouts, and sound mixers. It all adds up. He was to be the next alternative rock sensation.”

  “Singer/songwriter,” added Clean Cut.

  “Jesus, singer/songwriter. You know how many times he told us that?”

  “A lot,” said Amy, because it looked like the man expected an answer. The truth was, she’d heard it too. Danny had always thought he was better than other singers out there because he wrote his own music. Trouble was, it was shit.

  “A lot is right,” said Curly. He was still rolling the cigarette between his fingers, and watched it with a slight frown. “For my annoyance alone, I should add an extra five percent.”

  Clean Cut laughed. It was a blunt sound: Ha. Ha. Ha.

  “Let me go. Please.” The wall was hard against Amy’s back, unforgiving as she tried to push away a little and give herself space to run.

  “I would,” said Curly. “But my friend needs his money, you understand? And if Danny’s not going to pay it, that debt then falls to his next of kin.”

  “I don’t have $37,000,” said Amy. “I barely have $37.”

  “You had enough to buy a couple fruity drinks for yourself and your friend,” said Curly. “Though maybe that money came from your mom? She’s got herself a little trust fund, doesn’t she?”

  Amy was starting to shake. These men know all about her. All about her family. She had to get to the girls. She had to warn Mike.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said. She thought of the money missing from her account. She’d wondered if it had been Danny, but maybe it had been these men, stealing to cover his debts. It didn’t seem at all unreasonable now.

  Curly stepped closer now. He lifted the cigarette and traced the side of Amy’s face with it, lowering to the top of her cleavage.

  “You’re a smart girl,” he said. “Don’t pretend to be stupid. We know things. About you. About that goddamn singer/songwriter who knocked you around. About little Paisley, who hides under the bed when she gets scared. Let’s not give her another reason to hide, all right?”

  Her body went cold, and hard as steel. She would kill these men before they came anywhere near her daughter. She could kill Danny, too, for telling them her secrets. The rage that reared up inside of her was unlike anything she’d ever felt.

  “Stay away from my daughter,” she said.

  Curly gave her a little smirk.

  “Now that’s up to you, I suppose, isn’t it? You play along and you have nothing to worry about. Fox wants his money, that’s all. Think of this as a business transaction. If we get it soon, nothing happens to your little twat-free family. But if you try to skip town, or if you get it in that pretty head to go to the cops, well, the rules change.”

  A veil of rage fell over Amy’s eyes. Memories of Danny, then of Jonathan, flashed before her. These two men were blocking her way, threatening her, just as others had threatened her. Saying they would hurt her family.

  Fuck them.

  Her knee shot up into Clean Cut’s groin, and with a groan, he toppled sideways. Before Curly could act, Amy had dropped down to snag the bottle. Her right hand was weak from her sprained wrist, so she grabbed for it with her left, fumbling just long enough for the shorter man to shove her down to the ground.

  The cement scraped her knees but she barely felt it. She twisted, swinging the bottle blindly toward Curly, who’d bent down to grab her hair. The bottle connected with his thigh, but didn’t seem to hurt him. When he jerked her up, she felt a searing pain in her scalp, and swung again, this time higher. The bottle cracked against the side of his head, and he roared in pain. The door bumped open, distracting the two men for a moment, but no one came out.

  Soft spots, Mike said in her mind.

  She lashed out, jamming her thumb into Curly’s eye. He crowed in pain, and then stumbled back a few steps. Far enough for Amy to break free and run for the street.

  When she reached it, her momentum was ground to a halt by the line of people waiting to get into the club. Amy pushed through, only stopping to look back when her shoes found the asphalt. The alley was now empty. They must have gone the other way.

  A flash of dark clothing to her left caught her attention, and then a woman shouted her name.

  Not any woman. Anna.

  She emerged from the sea of people crowding around the entrance with Marcos on her heels.

  “Are you okay?” Anna’s hands were on Amy’s face, and either she was shaking, or Amy was shaking, because her vision trembled like she was in the middle of an earthquake.

  “Are you hurt?” Marcos turned Amy by the shoulders, and after a quick look, his face warped into a sneer. “Who was it?” he asked. “Where is he?”

  “T-two men,” Amy managed, and pointed back down the alley. Don’t go to the cops, Curly had said. Marcos didn’t count. He was off duty. He was her friend. But as he took off that direction, she couldn’t help feeling like she shouldn’t have said anything.

  Anna’s phone was already at her ear. Amy didn’t even know where she’d stashed it.

  “Alec? No...No it’s Amy.” Amy barely heard as Anna rattled off the name and whereabouts of the club. She’d fallen back against the brick wall, and sunk to the ground, her knees bent up to her chest.

  Fox wants his money.

  Bad things are going to happen.

  “Amy, what happened?” asked Anna, crouched before her. “Tell me.”

  But Amy was already trying to push herself back up.

  “I have to get back to the girls.”

  ***

  Despite her best efforts to leave, Amy forced herself to wait for Marcos to return so that she could make sure he was all right. Standing at the mouth of the alley, she used Anna’s cell to call Mike’s mother.

  Half-asleep, Iris answered on the fourth ring.

  “Hello?” She sounded half-asleep. Amy checked the time on the phone. It was almost 2AM.

  “Iris, it’s Amy. Are the girls all right?”

  “Amy?”

  Amy bit her thumbnail impatiently. “Yeah, it’s me. The girls. Are they all right?”

  There was a pause, and the soft scraping sound of fabric sliding over the receiver.

  “They’re sleeping. Are you okay?”

  “You’re sure they’re sleeping?” asked Amy. “Can you check on them?”

  “Amy, what’s...”

  “Please, Iris.”

  Another pause, and when Iris came back on the line, her voice was a low whisper.

  “They’re fast asleep in Paisley’s bed. Must have doubled up after the last time I checked. What happened?”

  Amy’s mouth opened, but she didn’t want to scare the girls unnecessarily. “Can you check the doors for me? The windows, too. I’ll be home soon.”

  “You’re worrying me, hon.”

  “It’s probably nothing,” Amy said, voice brittle. Maybe it would be nothing—if she could get her hands on $37,000.

  Marcos was coming back down the alleyway now, empty-handed.

  “I’ve got to go,” said Amy. “Don’t forget to check the doors.”

  Amy closed the phone and shoved it Anna’s direction. She met Marcos halfway, still jerky with adrenaline.

  “Nothing,” Marcos said. “No one down that way but a homeless lady with a bunch of cats.”

  Amy’s eyes darted behind him. Her phone. She could see the light from the exit door, and wondered if it was still on the gro
und somewhere. If they’d taken it, they’d have access to her contacts, her emails, her pictures of Paisley and Chloe.

  “Tell me what happened,” said Marcos. “We lost you in the crowd near the restrooms. What happened then?”

  He pulled his own phone out of his pocket, and opened a blank sheet for notes.

  “What are you doing?” Amy asked.

  “Making a report,” he said. “I’ll talk to the owner, and then file this when we’re done.”

  “No cops,” Amy said.

  Marcos motioned to himself. “A little late for that, don’t you think?”

  “No cops,” she repeated. Taking a deep breath, she ventured into the alley, walking fast, and scanning her surroundings.

  “What’s she doing?” called Anna. “Amy, where are you going?”

  She could hear the scuffle of footsteps behind her, and then Marcos was at her side. Anna stayed back near the street.

  “My phone,” said Amy. “One of them knocked it out of my hand.”

  “You should sit down.” Marcos’s scowl etched deeper when he placed a hand on her bicep and she shook it off. He probably thought she was crazy after the whole no cops thing, but she didn’t care. Her mind had a singular focus: protect what was hers. Right now, that entailed getting her phone and keeping anything related to her family away from Curly and his Clean Cut pal.

  Danny, she thought as she reached the exit and began to search the ground. What did you do?

  It didn’t take long to spot the bright pink zebra striped phone case on the ground, and she snatched it up, not caring that it was halfway soaked in a dirty puddle of spilled beer and who knows what else.