Jay felt a surge of shame, pinned beneath him. Full of him and nothing else. Every breath pushed her closer and when she opened her mouth, she felt their lips brush in a fleeting taste of pleasure—a slip of tongue at the seams of her mouth, a tug on her lip, the promise of more—before he began to thrust. Each one seemed to rip something from her.
It had been . . . a long time.
What had he called her? A good girl—yes, she had tried to be one of those. Tried, and had not gotten very far because pretty came with a price and it could make some people ugly.
Being an adult means you pay for it.
She slid her hands over his chest and felt coarse hair and straining muscle. With a rough cry, she grabbed him by the shoulders, where her fingers became claws and her nails bit into the suppleness of his skin. “I'm here because you blackmailed me.”
He let out a hoarse laugh. “Are you sure that's the only reason?”
Tears burned in her eyes and she was glad he couldn't see them. “Fuck you.”
“Bold of you . . . speaking to me like that.” His voice, only slightly louder than a whisper, was like opiated syrup pouring through her senses, causing her to seep deeper into the darkness. In the dark, she didn't have to look into those arctic eyes or feel herself being gnawed apart by that predatory gaze. “Or has it been so long . . . that you've forgotten how to beg?”
No. “No,” she said, too loud in the darkness. Too raw. “I don't want to. It's wrong. You're my brother,” she added, wincing at how pathetic and fucked-up she sounded. “This is sick.”
The next thrust was hard and punishing; she felt his hand on her neck, stroking over the tender marks he'd left with his mouth like a map of where he'd been. She hated herself for leaning into it, just a little. Hated her heartbeat for kicking up when his fingers gently squeezed.
“Please.” She wasn't sure what she was asking for. Her body felt ready to explode.
“Beg.” The word cracked like ice from a melting glacier; it made her flinch.
“No.”
With a sound of impatience, Nicholas rolled off her, gouging her with his sharp hip bones as he shifted so that they were spooning. He lifted her leg with his knee to enter her from behind while reaching between her thighs with one big hand to stroke her, keeping her jumping flesh pinned beneath his thumb, not quite touching her where she needed him to touch.
Jay bucked and the arm around her waist tightened, making her squeak as he began moving again. She could feel his rumble of satisfaction against her back; this new position let him fuck her more deeply, and the ensuing sensations were so overwhelming it was nearly painful.
“Nick,” she gasped, crying out when he entered her on another slow, deep thrust. “Please.”
“I'm not letting you go until you say it.” His teeth lightly grazed her ear, making her thighs clench involuntarily. He knocked them wider with his knee as he circled her clit in tighter and tighter loops, pulling back every time her body bowed under his arm. “I don't think you want to test me. You're going to end up very sore.”
Arousal shot through her in a dark wave at the next stroke of his hips. Her shame was melting like rime, leaving her feeling chilled. He knew what he was doing to her. The pain was fading; now there was just pressure, a dull, yawning ache, and the smooth glide of his fingertips over her most sensitive parts keeping her on the verge of climax. You knew it would come to this.
The words were thorns in her throat, sticking and bruising; she could feel herself choking over their too-familiar shape, and she spoke them on a whisper so they wouldn't have her voice. “I'm sorry, Daddy.” She closed her eyes and felt tears trail down her face. “I'll be good. Please.”
Nicholas let out an explosive breath and shuddered violently, entering her on a deep thrust that made her yip, first in pain and then in surprised pleasure as his thumb worked her clitoris. “Yes.” He spread his fingers to brush her lower belly with a tenderness that seemed at odds with the roughness of his fucking. “You're still your Daddy's sweet little bird. Isn't that right?”
Jay wasn't sure what she said to that; everything that came out of her mouth felt broken. Too tired to do anything else, she brought her head down in a nod as he pushed her sweaty, tangled curls aside to kiss the nape of her neck. It made her shiver, as it always had, goosebumps rippling down her arms, tightening the skin around her breasts. His hand smoothed over her body with easy possessiveness as he rested his chin on her head and that was when Jay knew—
This time, he had no intention of letting her go.
Chapter Seven
2000
▪▫▪▫▪▫▪
Jay was in a bad mood as she sat at her mother's little vanity in the dressing room that all the dancers shared. That was what strippers at the Beat and Tease liked to call themselves, like it was classier somehow. Dancers, not strippers.
She'd had to tell her friends that she couldn't go out bowling tonight because her mom had to work. Now she was doing her Spanish homework by the flickering bulbs surrounding the cracked and smeared mirror while “Pour Some Sugar on Me” blasted out of the speakers. It was so loud, Jay could hear it pulsating through the walls and it was giving her a headache.
Estoy molesta, thought Jay. In Spanish, being “molested” meant annoyed or bothered instead of the worse thing it was in English. And having a pregunta meant a question instead of a baby belly.
Spanish, Jay thought, was very strange.
There was a pause and then “American Woman” began to play, and Jay figured that meant her mom had taken the stage. It was one of her mom's go-to songs for dancing. She'd had a pole installed in their apartment so she could practice her routines at home. Jay usually went out when she did. Watching her mom grind on the pole in her underwear made her feel uncomfortable.
The songs were how you could tell the older “dancers” from the younger ones. They got to choose the songs for their own sets and had to know how to work the crowd. The young ones played songs like Ginuwine's “Pony” and TLC's “I'm Good at Being Bad.” The older ones—like her mom—played songs like “American Woman” and Danzig's “She Rides.”
Jay frowned very hard at her homework and wished her mom would hurry up.
As if in response to her thought, the door slid open, letting in the sound of Bon Jovi turned way up. Jay turned expectantly but it was one of the other dancers, a Latina woman who called herself “Honey Pie.” The men always snickered when it was announced on stage and Jay had asked why. “Never you mind,” was the response, so Jay had looked it up at home on their crappy dial-up and immediately wished she hadn't. Never you mind, indeed.
“Hola, niña. How goes the homework?”
“It's fine,” said Jay. “How was your dance?”
“My dance was popping, just like my joints in these shoes.” The twenty-five-year-old dancer peered over Jay's shoulder. “This looks pretty good. Except I don't know about this foot collection of yours.”
“Rock collection,” said Jay. “We're supposed to write about our hobbies.”
“Well, then you mean piedra and not pie, and speaking of pies—Me duelen los putos pies. Be my little amorcita and hand me my sneakers, won't you?”
Jay handed her the knock-off Adidas, wondering why Honey had just called her feet “ducks.” Maybe because you felt web-toed after being on them for too long. “Is my mom almost done?”
“She just finished her set-up,” said Honey. “But now she's out there talking to some overgrown fresa who thinks the sun shines out of his ass because he's BFFs with Señor Benjamin Franklin.”
Right on cue, the door opened and Danielle Varens stepped into the room wearing her lace merry widow and six inch high heels. She was an incredibly beautiful woman—short and curvy and bronzed, with honey brown hair highlighted at a salon a block away from their little studio apartment, and full red lips.
She wasn't alone, though. She was holding on to the arm of an older, intimidating-looking man whose hair had started to go gray a
t the temples. He had the coldest grayest eyes that Jay had ever seen and when he turned them on her, she felt something inside her freeze.
“Who's the girl?” he said. “She's not one of the strippers, is she?”
Jay felt her face heat and she had to resist the urge to tug down her shirt. She didn't look like a stripper, did she? She glanced at Honey, who looked like she could cheerfully kill Jay's mother.
“Oh, that's just my daughter, Justine.” Her mother smiled over her head at Honey. “I'm taking Mr. Beaucroft to the VIP room for a private dance, but he wanted to see my little dressing room.”
I bet he did, Jay thought darkly, as his eyes flicked over the dancers' discarded street clothes, the makeup, her neat little stack of homework weighted down with a copy of Jane Eyre—his eyes lingered on that, for some reason. The dirty old fart probably thought he could get a freebie.
Her mother was still talking, still smiling. “Would you be a dear and take Jay out for an hour?”
Honey muttered something dark under her breath about not being a babysitter, but a glance at Jay softened the look on her face. “All right. Come on, niñita. Your mother's buying us both McDonald's for dinner.”
Her mother's smile hardened a little, making her red-glossed lips look like vinyl, but she handed Honey two twenties. They looked limp and Jay tried really hard not to think about where her mother had been keeping those. She glanced at the man, who was staring at her again in a way that made her stomach twist. Go away, creep.
“Thanks,” said Honey, with a bright, winning smile, plucking the twenties from her mother's lacquered fingers. “Enjoy your dance, mami. Come along, Jay.”
Honey steered her down the side exit, which a lot of the dancers preferred because the exit was unmarked, and in street clothes, no one was the wiser when you stepped outside the concrete door. Plus, then you didn't have to walk past the men. Jay's mom usually took the main entrance, and sometimes she called out “Jailbait coming through!” which horrified Jay and usually elicited catcalls.
Sometimes Jay found herself wishing that Honey was her mom. Well, maybe not her mom. That would have been weird. Her long-lost big sister maybe, who would adopt her and take her away. She looked down at her bootleg Converse high-tops that she'd bought in Chinatown and were already falling apart. She'd taped the toe up but it was starting to flop.
Far away, thought Jay, thinking, dreamily, New York or Paris.
“Watch out for that dog shit,” said Honey. “At least I hope it's dog shit.”
Jay sighed.
The McDonald's by the dance club was a bit shady and had a gross bathroom. The fluorescent lights were broken and made everyone's skin look ashy. Jay hovered by the tables, tugging down the hem of her shirt. She'd gotten taller again and the hem had ridden up, making her conscious of the bare strip of stomach it revealed and the way the fabric clung to her chest. That man's words rang in her head—she's not a stripper, is she?—and made her feel cheap. As cheap as her stupid sneakers.
One of the employees was mopping up the floor. He had one of those janitors' carts and Mya's “Case of the Ex” floated out from the speakers as Honey came back with the food. “I got you a fish fillet,” she said. “It's the freshest thing on the menu because they always have to make them new because of the tartar sauce. Apple, pie, too, you lucky girl. Buen provecho.”
“Gracias,” Jay said uncertainly. She didn't know that one.
Honey ruffled her hair, which Jay secretly hated. Just because it was really curly, people always felt like they had a right to put their hands in it. She did some discreet rearranging as Honey dove into her food. Dressed in tight jeans and a glittery Hurley sweatshirt, Jay thought she looked very pretty, and she said so during the next lull.
Honey smiled at her, but something about it seemed a little sad. “You're quite the looker, too, niña. With that sweet face and that curly hair, your Daddy must have been some kind of man. You're going to break a lot of hearts when you're older. How old are you now? Cuantos años?”
“Fourteen,” said Jay. “Mom says I'm too tall, though—and that my chin is too big.”
Honey's smile disappeared. “Mother's don't always know best,” she said vaguely, in a cutting way that made Jay wonder. “Bet your mother thinks she's pretty smart, too, huh?”
“I guess.” Jay picked at her food. “She has a degree from community college.”
Honey burst out laughing and the sound of it was so loud that Jay startled. “She has a degree in jack shit. Jay, sweetie, I love you. I love the shit out of you—most of the girls at the B&T do—but your mother is a first-degree bullshit artist if I ever saw one, and if she's really thirty-three, then I'm a virgin.”
The man cleaning up the restroom looked up in sudden interest.
“I don't like that man she was with,” said Jay.
“Good girl. Stay smart and watch out for the men with the serpent eyes. So.” Honey took a sip of Coke. “What is it like in the mind of Jay? Que quieres hacer con tu vida?”
She gave Jay a moment to puzzle out the Spanish herself, translating in her head while her lips moved. “I don't know,” Jay said at last. “Maybe I'd like to be a teacher or a vet.”
“I fucking love that. You know, I'm thinking of quitting the business and going back to college myself. Real college,” she clarified. “Not your mother's degree in mierda. What was it again?”
“Recreation and Leisure Studies—and you should,” said Jay. “Dancing seems like it sucks.”
“It doesn't have to suck, Jay. But it certainly isn't all that great when you're moving to a man's beat. Come on, let's go see if your mother is done with her fresa man.”
▪▫▪▫▪▫▪
When they got back to the Beat and Tease, Jay's mother was waiting. She had her street clothes on and her coat was zipped. In her hand was Jay's backpack and Jay hoped she'd been careful when throwing her things in there and hadn't wrinkled her homework. To Honey, she said, “Thanks for taking her out. I hope she didn't eat too much.”
“Nope.” Honey looked at Jay's mother's outstretched hand like she didn't know what she wanted. “Well, have a safe walk home, ladies. I'm out. Bye.”
“That was two hours' worth of tips,” Jay's mother said, watching her leave. She heaved a sigh. “Never mind. If this works out, that'll be pocket change. Come on, baby, Let's go home.”
“If what works out?” said Jay.
“Justine.” Her mother's voice was forbidding. “It's time to go.”
Jay hunched her shoulders as they went out the door but most of the guys were gone and the ones who were left were stone cold drunk, so her mother didn't shout anything about “Jailbait.” Jay kind of had the idea that her mom did it for the attention sometimes, but that was kind of sick, wasn't it? She wasn't sure why her mother would want to embarrass her.
Her mother did a lot of weird stuff that Jay didn't like, though. Installing the pole and the mirror in the living area. Stealing Jay's own clothes to see if she could fit into them (she usually could). Telling people that she was Jay's aunt instead of her mom. Making people guess her age when she was drunk. Shouting “Jailbait walking” at the Beat and Tease.
“What did you eat at McDonald's?” her mother asked.
“Diet air.”
“You need to stop growing, baby. Look at this.” She tugged at the hem of Jay's sweater, pulling it tight over her chest. “I just bought you this top and it's already too short. And we need to get you a proper bra,” she added, with a speculative glance. “Have you tried the pencil test like I told you?”
“Mom,” Jay squawked. “Not here.”
“Baby, you know if I fret, it's only because I love you.”
Jay wondered sometimes. “Who was that man back there?”
“His name is Damon Beaucroft. He's an investor from L.A.”
“What's he doing here then?” Jay asked suspiciously.
“Investing.”
In what?
She could tell by her mothe
r's tone that the subject was closed, though, and besides, they had arrived at the tiny studio apartment in the Tenderloin. Jay raced ahead to let herself in with her own key. Much to her disappointment, it was too late for her to call her friends and ask about the night out. They'd told her that cute guys were going to be there and she wanted to know if any of them had asked about her.
Probably not, though. Since she was, according to her mother, both too fat and too tall. Jay sulked on the futon while her mother took off her face, wrapped in the fake silk butterfly robe she'd bought at K-Mart and thought made her look like Marilyn Monroe. She seemed smugger than usual and kept plucking at something around her neck.
When she turned around, it caught the light and Jay saw it was a gold necklace.
“What's that?” asked Jay, since it obviously pleased her mom and it never hurt to get into her good graces. The pendant was shaped like a gold ring and covered with small diamonds. “Is it new?”
“This,” said her mother, holding it up, “could be a ticket to a new life if I play our cards right.”
“It just looks like a necklace to me,” Jay muttered, rolling back over to read The Last Unicorn.
“Jay, stop reading that book or it'll ruin your eyes. I don't want to have to take you to the optometrist and get you glasses. You know what they say about girls who wear glasses.”
Jay didn't look away from the book. “That they're smart?”
“That nobody wants to date them.” Her mother swiped for the book but Jay's arms were longer and she held it away, out of reach, before curling her body around it protectively. “Men don't make passes at girls who wear glasses, Jay. You're already growing like a little weed. Soon you're going to be taller than all the boys and then nobody will want to date you, baby. Especially not with your little nose always buried in a book.”
“I don't want to date anyone,” Jay snapped defiantly. “And if I do, it'll be someone tall.”
“Tall boys like short girls,” said her mother. “Everyone likes short girls. They're small and that makes people want to protect them.” She looked Jay over and sighed. “If you can't be short, then you can at least try and be pretty, Jay. I wish you'd let me do your makeup and straighten your hair.”
Quid Pro Quo: A dark stepbrother romance Page 7