Pretty When You Cry

by Skye Warren

When Clara is finished speaking, she nods to the men on either side of the fountain. They’re bouncers. High class bouncers, and they fill out their tuxes so nicely. They reach down and pull the black silk away, unveiling the new statue atop the fountain.

  An angel stands on top of the fountain. Her wings are spread wide, strong and capable of carrying her anywhere. One wing is slightly crooked, like a bird who’s injured her wing. But she still stands tall, chin held high. Her hair falls in loose waves, the kind of texture you get after being out at sea, salt and water spray leaving its mark. And her eyes—the angels eyes are what you remember most. They’re strong and fierce, so determined. This isn’t an angel to pray or bless you. This is a warrior, one who knows the evils of the world and fight them every day.

  The crowd gasps, torn between genuine appreciation and their jaded addiction to criticism. They applaud Clara and demand, simply demand, that she create custom pieces for them all. She’ll be very busy, assuming she wants to create ego centerpieces for cunning rich people.

  Ivan squeezes my hand. “It’s lovely.”

  I give him a wink. “Wait until you see the show.”

  Those lovely gray eyes widen. I don’t dance very often, not onstage, focusing instead on the choreography, the staging, and the front of the house. Not to mention the number crunching on the backend. It keeps me busy, but I wanted to be part of this night, of this show. I wanted this to be a true transition from what the Grand had been to what it has become. That means never forgetting where it came from, just like I can never forget. There are scars on the Grand, in the walls themselves. Just like there are scars on Ivan’s body. They tell a story about where it’s been—and about where it’s going.

  * * *

  It’s a rush out onstage again, the lights, the feeling of flying. I dance with the other girls in formation through our opening act and then wait backstage for a few of the sets.

  Then it’s my turn.

  My dance is a blend of stripper moves and burlesque, both crude and sultry, both fierce and whimsical. It’s an ode to the past, this song. And hope for the future. When I’m done, I’m breathless, weightless.

  I’m almost euphoric as I head down the familiar hallway and into the dressing room. It had to be expanded to accommodate the full company of dancers. They’re bustling about, getting ready for the show. Some of them give me a hug and kiss, congratulating me on my performance, but I’m careful not to smudge their makeup.

  Then I see Honor at my vanity, with Lola at her side. Blue is there, looking severe.

  My heart drops. All I can think about is Alex. Did he do something else? Leave more blood? Hurt someone?

  “What’s wrong?” I manage to ask over the knot in my throat.

  “It’s Clara,” Honor says. “She was supposed to sit with us, but when we all took our seats, she wasn’t there. She isn’t anywhere.”

  Oh God. There’s a steel band around my chest, and I can’t breathe. If anything happened to Clara, I don’t know what I would do. She’s too sweet for this place. Too innocent. Why did I ever ask her to make a sculpture for us?

  “She probably just got a ride with some friends,” Lola says, but her big brown eyes are filled with worry. We all know that Clara is careful, thoughtful. She would have at least told her sister she was leaving.

  Kip appears, looking out of breath. “We searched the perimeter of the Grand, but we’re going to go wider.”

  In other words, he hasn’t found her.

  I squeeze Honor’s hand. “I’m sure she’ll turn up just fine, and then you’ll be able to ground her for life.”

  Honor gives me a wan smile. “She’s eighteen now. I can’t ground her at all.”

  A grown woman. She’s seen so much, but it never changed her. It never hardened her. Which means she doesn’t have any defenses against the dark side of Tanglewood. Definitely none against Alex and the perverted teachings of Harmony Hills. Now I understand Ivan’s murderous rage. If he hurt one silky blonde hair on her head…

  My phone lights up on my vanity, and suspicion makes my eyes narrow. I manage to keep a blank expression as I grab it from the small table and move aside. They’ll think I’m only checking my messages or maybe calling her. Presumably they’ve tried and gone to voicemail.

  Sure enough, there’s a text. Sorry, it says.

  Where are you?? Honor is freaking out.

  Don’t tell her I talked to you. Pls.

  Umm… why? She’s going to have a heart attack.

  You owe me.

  Crap, she’s right. I do owe her after she helped me out that night. I hate having to keep Honor in the dark though. I hate being in the dark, because I don’t know what’s happening either. At least, wherever she is, she has her phone and the presence of mind to text me.

  I type again. Are you safe?

  For now.

  I think I’m going to strangle that girl. Only after Honor has a go of it, of course. But maybe every girl needs a little rebellion. She might need it more than most, the way Honor has protected her—overprotected her. After their rough beginning, it’s understandable that her older sister wanted to hold her tightly. Maybe a little too tight.

  At least she isn’t taking a gray bus out of town, never to be heard from again. Well, I’m pretty sure she’s not doing that.

  Stay that way or I’ll hurt you, I type before shutting off the screen.

  My mind is racing, trying to think of how I can keep Honor calm without actually telling her anything. Okay, that is pretty impossible.

  Ivan appears in the door, where I’ve seen him so many times. He doesn’t come inside, just gestures for me to come out. I can tell by his dire expression that he’s heard Clara is missing. In the hallway, I burrow myself into his side, needing to feel his solidity, his strength.

  “Do you know where she is?” he asks, so softly I barely can hear him.

  I shake my head without looking at him. “But she said she’s okay.”

  He gives a faint nod. “That’s enough for now.”

  Enough for now. Yes. I can trust her that much. God knows, she trusted me much more than that. I have to hope she knows what she’s doing, because I love her like a sister.

  I love Honor like a sister. Lola too. I have an entire family here, built with every swing of the pole, every rough customer thrown out. For so long after I left Harmony Hills, I felt the loneliness like physical pain. But these girls are my family.

  The Grand is my home, just like I told a crowd full of beautiful strangers tonight.

  And this man is my heart.

  Ivan watches me with quicksilver eyes. “To the basement, little one.”

  He calls to me, and I follow him down, into the heat of him, the depths of him, burned and made new again. He takes my desire and turns it around, turns it into sweetness. He takes my kindness, my love, and warps it into lust. And each time he twists me, I’m bound a little closer to him, tied a little tighter. There is nothing that could break us now.

  Every love story is a knot, and ours is threaded with steel.

  He follows me down the metal stairs, and I whirl in the dank grey space, a flash of color, a bloom. “Where do you want me, Daddy?”

  He sits at the high-back chair and pats his lap. I start to climb onto him, but he shakes his head. “Bend over, little one.”

  I drape myself over him instead. His thighs are warm and unyielding against my front, caressing my breasts. He pushes up my skirt, and I hear his breath catch at what he sees.

  My lace panties are torn away. They land on the concrete, a pile of pink scraps.

  He found me lost, alone, and helpless—and gave me a place to call mine. This basement, this building. The space where he watches me, both of us held by our own dark desires, in these moments before he gives me my reward.

  We are made of the same thing, he and I. Of sin and hope, of power and pleasure.

  We were made to dream.

  Thank You

  Thank you for reading Pretty When You Cry
. I hope you loved Ivan and Candy’s story!

  The next couple in the Stripped series is Giovanni and Clara. Hold You Against Me comes out in early 2016. Make sure you sign up for my newsletter so you can find out when it releases!

  The previous couple in the Stripped series is Blue and Lola. You can read their story in the novel Better When It Hurts and sexy follow up novella Even Better.

  If you’re new to the series, meet Giovanni and Clara for free in the prequel novella Tough Love. Then read the scorching hot and darkly mysterious Love the Way You Lie with Kip and Honor.

  You can also join my Facebook group, Skye Warren’s Dark Room, to discuss the Stripped series and my other books!

  I appreciate your help in spreading the word, including telling a friend. Reviews help readers find books! Please leave a review on your favorite book site.

  The Stripped series is dark, dangerous, and twisted. If you loved this, you will probably also love Wanderlust, which is included a free bonus novel! Turn the page to start reading…

  Wanderlust

  Skye Warren

  Praise for Wanderlust

  “Great edge-of-your-seat writing, touching emotional introspection, and enlightening… even in its darkness.”

  –Maryse’s Book Blog

  “It was emotionally harrowing yet had bursts of humour, so extremely dark and disturbing yet sensual.”

  –TotallyBooked Blog

  “I love how Ms. Warren is able to make the angst of these two people so real…downright heartbreaking.”

  –Salacious Reads

  “I fell in love with Hunter, not sure if I was supposed to, but I did.”

  –Sam, E and R’s Awesomeness

  “And Hunter – you psychotic, tortured and oh-so complex beast of a man…how I adore you! How I would give anything to hear the rumble of your 18-wheeler behind me and the squeal of your brakes beside me.”

  –Not Now… Mommy’s Reading

  “I would say this was dark and disturbing…..and it kind of was but for me, when it counts, it’s a seriously sweet emotional book.”

  –Dark Reading Room

  Chapter One

  The Niagara Falls were formed by glacier activity 10,000 years ago.

  A clash of pots and pans came from downstairs. I winced but remained cross-legged on my bed, staring at the assorted items I’d deemed essential. Some clothes, toiletries.

  A map.

  There was so much I didn’t know, so much I hadn’t seen. My absence of knowledge had become an almost tangible thing, filling me up, suffocating me until I needed to kick up to the surface just to breathe.

  Ironically, my innocence was my mom’s explanation for keeping me home. The world was too scary, and I wouldn’t even know how to protect myself. To hear her tell it, the streets were filled with ravening men who would attack me as soon as look at me.

  That was the anxiety talking. At least that was what the counselor had said before we’d stopped going.

  “Evie!” my mother yelled from the kitchen.

  It would be three more times before she elevated to screams. Four before she threw something. Six before she came up to my room, demanding I make her coffee or whatever else she needed.

  I’d grown up fast, fumbling with mac and cheese before I was tall enough to see over the pot, explaining away my excess absences to disinterested teachers. In high school, I’d stayed home and studied to get my GED. Two years of correspondence classes through the community college, and I was desperate for any human contact.

  I picked up my book, running my fingers over the cool, glossy surface.

  The library was one of the few places approved by my mother. I must have read almost every book in that place, living a thousand lives on paper, traveling around the world in eighty days and through the looking glass. I knew about hope and death, about fear and the dignity required to overcome, but only in theoretical constructs of ink and ground tree pulp. That was my irony: to wax poetic about the meaning of life while being unable to do something as simple as pay rent.

  Weary of re-reads, I’d wandered into the nonfiction section. I’d picked this one up on a whim, on a joke almost because the title seemed so silly. Everything You Wanted to Know About Niagara Falls. Who wanted to know anything about Niagara Falls?

  Then I read it.

  I snuck back every day for a week, enamored by the descriptions, in awe of the pictures of water rushing, enchanted by the majesty and magic of this place both faraway and someday attainable. My mother didn’t let me get a library card, so I’d stolen the book and kept it ever since.

  Now the paper was thin and pliable, well-worn from years of turning the pages. The binding was loose, the stitching visible between the cardboard and glue. By now it was probably held together by the clear tape that held the library tags to the spine.

  “Happy birthday,” I whispered.

  My present to myself: to finally see the place I’d been yearning for. The place I’d dreamed about even before I’d gotten the book, for all twenty years of my life. For room to breathe. For freedom.

  Even my camera couldn’t sustain me. I flipped through the photographs on the digital screen, every single one taken in the house or the yard. Nowadays mom got antsy when I walked over to the park. There were only so many times I could pretend a new angle of the flower pot was artistic instead of just plain pathetic. I wanted to see new things, new places—new people.

  I piled everything into my bag. I was far too old for the purple backpack. But then, my body was too old for me. Somewhere in the past five years, I had blossomed into a woman, with full lips and fuller breasts, with hair in places I was almost afraid to touch, except when I just had to at night in my bed, and I did—oh, I did, and it shamed me. I shamed myself with the wetness and the horrible, rippling pleasure around my fingers.

  My twentieth birthday. Neither my mother nor I had acknowledged it at breakfast, as if even the mention of passing time would crack the fragile votive that ensconced us.

  And now, I would shatter it.

  I wouldn’t be going around the world or even outside the state—at least not today. But the fear felt huge inside my stomach. Her anxiety was rubbing off on me. I had to get out of here.

  Everything fit neatly into my faded backpack, but then I was well-practiced in packing it after having done so at least a dozen times. Each time had ended in screaming, in tears, and in me back upstairs in my room.

  Not this time. If I didn’t follow through now, I would be stuck here. I’d live here forever.

  I’d die here.

  Feeling queasy, I slung the bag over my shoulder and headed down the stairs. My mother sat at the kitchen table, her thin robe loosely tied, eyes glassy from the pills. The medicine was supposed to help her, but she never got better—only worse. More fearful, more controlling.

  All those chemicals had taken their toll on her body. She looked so tired. The weary shadows around her eyes and tension lines around her lips always made my gut clench. I should be here to protect her. I just couldn’t, I couldn’t.

  I leaned my backpack against the leg of the table and sat down across from her.

  “Mama.”

  Her eyes came into focus. She sighed. “Not this again, Evie.”

  I swallowed. “Please, Mama, try to understand. I need to see more of the world than these walls.”

  “What is there to see? Suffering? People starving? Go look at the TV if you want to see the world so badly. You know I’m right.”

  We used to watch the news together. Every young girl abducted, every college girl who had her drink drugged was somehow a mark against me.

  That could have been you, she would say.

  Whereas most families might let the tragedy of strangers pass them by like waves, she would catch them, collect them, marking down their names and ages in her notebooks and checking whether they had been found in six months, a year, five years, until I felt like I was drowning in unseen violence.

  “I don’
t want to watch the news. I want to see things for myself. Ordinary things. I want to be ordinary. I want to live.”

  She scowled. “Don’t be dramatic. You’re living here. You’re safe.”

  I firmed. “No, Mama. I know you need to stay inside, but just as much, I need to go out into the world. Experience things for myself. And I’m going to. You can’t stop me this time.”

  Her face seemed to crack. Plump tears slipped down her cheeks. “I don’t understand why you’re talking this way. What have I ever done but protect you?”

  Guilt swelled my chest, but I forced it down. I would be strong.

  “I can’t stay here. I love you, but I just can’t stay.”

  “Evie, Evie, my baby.” She clasped her hands together, begging.

  I knelt at her feet, taking her hands in mine. I could feel each bone, each tendon beneath the paper-dry skin.

  “Please. Give me your blessing to leave. I’ll come back to visit. Maybe even move back to town after a while. I need to see something of the world first.”

  “How are you going to afford it?”

  I’d been lucky enough to get a job doing touchups for a small photography studio up the road when I was sixteen. I could do the work from home, and the paychecks were deposited directly in our account—well, technically my mother’s account. I wouldn’t take that money even if I could, knowing she didn’t have another source of income.

  I did get a small weekly allowance, though, and had saved up a hundred and sixty dollars. Not enough to get me all the way to New York, not with paying for gas, food and motels along the way.

  “I talked to someone through the college’s job placement system. There’s an opening at a photography studio up in Dallas.”

  I’d work there for a while, saving up money and looking for another stop closer to Niagara Falls. That was the plan anyway.

  She sniffed. “If you leave, you won’t ever come back.”

  It was a pronouncement, bitter and unyielding.

  “I will, I promise—”