by Lila Price
It was so shocking that for a moment, I couldn’t breathe. It was like the wind had been knocked out of me, even though I was still standing. A second later, my knees started to buckle.
That’s when I heard the car.
It was black with tinted windows and the driver’s side door opened and a second later the sound of shoes scraping against the sidewalk filled my eardrums.
It was Colt.
I blinked my eyes a few times, quickly, wondering if I was seeing things. The ringing in my ears was subsiding slowly, but perhaps I was hallucinating.
Everything was moving in slow motion and then Colt was there, in front of us, and he grabbed the men who slapped me by the back of his shirt and threw him to the ground.
“Get away from her,” Colt growled, his voice making it clear he wasn’t messing around. “You keep your fucking hands off her.”
For a moment the man’s eyes darkened and his pruny face set into a determined expression. “Oh, yeah?” he asked. “What the hell are you going to do about it?” His friend, who was lingering in the background, stepped forward and pulled a knife out of his pocket. The blade glinted as he popped it open.
I gasped and put my hand to my mouth.
But Colt didn’t even hesitate.
He stepped forward and in one fluid movement, knocked the knife out of the man’s hand. The knife went skittering onto the pavement, coming to a rest near Colt’s feet. He picked it up and dropped it into the sewer grate.
The men looked at each other nervously.
“Hey, man,” the one who pulled the knife said. “We don’t want any trouble.”
Colt took one step toward him, and the men went running down the street.
He turned to me.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” I wasn’t. My cheek was throbbing where I’d been hit. The adrenaline was leaving my body and I was starting to feel the pain.
“You’re not.” He cupped my chin tenderly and lifted my face, studying my cheek. “It’s already starting to swell. Stay here.”
He walked across the street to a tiny bodega. There’s an ice chest outside, with a combination lock on it. I watched as he put his ear to the lock, then turned it and popped it open. He reached in and pulled out a handful of ice, then walked it back across the street. He wrapped the ice in a towel that he pulled from his trunk and then pressed it against my face.
I winced at the coldness and tried to move away.
“Stop,” he commanded. “You need to put ice on it.”
I turned my cheek to him and let him put the ice on my face. After a minute, my skin started to go numb, and I began to feel better.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
I reached out to take the ice pack from him, because he was still holding it to my skin. His closeness was making my stomach twist itself into knots. I thought about how close I came to kissing him a moment ago, how close I came to wrecking everything, to destroying the only thing that had ever meant anything to me.
“Olivia” Colt said, and the way he said my name made me shiver. “I’m taking you home.”
“No.” I shook my head. “No, that’s okay. I can’t… I mean, I’m not going to…” I was babbling and I took a deep breath and tried to calm myself down. I couldn’t let Colt take me back to the shelter I’d been staying at. It was in a horrible part of town, even worse than this one, and it was humiliating. The last thing I wanted was this put-together, rich guy knowing where I was staying.
“You’re coming home with me.” It was a command.
“What?”
“You’ll stay at my apartment. With me.”
“Oh, no.” I shook my head vehemently. “I can’t ask you to do that.”
“You’re not asking me.”
“No, I really… I need to get home.” I tried to make my voice sound like I had people there waiting for me, a mother or a father or maybe even both. A roommate or an older sister who would be worried about me, expecting me, wondering where I was if I didn’t show up. Over the years I’d perfected saying “I need to get home” instead of giving details. Usually, it worked. But not this time.
Colt shook his head. “Too bad.” He took my hand and pulled me toward his car. And this time, I let him.
His car smelled of leather and sandalwood, mixed with the spicy scent of cologne. The seats were close to the ground, and I had to duck to get inside.
Colt climbed into the car next to me, and as he turned the key in the ignition, I caught sight of the watch on his wrist. It was silver and heavy-looking, with a thick band. I had never been this close to that kind of wealth. I’d seen it on tv and in magazines, but I’d never been so close that I could touch it. I marveled at the fact that Colt’s watch probably cost the same amount as what it would take me to live for a whole year.
He shifted the car into gear and pulled out onto the street. I expected him to peel out, for the wheels to squeal and the smell of burning rubber to fill the street. You don’t have a car like Colt’s without liking to drive fast. But Colt drove slow, controlled, and I got the feeling he was doing it because I was in the car.
“What did those men want from you?” he asked once we were on the main road.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, what did they want?”
I shrugged and pulled the ice from my face, studying myself in the side view mirror. I winced at my reflection. There was already an ugly bruise beginning to form under my cheekbone.
“What did they say?” Colt pressed.
“Not much. They called me a slut and a whore, told me they wanted to have fun with me. You know, the usual things you’d expect guys like that to say.”
His hands tightened around the steering wheel. He took in a deep breath, like he was trying to control his temper. “That’s all they said?”
“Isn’t that enough?”
“Did they mention anything about money?”
“Money?”
“Yes.”
At first, I didn’t understand. But then I got it. “You mean like paying me to have sex with them?”
He nodded, like this was completely normal in his world. It made sense. I supposed you couldn’t run a strip club without having to worry about prostitution.
“No.” I shook my head. “Not for sex. But they offered me twenty bucks to flash them. Then they called me a whore and slapped me.”
His hands tightened around the steering wheel again and his knuckles turned white. I saw the fire burning in his eyes, and I wondered what he would have done to those men if I hadn’t been there. Something made me think it wouldn’t have been pretty. Something about his presence was unnerving me, making me feel like I needed to get out of there. I thought again about the way his arms wrapped around the back of my shoulders, how they pulled me close to him without even asking permission, like he just knew I would want to kiss him.
He was right. I did want to kiss him. An image flashed through my mind, his hands in my hair, his lips on mine, our tongues intertwining. In my daydream he tasted like peppermint and alcohol, and his kisses left me breathless.
Declan.
“You don’t have to bring me to your house,” I said. “I just... you can take me home.” Obviously he couldn’t really take me home. I didn’t have a home. But I could give him directions to the shelter, could make him drop me off around the corner and then wait until he disappeared before I went in.
“No.” He shook his head. “You can’t be alone tonight.”
“I won’t be alone,” I lied.
He raised his eyebrows.
“I have a boyfriend.”
He snorted, like that was completely out of the realm of possibility.
“What’s so funny?”
“You’re lying.”
“How do you know?”
“Because if you had a boyfriend, he wouldn’t have let you audition to be a stripper. And if he did, he’s not the kind of man I’d want taking care of you tonight.�
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“And you are?” I shot back. Yes, I was lying, but if Colt was so concerned about my imaginary boyfriend letting me go to a stripping audition, then shouldn’t he have been concerned about how he was the one running the strip club?
“No.”
“No what?”
“No, I wouldn’t be the one I’d want taking care of you. But unfortunately for you, Princess, you’re stuck with me.”
He was pulling the car into the parking garage of a building now, and my pulse quickened as I realized I was alone with him and I didn’t even know him. It wasn’t much different than going home with a stranger, which is essentially what he was. Just because I knew his name and where he worked didn’t mean it was safe.
He pulled into parking spot with a bright yellow RESERVED sign on the front. As we got closer, I saw that the space was marked PENTHOUSE. So he had the penthouse. God, could he have been any more of a cliché? He ran a strip club and lived in a penthouse. And drove a hot car.
He got out of the car and came around to the side and opened my door for me. I stepped out into the parking lot.
“Thanks,” I said.
“You’re welcome.” His eyes flicked down to my wrist again, his gaze lingering on my scars. I quickly yanked the sleeves of my shirt down, and this time, he didn’t ask questions.
“Let’s go,” he said. He took my hand and pulled me toward the elevator.
His apartment was just what you’d expect – guy central. An enormous flat screen TV, black leather couches, a huge black and white circle rug on the hardwood floor. The only thing that was surprising was the art on the walls.
There were huge abstract paintings in shades of red, black, white, and turquoise. They added a certain elegance to the place, making it seem like the apartment of a man who had sophisticated tastes, instead of a boy who just threw everything together because he had money and thought it looked cool.
Colt headed to the bar and poured two drinks, then handed one to me, his eyes never leaving mine.
“I don’t drink,” I said.
He raised his eyebrows. “You don’t drink?”
“No.” Growing up in foster homes made you go either one of two ways – you either ended up drinking like most of your foster parents, or you became determined not to end up like them, and so you stayed far away from alcohol. I was the latter.
“You wanted to be a stripper and you don’t drink?” He threw his head back and laughed, like this was the funniest thing in the world.
“Can you show me where I’ll be sleeping?” I asked. My tone was clear – that he’d better not think we’d be sleeping in the same bed.
“Sure.” He took a long slow sip from his glass, then turned and started walking up the spiral staircase that was on the other side of the room. I hesitated, not sure I should follow him. The thought of being alone upstairs with him sent a shiver down my spine. My stomach twisted into knots – but it wasn’t out of fear. It was very strange – even though I didn’t know anything about Colt, I sensed deep down that he wasn’t going to hurt me. In fact, his presence, although mysterious and dark, was also somehow soothing.
I followed him up the stairs to a room at the end of the hall.
He opened the door for me.
“There are towels in the closet in the bathroom,” he said.
I nodded. “Thank you.”
He looked me up and down, his gaze lingering on my lips. I thought again about how close I came to kissing him, and my face flushed.
“You should have a nap,” Colt said. “Let me know if you need anything else.”
And then, just like that, he was gone.
I looked around the room – it was simple and tasteful. A cream-colored platform bed rested against the far wall, covered with a cream-and-blue comforter. A small nightstand was next to it, and on it was a silver clock, a plant with wide green leaves that seemed to be real, and a stack of books.
I ran my hand over the spines. All philosophy books.
I turned to the adjoining bathroom.
It was small, but modern, with a mosaic-tiled shower and a basin sink.
In the closet I found fluffy robes and fluffy towels. I ran my hand over the soft fabric. I couldn’t remember the last time I had a shower with a fluffy towel, or even a shower where there weren’t a bunch of people waiting for me to finish.
The shower had a dial so you could digitally set the temperature to be as cold or as warm as you wanted, and I set it as high as I could stand, then got in and let the water slide over my body. I washed my hair with a coconut shampoo that was sitting on a rack in the bathroom, then wrapped myself in a towel and returned to the bedroom.
There was a tray resting on the bed, and sitting on top of it was a bowl of soup and a sandwich. BLT. My favorite. Next to that was a neatly folded gray t-shirt and a pair of track pants.
I hadn’t eaten anything all day – this morning at the shelter they were serving oatmeal with raisins, and I stayed away from the oatmeal there since one time last month when one of my raisins turned out to be a fly.
I ate the sandwich hungrily. I wondered if Colt had made it himself. The sandwich was surprisingly good – the bacon was salty and warm, the lettuce crisp and fresh.
When I was done eating, I brushed my teeth with a fresh toothbrush I found under the sink, then dried my hair with the hair drying hanging on the wall.
I changed into the clothes he’d left for me and then slid under the sheets.
They were silky and smooth and felt foreign against my skin.
I was sure I wouldn’t be able to fall asleep. The bed was foreign, the place strange, not to mention that Colt was downstairs.
But a second after I closed my eyes, I was in a dream.
I was back in my foster home, the one at the Dalys, the one where I met Liam. Mr. Daly, or Frank as he liked us to call him, was making me put birthday candles into this huge cake that was made out of dirt and grass. I started putting them in one by one, but every time I’d put in a new candle, one of the other candles would fall. Mr. Daly stood in the corner with a belt, his eyes looking sad as he shook his head back and forth. “You’re not doing it right, Olivia,” he said sadly. “You’re not doing it right.”
Then Declan was there, reaching out, holding my hand, guiding me to put the candles in right. I was happy. But then, out of nowhere, the belt came down over Declan’s hand, smashing into the cake.
“No!” I screamed.
My eyes flew open.
My heart was pounding, my face flushed. I sat up in bed, panicked, not sure where I was. Then I remembered. The strip club. Colt. His apartment.
I laid back down and tried to calm myself. But it wasn’t going to work. I knew it wasn’t going to work.
There was only one thing to do.
I got up and headed for the bathroom, grabbing my purse as I went. Once I was there, I pulled out my compact, then reached under the mirror and pulled out my razor blade.
It glinted in the light, and I put the edge up to my skin. I liked to cut my arms. I knew it was a risk, that I should try for something on my thigh, or even further up my arm. But nothing calmed me more than cutting my arms.
The first cut didn’t go deep. It was superficial, just a tiny little nick, one that hardly even drew any blood. It was a tease of the release that was to come, like ordering an appetizer before your main meal so you could take the edge off.
I was just about to make a second, bigger cut when the door to the bathroom went flying open.
Colt was standing there, wearing a white t-shirt and a pair of dark blue sweatpants. His hair was wet and a little messy, like he’d just gotten out of the shower. He looked at me, his face dark.
“I heard you yell,” he said. “I needed to make sure you were okay.”
“I was having a dream.”
He looked down at the razor in my hand, then at the cut on my arm. His gaze slid back up and met mine, and something passed between us. I could tell he knew exactly what I was do
ing. He knew I was cutting, he knew I was doing it for a release. It made me wonder how he knew– if he was a cutter, too. But one glance at the smooth skin of his forearms and I knew he wasn’t. I wondered if he was going to ask me to stop.
I froze, the razor still pressed against my arm. It was an exquisite torture, thinking you were about to get a release and then being caught.
Colt crossed the room in two long strides, reached out and gently took the razor out of my hand. He set it on the sink and then turned my arm over in his hand.
He studied my cut. A thin line of dark red blood had appeared on my skin. But instead of chastising me or asking me why I was doing this to myself, he pulled a band-aid and Neosporin out of the medicine cabinet.
“It’s okay,” I said. “I can do it.”
He raised his eyebrows at me, like he couldn’t trust me to do even the simplest thing. Then he squeezed a bit of Neosporin onto the band-aid and put the bandage over my cut.
“Thank you,” I said, taking my hand back. It burned from where he touched me.
He didn’t say you’re welcome. Instead, he just stared. His eyes were deep and calm, and they surveyed me like he was in charge, like he could do whatever he wanted with me. The silence stretched between us for a moment, and I raised my chin at him, daring him to tell me to get out. If he did, I wouldn’t care. I wasn’t afraid to go back to the shelter.
But he didn’t kick me out.
Instead, he licked his top lip and moved toward me.
He was so tall that he leaned down over me so he could whisper in my ear.
“You want to forget everything?” he breathed. “You want to let yourself feel a release?” He was so close I could feel the heat radiating between us. His skin was smooth, gorgeous, and he reached down and took my chin between his forefinger and thumb, tilted it up so that I was forced to look at him.
There was an amused glint in his eyes. “I can make you forget everything, Princess,” he said. The pad of his thumb slid gently over my bottom lip, sending waves of heat through my body.
He moved closer, so close his lips were almost touching mine, but not quite. “Do you want to forget?” he asked me again.
His arm wrapped around my back, and his hand trailed down over my spine. I shivered. My nipples hardened under the thin t-shirt I was wearing, and that same out-of-control feeling rushed over me, the one I had back at the club when I was dancing for him.