by A. Zavarelli
I wonder how many people he’s killed. And then I wonder something even worse. Is he banging the dancers here every night? Is that why he’s in charge? But one look at his stony jaw, and I know that can’t be right. He doesn’t look like the kind of man who gets enjoyment out of much of anything. He probably fucks like a Viking, tossing women aside when he’s done impregnating them with sons for his clan.
I shake myself out of it when he turns to me, and his eyes move over me with a roughness they didn’t possess just a few moments before. “I hope ye know how to fix yourself up. That mess ye’re sporting now isn’t going to fly.”
My jaw tightens, but I force a smile, reminding myself how much I need this job. “It’s not a problem.”
He doesn’t seem satisfied with his insult, so he adds salt. “Might want to go heavy on the makeup.”
“Duly noted,” I bite out. “Lots of makeup.”
I don’t actually have any makeup, but I’m hoping one of the other dancers will loan me some.
“There’s a shower too.” He points toward the back of the room. “You should probably use that.”
Shame blisters any pride I might have had left, threatening to ruin this opportunity before I even get started. I don’t know why he feels the need to be such an ass, but it isn’t necessary. I already hate myself enough for both of us, and nothing could be more humiliating than crawling out from behind a dumpster every morning.
I washed up this morning in a gas station bathroom, but it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to point out that I still look a fright. My hair is knotted and in desperate need of some hot water and conditioner, and my skin could do with something other than crusty old bar soap.
I cross my arms to hide the fact that I’m shaking. It’s freezing in here and with such a low body weight, I get cold easily. “What else do I need to know?”
“You get a three-song set,” he says. “Better make it worthwhile. Crow doesn’t keep girls around if the clients don’t like them.”
Christ. I thought I had this job in the bag, but it makes sense that if I screw up, I’m gone. It doesn’t matter if I lied and said I have experience; these guys need to believe I do. Thank God I’ve been camped out here all week watching the other girls because I don’t know what I would do out there otherwise.
Conor rakes his eyes over me one last time and shakes his head like he doesn’t get why I’m here. “Sort yourself out. You have thirty minutes to impress us, or your arse is out the door.”
3
CONOR
“WHAT’S up with the new girl?” Rory asks when I sit down beside him in the pit. “Since when does Crow have you managing the dancers?”
“He doesn’t.” I focus on the stage, so I don’t have to look him in the eye. “I offered to do him a favor since he was busy.”
Rory studies me as I settle back into the seat and drain my glass. Crow asked me to do this in confidence, so I wouldn’t go yapping to all the other lads about it, and I have no intentions of fucking that up.
“She’s pretty,” Rory observes.
An acerbic taste coats my mouth, tainting my reply with a sharpness I don’t recognize. “She looks like Crow pulled her half-dead arse out of a dumpster in Southie.”
Rory smirks and relaxes into his seat like he has all bloody night to sit around and watch the dancers. “Suit yourself then. I’m sure there are plenty of others who wouldn’t mind having a ride like her.”
My jaw hinges shut, and I have the irrational desire to loaf my mate in the head for saying so. As much as I’d like to believe I’m not attracted to the twig of a woman, I can’t deny that she would be pretty, once she got cleaned up a little. But just because my dick inflated every time she glared at me doesn’t mean shite. She isn’t my type. Or anyone in this establishment’s type for that matter. Already this assignment is fecking with my head, and the less time she spends here the better.
I’m grateful for the silence when the DJ announces the first dancer of the night. Sláinte is known for having some of the most beautiful dancers in the city, but I can’t seem to focus on any of them. One by one, they get up on the stage and perform. They work the crowd and peel away their clothes until there is nothing left but tits and ass. It’s an art as old as time, but my dick has fallen asleep, and my irritation is only growing by the second.
Rory is toying on his phone beside me, not paying attention to the show, and I want to know what the feck he’s even doing here. He never watches the dancers, and it seems like he’s intentionally trying to get on my bleeding nerves. I want to be alone when Ivy comes out. If Rory catches me staring, he’ll get the idea that this is something other than what it really is.
By the time the DJ finally announces her, I’m wound up tighter than a coil. Rory, on the other hand, seems content to stuff his phone in his pocket and watch the show when the lights dim and #1 Crush by Garbage blasts from the speakers.
My fists contract as the waifish silhouette moves toward center stage. Her hips sway in a slow, sensual rhythm with every step she takes, arousing the reverence of the crowd. On top of her platform heels, she’s a delicate little doll. Her grace is softer than I expected, and a hushed quiet falls over the room as every pair of eyes become enchanted. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t too, and that’s a fucking problem.
My cock comes back to life with a craving so violent, I haven’t a clue what to make of it. I feel Rory’s eyes on me, but I can’t look away from her. She’s rendered me useless under her spell, along with fifty other men in the room.
I release a breath when the intro finally ends, and the spotlight comes on. The crowd rumbles with excitement, and for a split second, Ivy halts, blinded and stunned. She’s cleaned up, just as I instructed, her blonde hair falling in silky waves to the delicate curve of her arse. She’s wearing a strappy black outfit she pulled out of the free for all bin, and her eyes are covered in glitter. She’s done exactly what I asked and pulled herself together, so I can’t figure out why I’m so bloody out of sorts over it.
Fecking Christ.
She’s a treat on a cold Boston evening and the crowd loves her. They shout out encouragement, and she starts dancing again. Her body is stiffer, the goddess behind the shadows a faint memory, at least until she closes her eyes and gets lost in the feeling.
There’s a part of me I can’t rationalize with that doesn’t want her to be good at this. I want Crow to say that she’s finished. She can do anything else except dance. It isn’t logical, and I can’t understand it. Especially when she’s everything I hate in a woman.
She’s so gangly, it leaves little doubt in my mind she’s a user. I’ve been down that road before, and it leaves a sour taste in my mouth even thinking about it. I can’t just sit here and watch her undress. I can’t watch her sell herself out for cash only to inject it in her arm.
I stand up and swipe my empty glass from the table, itching for another drink. If there’s one thing that’s certain, I don’t need to see what she looks like naked to get the job done. Crow asked me to keep an eye on her, and I will.
And when he asks me to dim the light from her eyes, I’ll hand her the fucking needle myself.
4
IVY
BY SOME MIRACLE, I managed to survive. I’m still on that adrenaline high when I walk out of the dressing room with all my cash in hand. Even after the house fee, there’s a lot of money here. Enough that it gives me hope I can actually make my dream come true. A few more weeks of this, and I’ll be solid.
I nearly smash into a broad chested man in the hall, and he winks at me with a playful smile as he helps me gather the jacket I just dropped. “Alright there?” he asks in a cheeky Irish accent.
“Yes, sorry. I didn’t see you there.”
He flashes a dimple when his lips tilt up. “I liked your routine. Ye did a grand job up there.”
“Thanks.” I smile. “I was a bit nervous, but I think it went okay.”
He offers me his hand. “I’m Rory by the way
.”
I shake his hand and offer my name reluctantly. I’m not here to make friends, but it’s pretty obvious this guy is a part of Crow’s outfit.
“Conor and I were just about to grab a bite to eat,” he says. “Would ye care to join us?”
I hesitate, uncertain how to navigate this terrain. I need this job, which means playing nice with these guys even though it’s the last thing I want to do.
“No funny business.” Rory holds up his hands. “Just dinner. Our treat.”
I offer him a weak nod. It’s not like I can refuse a free meal. Not when I’ve been existing on one a day if I’m lucky. “Okay, I guess dinner would be alright, as long as it’s just dinner.”
He holds up two fingers. “Scout’s honor.”
I follow him to the front of the club where Conor is sitting at the bar. His head is bowed forward, attention on the counter when he senses us approaching him. When he turns to find Rory beside me, his eyes darken and the muscle in his neck twitches. “What’s the deal with Twiggy?”
“Ivy,” I correct him with a glare.
Rory smirks. “Ivy here is coming to dinner with us. Isn’t that nice?”
Conor doesn’t seem at all pleased with the idea. His eyes are fixated on me, and he looks like he wishes I would just disappear. I don’t know what his problem is, but he’s got it out for me. I know I should look away and just let it go, but I can’t. There is something about those damning green eyes that render me immobile. I’ve never felt this kind of tension with anyone else. It’s so raw and intense it makes me feel weird all over.
The edgy silence persists until Rory clears his throat and I’m on the verge of telling them both I’ve changed my mind when Conor grunts. “Let’s get after it then.”
They take me to a place just down the street, an all-night diner that serves round the clock breakfast, and it’s exactly what I need. It has two of my favorite things- food and warmth. But just a few minutes after we arrive, I learn there’s something else on the menu.
The waitress seems to know the guys by name, and she offers them a flirtatious smile before her eyes drift over Conor in a not so subtle fashion. Her attention doesn’t leave him the entire time we order, and I find myself wondering if there’s some history there, and then I wonder why I even care. To my amusement, Conor doesn’t return her warmth. In fact, he never takes his eyes off me, and when the waitress finally does look my way, she can’t hide her displeasure.
When she disappears to put in our order, Rory chuckles under his breath. “Ye have to give the woman credit. She’s persistent.”
Conor doesn’t laugh or even bother with a reply. There seems to be some tension blooming between the two men, and the conversation remains sparse while we wait for our food. Meanwhile, Conor makes it his objective to toss accusatory glances between Rory and me, but it makes little difference. All I’m concerned with is shoveling the mile-high stack of pancakes I ordered into my mouth when it finally arrives.
When I set down my fork a few minutes later and wipe my mouth with a napkin, Rory laughs and Conor glares. A flush creeps over my face when it occurs to me how crude that must have been. I didn’t even stop to think. I just ate until there was nothing left on my plate.
“Must have been hungry,” Rory muses.
“I was,” I admit sheepishly.
“Drugs will do that to you,” Conor growls as he slides out of the booth and yanks out his wallet. “I guess it’s my treat tonight.”
I curl into myself as he retreats, and Rory finishes up his plate. “Don’t worry about him. Kid can be a grouchy motherfucker sometimes.”
I glance down at my worn-out Chucks and nod. “I don’t do drugs, just so you know.”
Rory bobs his head like it wasn’t even a question, and then we sit in awkward silence while I try to figure out what to do next. It’s freezing outside, and I’m tempted to use some of my shiny new cash to pay for a hotel room for the night. But I don’t want to dip into any of it. Not when I think of what’s at stake.
“Conor and I were thinking about playing some cards tonight.” Rory peers at me over the rim of his coffee cup. “Fancy joining us?”
My fingers tangle together in my lap as I consider his offer. I don’t know these guys from Adam. The smart choice would be to decline. But logic isn’t as desperate as basic human needs, and the thought of hunkering down behind a garbage can in the freezing cold for the rest of the night has me thinking it might be alright. Even just a few hours off the street would do me some good. Between the cold temperatures and the Locos scouring the city for me, I’m not really in a position to turn it down.
My eyes drift over to Conor, who is still talking to the waitress up at the register. He catches me staring, and I swallow down the weirdness I feel. He offers her a smile like he’s trying to goad me and I turn my attention back to Rory. I only just met them, but I guess I should feel secure in the fact that neither of them seems to want anything from me.
“Sure. I guess I could play some cards.”
5
CONOR
FECKING RORY.
He pulls this shite just to get his jollies off. The guy can get any chick he wants, but there’s only ever been one he’s head over heels for. Since she’s not around right now, I guess he’s got nothing better to do with his time than fuck with me.
He makes small talk the entire drive back to his place, laying it on real thick with Ivy. He asks her what sort of music she fancies and tells her jokes and does all the things that makes him irresistible to women, and I can’t be arsed to participate when he tries to involve me in the conversation.
I don’t want them getting buddy buddy, but I can’t come right out and open my gob about what’s going on either. Crow asked me to do this quietly for a reason, and I won’t betray that. But I can’t say it doesn’t bother the hell out of me to watch Rory turning on his charm and making Ivy laugh. Once we’re inside the house, I last about ten minutes before I can’t stomach another second of it.
“I’ve got a phone call to make,” I announce.
Rory arches his eyebrow at me in challenge. He wants me to come right out and say it, like I’ve caught feelings for this bird or something. He best not be holding his breath.
I walk outside and stare at my phone, but the whole excuse was bollocks. There is no call. I just don’t have it in me to be hanging around with a girl who’ll probably be dead before the week’s end. And I’m not in the sort of mood to stay and watch Rory win her over either. I don’t even really know what I’m doing when I get into my car and drive away, but for now the further I can get from her the better.
I drive around the city and fuck off until the early hours of morning, doing nothing in particular. By the time I get back to Rory’s, all the lights are off, and Ivy’s passed out on the sofa.
For a minute, I just stand there and look at her. It would make my life a lot easier if I could find a reason to hate her, but right now, I can’t. She’s so young. Too young to be heading for the grave. And she’s too fucking pretty to be hanging out with the lot of us. Shaking her ass up on stage and disrespecting herself to feed her addiction.
A girl like her should be somebody’s wife. She should be safe at home in the suburbs, making a life for herself. Or going to school. Or, fuck, I don’t know. But she shouldn’t be here right now. She shouldn’t be mixed up with the likes of us, or the Locos, or anyone else this side of Boston.
Regardless of what I said about her earlier, I can’t deny how goddamned beautiful she is. I see it every time I look at her face, and then I hate her for it. She knows it too. She knows I want her to disappear. But I can’t seem to stop fucking staring at her. Craving something I shouldn’t be craving. I’m not like Rory. I don’t thrive on the attention women give me. I’ve done just fine without a woman in my life or my bed for the last few years, and I’ve no intentions of changing that now.
But I could make her laugh. I could make her smile at me, if I really wanted to. It’s just
that I don’t. I can’t think of her that way. I can’t humanize her when fate has other plans. It’s better if she hates me. It’s better if she thinks I’m an arsehole because in the end, I’ll have no choice.
The back of my eyelids feel like glue, and when I peel them open, it comes as no shock that I find myself in a dark, cold basement. I might have been shitefaced last night, but I remember it clearly. I accepted my fate when I set out to kill the man who killed my kid brother, and the light of day won’t change that.
A newly familiar face comes into focus as he kneels down in front of me and pokes me in the cheek. It’s the man with the glasses and the suit.
“Morning,” he says. “I’ve been waiting all night for ye lad.”
“Ye missed out on half the fun already,” the other man says.
I haven’t a clue what they’re talking about, so I just nod, which I figure is what most guys probably do when they speak.
“I’m Crow,” the man in the leather jacket introduces himself. “And this is my mate, Fitzy. But you can call him Reaper.”
“I’m Conor,” I mumble around the dryness in my mouth.
Crow tosses me a bottle of water, and I crack it open and sit up slowly, the room still spinning from my hangover.
“So, what now?” I ask.
The men look to each other and then back to me.
“Ye had a fair bit to drink last night.” Crow cocks his head to the side and examines me. “So why don’t ye tell me again what that fella in the blue shirt did to get ye so worked up.”
I grind my jaw together and stare down at my shoes, noticing the tiny splatters of crimson that weren’t there before. The urge to retch is strong. It isn’t the sight of blood, but the smell that makes me sick. And even if it is dry, I swear that phantom scent is there in my nose. I kick off my shoes and push them beneath the chair where I don’t have to see them.