by Skye Warren
I swipe right a few times to the last letter. “‘Don’t make me come find you. It would only add interest to the debt. I wouldn’t have a choice, and I don’t want you hurt.’”
She looks away. “Everyone gets threats.”
“Not everyone has an old acquaintance wanted by the CIA.”
“Mr. North says your brother is some kind of criminal,” the director says, standing as if to approach her. The concerned look on his face disguises the concern for the reputation of the dance company, which is what he showed when she wasn’t in the room.
Even with the desk between them, she tenses.
She doesn’t want to be touched right now. She’s always been formal, always held herself in a way that politely invites men not to fuck with her, but the gate is extra high right now. The letter has her scared. Which means there’s no goddamn way I’m leaving this office without protecting her.
I’m the only one allowed to scare her.
Landon reaches for her. One arm around her shoulder. I don’t launch myself at him, though it’s a close thing. She tenses. “We should call the cops,” he says. “You said no to that, and I respected your wishes, but we can’t ignore this.”
“Auribus teneo lupum,” I say. “Explain it to your boss, so he understands the proverb. So he understands the situation you’re in.”
She glares at me. “It doesn’t mean anything.”
“Holding a wolf by the ears. That’s the literal translation from Latin. It’s dangerous to do nothing, because you’re close enough to get bitten. But it’s also dangerous to do something, because that means letting go of the wolf. Basically it means you’re screwed either way.”
“You don’t have to face this alone,” the fuckface director says, running his hand down her arm.
“So true.” I gently lead Bethany away, sending a quick slice to the pressure point on Fuckface’s wrist. He yelps and curls his hand close. Oops. “North Security has quite a bit of experience holding wolves by various body parts. We’ll keep you safe.”
She pushes away from me, from both of us. “Maybe you didn’t understand. I’m not hiring you.” She glances at Fuckface, who’s still cradling his hand like a baby bird. “If you don’t want me to resign, I’ll fulfill my contract here—but you can’t make me accept this security. If you’re really concerned about this, and about the other dancers, you can hire general security for the theater.”
“You want to rent a cop? I knew you would make this difficult.”
“I’m not sorry,” she says, her eyes shooting fire.
“Neither am I. It’s hotter when you fight me.”
“That’s highly unprofessional,” Fuckface says, glaring at me.
“I’m only saying what we’re both thinking.” I acknowledge the lithe body wrapped in leotard and tights, my gaze meandering all the way down to her worn ballet shoes. On the outside they look merely frayed. On the inside, it’s another story. I imagine she’s bruised, maybe bleeding. No doubt there’s tape to hold her feet together. The life of a professional athlete isn’t pretty. Much like that of a professional soldier. “I’m not opposed to double-teaming on principle, but when it comes to this particular woman, I think I’d prefer to have her all to myself.”
Bethany draws herself up. The effect is that of a queen. She could be wearing rags and chains around her ankles. Actually, the leotard and ballet shoes serve the same purpose. They don’t diminish her. They only emphasize her inherent dignity. It can’t be touched, not even by two assholes fighting over her. “Mr. Landon, I’ll see you at practice tomorrow. As for you, Mr. North, I don’t expect to see you again. It hasn’t been a pleasure. Goodbye.”
CHAPTER TWO
Author Charles Dickens was only 12 when his father was imprisoned for debt. Young Charles had to leave school and work in a boot-blacking factory to help his family survive.
Bethany
My coat is two sizes too large. The pockets are torn out. There’s something questionable smudged across the back, but it doesn’t matter. No—it’s better this way. The coat, the boots, the earbuds that don’t play any music. All of it’s armor for the train. I keep my eyes down, my chin up. The cars jolt forward. And stop. Forward. And stop. We let our bodies lean into the movement with practiced precision, hundreds of people swaying so that we don’t have to touch. It’s sort of a dance. A dance of survival. The French Quarter is notorious for being dangerous, but I learned to put my guard up well before I moved here. The streets of New Orleans taught me that from a young age. The earphones and heavy burlap messenger bag are my shields. They help me become invisible. New Orleans taught me that, too.
Mist coats me as I emerge from the tunnel. A smoke shop. Cell phone repair. Knockoff purses. Every store sleeps, the gates rolled down to the concrete, as if even the building needs to ward away the chill. I pull my coat tight. The Chinese restaurant is officially closed, but yellow light presses against the window. Thousands of dollars change hands every night in illegal gambling—mah-jongg with high stakes. I skirt the building to the fire escape. Metal groans from the wind. It screams when anyone actually climbs the stairs. Cold whispers through my gloves. On the third floor the scent of charred meat makes me cough. I can’t actually blame my neighbor. Decades ago some enterprising landlord split up the apartment into two parts. I’m lucky enough to have the tiny kitchen. The elderly man next door makes do with a microwave inside and a bucket grill outside the window. Burgers, hot dogs, bacon. All of it cooks a foot away from my apartment. I duck through the bent casing and land lightly in the middle of my space. One hundred and twenty feet that belong to me. I pull the bag over my head and toss it onto the bed—and shriek when the bed catches it. A shadow separates from the dark blanket. “Nice place you got here,” says a familiar taunting voice. “I made myself at home. I’m sure you don’t mind.”
“Of course I mind.” My heart pounds loud enough to drown out my words. “This is my apartment. What are you doing here? How did you get in?”
Josh stands and circles me, forcing me to turn and face him. “The same way you did. The same way any rapist or murderer can get in if he wants to. Why the actual fuck do you leave the window open?”
“Because I’m directly over the ovens. If I leave them closed, the place basically cooks all day.”
“I suppose it wouldn’t do me any good to ask why you rented this shit box.”
“I can afford it,” I say, my voice sharp. I’m not in the habit of explaining myself. I worked hard to make sure no man could demand answers of me, but Josh has me spooked. How the hell did he beat me here from the theater? He’s still wearing his tux, which looks even crisper in the backdrop of my crappy apartment. “Not that it’s any of your business. Besides, there’s nothing here to steal.”
Dark green eyes flicker. “There’s you. You’re the most valuable thing in the apartment. The most valuable thing in the whole fucking city.”
My cheeks warm. How strange to get a compliment from the man who insults me at every turn. Then again, maybe he didn’t mean it as a compliment.
He spoke with tight-lipped anger. With derision.
I turn away so he can’t see my expression. There’s nowhere to go. One hundred and twenty feet have shrunk to the size of my body. A worn bookshelf serves as my closet. A countertop and small oven line the other side of the room. Stockings and leotards hang from the cabinet knobs, drying after I washed them in the sink. My panties hang from a row of hooks. Humiliation squeezes my chest. Hot tears burn my eyes. I refuse to cry in front of him. There’s a washateria in the building next door, but it’s easier to wash my clothes by hand in the sink. So what if I live in a crappy apartment? He has no right to judge me. He has no right to be here.
“I did wonder about the bathroom,” he says, and I jump. He’s not on the bed any longer. He’s standing behind me. So quiet. So agile. I work with professional athletes every day, but I know when they move. He’s some other creature—made of shadows and fury. “Do you climb onto th
e counter and piss into the sink? Do you lean your pretty little ass outside the window and shit onto the alley?”
Embarrassment mixed with a complete lack of power. It’s like I’m back in elementary school. Boys would pick on me. They’d yank my braids and toss my lunch in the dirt. It’s because they like you, my mother said. I didn’t want them to like me. Still don’t.
Well, I’m not in elementary school anymore. “Leave or I’ll call the cops.”
A tsking sound. “I don’t think your landlord would like that.”
No, he would probably kick me out. “I despise you.”
“Was it the pissing comment? I think it would be hot, if it helps.”
“There’s a bathroom in the hallway.” It’s not exactly a hallway. The bathroom had been part of the apartment when it took the whole floor. Now it’s shared between the tenants. For the most part we manage to avoid eye contact. For the most part I pretend I don’t see a grown man wearing only a long T-shirt shuffle in to use the toilet while I shower. “Most nights I shower at the company, anyway.”
Josh moves past me. I manage to squirm out of the way, but I still feel the heat of his chest against my arm. He opens the door. I don’t have to look to know what he’s seeing. A clear view into the bathroom with its cracked tile and yellow liner. The smell of mold and cigarette smoke. “Christ,” he says. “I’ve seen barracks more comfortable than this. Do you have any specific sins you’re trying to repent or do you just like wearing a goddamn hair shirt on principle?”
His words hit too close to home. “I don’t understand why Landon even called you. There are hundreds of security companies. Like the one that manages the theater. How did he have your number?”
He picks up a book—a history of ballet with a torn lavender cover I got from the library’s fifty-cent sale. “Ah, that. It’s possible Landon was under the impression I was contracted as your personal security. I visited when you first joined the company to introduce myself.”
A wild, incredulous laugh bubbles out of me. We’re standing in what’s basically a closet that I call my apartment. The idea that I would be able to afford security is crazy. Abruptly my laughter dies. Money. The reason I got into this mess. The root of every bad thing in my life.
And this man—he’s no better. A mercenary. A paid soldier. He does violence to make his dollars, and the fact that he has so very many of them, the fact that he’s a wealthy man, doesn’t make it better.
“Why on earth would you do that?”
“I could say that Samantha asked me to make sure you were protected. Which she did.” He peeks inside a rusted tin box, which contains ticket stubs from most of my performances, including the ones I did with Samantha Brooks, the incredible violin prodigy. “The truth is I flew in before she called me.”
“You’ve been stalking me.”
“After the events of the tour, someone had to look out for you.”
Samantha became a target from people trying to keep treason under wraps. We were on tour together when everything came to a head. Shots were fired in the middle of a concert. Secrets exploded onto the newspapers. It was a scary time. Scary enough that I came back to the States. Scary enough that my dancing partner, Romeo, slipped into obscurity. I thought it would be anonymous enough, being one of fifty members of a corps de ballet. How did Terrance even find out I was in New Orleans? “You should go back and tell Samantha I’m fine. She shouldn’t be worrying about me in her condition.”
“What condition? Being pregnant? She’s a goddamn picture of good health. Basically glowing. And her tits look amazing. If she gets any more healthy, Liam’s going to have to fuck her at the dinner table instead of waiting until dessert to drag her upstairs.”
I make a face. “Do you have to be so terrible all the time?”
“Me? Terrible? I’m shocked.” He puts a hand over his heart. “Wounded.”
“You’re an asshole.”
He gives me a stately bow. “Yes, but I’m an asshole who’s going to keep you alive.”
“No, you’re not.”
The tarot deck sits on my nightstand, the edges worn, one card flipped over from my morning pull. He taps the top with his forefinger. “What’s this? Magic spells?”
“It’s not magic,” I say, even though my mamere would pinch my arm if she heard me.
He picks up the lone card facing up. The moon. I pulled it this morning before the final performance. It symbolizes intuition and femininity. It signifies the pattern that weaves moments into time. I don’t believe the cards tell the future, but they carry a quiet significance. It would be impossible for me to hear Mamere give readings for hours every day without feeling something for the deck.
Green eyes spark with mischief. “Are you going to read my palm?”
“Definitely not.”
“Come now.” He holds out his hand. “If you know something, you have to tell me.”
This is my chance to get back at him, to repay even two percent of the teasing and mocking he gives me. That’s the only reason I take the warm weight of his hand in mine. That’s the only reason I pull him close enough to see—not because I want to touch him. Coarse hair and callused skin. Muscle and tendon. Joshua North always seemed larger than life. The effect should fade up close. Instead he looms even larger. He’s a mythical creature. Hercules, half immortal, doomed to live through endless fights, to feel the pain and suffering in each and every one.
So much strength in him. He could probably climb a mountain with his bare hands. Or snap my neck in half. Instead he offers himself up to me. Auribus teneo lupum. To hold a wolf by the ears. That’s what I’m doing with him. It’s dangerous to do nothing, because you’re close enough to get bitten. It’s dangerous to do something, because that means letting go of the wolf.
Basically I’m screwed either way.
For some reason the thought gives me courage. If I’m going to get bitten either way, I want to pet this particular wolf. I stroke my finger across the middle of his palm. The faintest sound—his breath catching. I’m not powerless here. Heavy callouses across his thumb and forefinger, along the side of his hand, the way a musician might have after years of practice with a stringed instrument. He doesn’t make music, though. He makes violence. These are made from the kick of a gun. From practicing again and again. From using it in combat. I absolutely should not find that exciting. It’s some primordial part of me that does, the primitive woman who understands this man can protect and provide.
I stroke down the length of his lifeline. “Long. Deep. You’ll live a long time.”
“If you’re going to curse me, couldn’t you do it with locusts instead?”
Too intimate. His hand feels abruptly intimate, as if I’m cradling some more sensitive part of him—his heart, maybe. “It’s not a curse.”
“For someone who’s been trying to die his whole life, it is.”
I turn our hands so that he’s holding mine. My palm is up. I push his thumb across my lifeline. “Short,” I tell him. “It doesn’t always mean you’ll die early. It could mean struggle or illness. It could mean nothing, but my mamere always told me to live while I could.”
“What a load of bullshit,” he murmurs, and I realize how close we’re standing. I can feel his breath on my forehead. His thumb presses over my lifeline, as if he can smudge away the promise it holds. “No wonder you’re always so damn serious.”
I don’t always agree with things Mamere says. Sometimes I even resent them, but it’s different when I do it. Hearing him insult us raises my hackles. “Excuse me for wanting to live.”
“Then you’ll let me protect you.”
Somewhere behind me there was a lure and a hook. Now I’m already out of the water. Because of course he’s right. If I’m so determined to stay alive, then I should take every precaution.
“I’ll keep the window closed.”
“Oh, good. No murderer shark has ever gotten past one of those.”
I throw up my hands, breaking contac
t with him. “What do you suggest? Do you want to sleep out on the fire escape?”
“As tempting as the offer is, I have a better idea. You’re coming with me.”
“This is my apartment.”
“This is a rat-infested firetrap of a building that should be condemned. I wouldn’t leave you here even if you weren’t in danger. You’re coming even if I have to carry you out.”
There’s the expected annoyance at his high-handed manner, but even more than that, there’s relief. It rushes over me in a heady elixir. I’m drunk on it. I don’t like boiling over the restaurant’s oven when I’m trying to sleep. I don’t like averting my eyes when strangers use the bathroom while I shower. A dancer in the corps de ballet doesn’t make very much money. Living in New Orleans isn’t cheap. And some of what I make goes to mamere. It would be so easy to rely on this man, such sweet relief to sink into that quicksand once again.
CHAPTER THREE
Ballet originated in Italy in the 15th century. At the time, it was illegal for women to dance in public, so they couldn’t join the ballet.
Josh, five years earlier
There’s a distinctive sound to the human body on impact.
Someone must be fighting inside the warehouse. Not surprising, considering it’s owned by Caleb Lewis. Then again, there are no sounds of pain. No grunts of exertion. The sounds I do hear, the scuffs and the thuds, are almost rhythmic. Training, then. A thug with a makeshift punching bag.
Metal glints off the warehouse. Cajun spices saturate the humid air. The community has done a decent job of recreating their Louisiana origin after Hurricane Katrina drove them out. Unfortunately the coast is a great deal more porous over the Texas state line. That means easier access in the Gulf to drugs and guns and human cargo. Caleb might only have been a small-time criminal, had Mother Nature not decimated his home. Is he dealing with Russia? North Korea? Either way he’s in way over his head. Only a matter of time before he winds up shot in the back. I can join him or I can snitch on him. Not exactly great choices.