by Monica James
“The Pink Oyster,” she replies, none the wiser I’m about to lose my shit. “He’s the Bird Dog, and the girls have no issues having him as their personal bouncer. Do you know who he is? Was he there when you danced?”
Something explodes out of me, something that has been festering since that night. “I might be a little late tonight. Can you cover for me?”
“O-kay,” Kath says, drawing out the O. “What should I tell Carlos?”
Fucking Carlos.
“Just tell him I have diarrhea. No one will question that.”
She snorts in laughter. “You got it. Oh, Lily, you’re not about to jump ship, are you, and go back to your old club?”
The prospect pleases me more than I care to admit because at least I was happy there, happy until Bull walked into my life and sucker punched the shit out of me. “Not in the way you think,” I ambiguously reply before hanging up the phone.
The idea of seeing him again pisses me off; yet, it also excites me beyond words. A tremor rocks my body, and I realize this is the first time in a month that I have felt…something. And I like it. More than I should.
God save my soul.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” I ask Avery for the tenth time while tucking her into bed. “I can call in sick. We can watch Billy Elliot on Netflix.”
It’s our favorite movie.
Avery gives me a weak smile, snuggled deep under her blankets. “We’ve already watched it twice this week.”
“And?” I prompt with a smirk.
Today’s treatment really knocked her around. She passed out the moment she sat in my truck. The vomiting started just as I managed to get her into her apartment, and it’s only now just stopped.
The nurse handed me a flyer with expected side effects. So far, Avery has experienced nine out of the ten. I feel so helpless, but the nurse said there was nothing I could do. All I can do is watch her and make sure her temperature doesn’t spike. It’s thankfully remained steady.
She looks so tired, and all she wants to do is sleep. But the thought of leaving her when she looks so sick…I’m afraid this is it this time. I think that after every treatment.
“I’ll call work,” I insist, reaching for my cell off her side table.
Her cold hand reaches out from under the blanket, gripping my wrist. “You will not. I didn’t raise a quitter,” she says, catching her breath. Her lungs are riddled with cancer. Sometimes it even hurts her to breathe.
Her comment has me sucking back my tears because it’s true. She raised me right when she didn’t have to raise me at all. “Okay. As long as you’re sure?”
“I’m sure.” She gently clasps my hand. “Thank you for everything you’ve done for me.”
Those tears I’ve tried so hard to keep away threaten to break the surface. “Hey, enough of that talk. You don’t need to thank me. That’s what family does.”
When she nods, her grip on me loosening, I gently tuck her arm back under the blankets.
“I’ll check in tomorrow, okay? I have another late shift tonight. Your phone, water…it’s all within reach.” I feel like an asshole for lying because she doesn’t know what I really do at night. But I can’t tell her I work in a strip club. I’m not ashamed, but Avery is old-school, and the stigma associated with being a dancer is hard to break.
Not to mention if it ever got out, it would ruin Everland’s reputation.
Her eyes flutter closed, and she’s wearing a content smile on her dry lips. “I’m so proud of the woman you’ve grown into, Lillian. Whatever you do, I know you’re doing it to survive.”
My mouth parts in surprise.
Her soft breaths indicate she’s asleep; I sit on the edge of the bed, shedding silent tears. I don’t know if she knows, but her comment has me guessing I’m a lousy liar.
After ensuring she has everything she needs, I lean forward and plant a soft kiss on her cool forehead. She sighs softly. Leaving her to rest, I keep the hallway light on in case she needs to get up in the middle of the night.
After locking her door, I turn and sag against it. My heart breaks every time I leave her because I fear it’ll be the last time I see her alive. Someone opens their door down the corridor, which spurs me to wipe my eyes and quickly make my way to the elevator.
When I walk outside, the bitter wind picks up speed, reflecting how I’m feeling inside—cold and restless. My truck is parked close, so I make a quick run for it because it’s freezing. I start the engine and crank the heater.
Waiting for it to warm up, I rub my hands in front of me, blowing on them. My mind is racing. The clock on the dash reveals that I have more than enough time to get to work, but I’m not going there. After what Kath revealed today, there is only one place I am pulled toward.
Adjusting the rearview mirror, I notice a black car parked a few car lengths away from me. Squinting, I’m positive someone is sitting in the driver’s seat, but I’m not a hundred percent certain. Putting the conspiracy theories aside, however, because the identity of my stalker, Andre, has been revealed, I put the truck into gear and take off into the night.
This heavy feeling in the pit of my stomach won’t go away, but I don’t know what it is. I just know the thought of going to The Pink Oyster has it lessening. Gripping the steering wheel, I shake my head.
“What is wrong with me?” I mutter under my breath.
I reason with myself that the way we left things was unresolved for me. That’s why I can’t stop thinking about him. I need to finish this once and for all. If I get the last word, then maybe I can finally move on.
Yes, that must be it.
Lies.
Lies.
Stepping on the gas, I run with the idea before I chicken out and am slapped with the truth.
During the entire drive, I pump myself up by running through every positive affirmation I can think of. That by doing this, I’m taking back control of my life. But when I pull into the parking lot of The Pink Oyster, all those pep talks get shot to shit.
“What am I doing?” I really need to stop talking to myself. But I never claimed to be sane, which is why I reach for Jordy’s baseball hat from the floor and tuck my hair into it as I pull it low over my head.
I’m in jeans, Converse, and a pink knitted sweater that shows off a sliver of my midriff. I could be anyone. But for good measure, I hunt through my console for the pair of oversized pink-tinted sunglasses I used as a part of a costume I wore on stage.
They looked ridiculous, which is why they were a onetime deal only. And when I pull down the visor to look at my reflection, I see that nothing’s changed. But I will deal with the absurdity because when I open my door, chin downturned and hands in pockets, they give me the confidence to be anyone I want to be.
The parking lot is busy, which makes me happy. I’m glad things are picking up for Lotus. Could it be thanks to Bull playing PR? He doesn’t even like people. But people, or more accurately, women like him. What Kath said about Cherry has me gritting my teeth as I walk through the door.
Pop doesn’t recognize me. I silently celebrate my victory and am filled with a rush of adrenaline to be someone other than me. I discreetly scan my surroundings, heart in my throat, but when I don’t see Bull, my surge of excitement takes a nosedive.
Lotus is behind the bar, and a wave of nostalgia hits me hard. But when my gaze drifts to the stage, another memory slams into me, and that’s of Bull covered in another man’s blood—the man he just killed by driving a knife straight through his heart.
Instantly, I clutch my chest, feeling a sharp pain in the dead center. It has nothing to do with what I witnessed, however, and everything to do with the realization that my heart hurts because I…miss Bull. Goddamn him. And goddamn me.
Even after everything he’s done, I still can’t hate him as much as I should.
This place is like a second home to me. I know which table gets the least attention from the dancers. It’s also the table shrouded in partial darkness. It’s em
pty, so I make my way toward it, shifting my chair to ensure I am cloaked in the shadows.
Even though I’m in disguise, I’m still paranoid and look around me, ensuring I’m on no one’s radar. When I’m in the clear, I lean back in my seat and bite my nails, wondering what my game plan is. I drove here all gung-ho, but now that I’m here, I don’t know what to do.
This was a stupid idea.
Tawny finishes her set and shakes her ass as she gets off stage. It appears some things never change. But when “Cherry Pie” by Warrant blasts over the speakers, it seems some things do. And when the backstage curtain parts and out saunters Cherry, I suddenly wish for the monotony because it’s here where things are predictable and safe.
The tip rail is packed full, and a spout of jealousy spills from me. Once upon a time, they were lining up to see me. But now, Cherry is the flavor of the month. And I can see why.
This industry is small, and rumors are rife. Cherry is rumored to be one of the best dancers this town has. And her name, she supposedly got because she tastes well, like cherries. And now she and her cherry flavor are here, owning the place.
Lowering the bill of my hat, I watch her closely as she dances with skill. She is definitely trained in contemporary dance, and the way she moves her body is almost hypnotic. Her curled red hair tumbles down her back, appearing to highlight her soft, pale skin.
She turns her back to the crowd, shaking her ass while peeking over her shoulder. She places a hand over her open mouth, pretending to fake innocence as the men throw their life savings onto the stage.
I roll my eyes. So lame. She is all smoke and mirrors.
I see red, literally, as she’s in a red thong and matching crop top. I shouldn’t be jealous, and normally, I wouldn’t be. But the thought of Bull seeing her shake her ass and oh, Jesus, her breasts, because she just removed her top, infuriates me.
I have zero claim over him. I mean, I hate him, right? But the more she wiggles and writhes, the more I want to choke her with the string of her thong.
I shouldn’t have come here. This was a bad…very bad…sweet mother of fuck…
Bad seems the appropriate adjective to use because the epitome of bad just strolled, no, fucking sauntered into the room. It’s fight or flight—my hammering heart threatens to spill from my chest, my palms begin to sweat, and my mouth goes dry because standing just a few feet away is the Devil himself.
I take a moment, maybe two, to examine him from head to toe because my memory has clearly done a poor job of remembering him. His hair has grown long and is slicked back like he’s run his fingers through it to groom it. It’s short on the sides, which only seems to emphasize the length on top.
My fingers itch to run my fingers through it and pull—hard.
His scruff is thick but cut with precision, drawing attention to that supple bowed mouth and defined, sharp jawline.
My eyes can’t keep up with the visual godliness because his black boots, ripped black jeans, and white shirt rolled up to the elbows, exposing his tattoos, are almost too much. He’s once again wearing black suspenders, which just seem to accentuate his bad boy persona.
But it isn’t an image. Cody Bishop is a bad boy.
His presence is almost suffocating, and I take three much-needed breaths as I slouch down, afraid he will see me. Even though I’m hidden, when I see his astute eyes—a mismatched kiss from Heaven and Hell—scan the crowd, I feel exposed.
Once he’s perused the room, his attention lands on the stage, or more specifically, it lands on Cherry. She notices him watching her and commences a sexy swagger toward him. He stands his ground, arms folded, expressionless.
But Cherry sees it as a challenge and winks his way.
I bunch my fists against my thighs, clenching my jaw. The need to hurt her is real.
I watch him watch her and look for any signs that would betray his thoughts. Did he watch me the same way? My skin begins to blister when I recall the last time he watched me dance. It wasn’t in the club. It was when I danced for him in the studio. And when I was done, he bound me tightly and made me feel like a meal prepared solely for him.
I don’t remember ever feeling so alive, so animated with an energy that made me feel invincible. But that’s how I felt with Bull. Even when he tested me, I always felt empowered because he was a puzzle, one I so desperately wanted to solve.
The room breaks out into wolf whistles and hollers as Cherry finishes her set—completely naked. She is standing in front of Bull, arms spread, her back bowed in an offering, one he seems quite happy about if that shit-eating smirk is anything to go by.
I can count on one hand how many times I’ve seen that smirk, that smirk which is supposed to be only reserved for me.
A wave of anger whips through me, and my leg begins to bounce. I can’t sit still. Cherry bends down and gathers her tips, coaxing Bull over with a curl of her finger. Silly girl. Bull doesn’t come when called.
But I soon eat my words when he saunters over to her, helping her collect her cash.
Motherfucker!
The monster lay dormant inside me, but she’s been awakened. And now, she’s out for blood.
I can’t stay here. I will do something stupid if I do. I don’t know what that something stupid entails, but at the moment, breaking both of Cherry’s kneecaps is what I’m leaning toward. Standing slowly, I ensure my hat is down low and stay hidden in the shadows as I make a beeline for the door.
Thankfully, Bull is across the room, so I can get the hell out of here undetected. Not that he’d notice. He’s too busy being the perfect lapdog. I snarl at the thought.
Holding my breath the entire way, I gasp in lungsful of air when I make it outside. But I don’t stop. I quicken my step and frantically reach for my keys in my pocket. The truck is mere feet away, and I lower my guard—what a fucking amateur move.
I unlock the door, but before I have a chance to open it, I’m tossed up against the truck, dropping my keys. I desperately try to buck the person off me, but when I’m hit with a juniper punch, I don’t know whether to be relieved or terrified.
“Now where do you think you’re going?” Bull snickers inches from my ear with his hardened chest pressed to my back. All I want to do is sag against him and surrender, but my pride won’t let me.
“Home, to wash my eyeballs out with bleach,” I sneer, struggling against him. My glasses tumble to the ground. “Get off me.”
He tsks in response. Smug asshole. “Don’t be jealous.”
Scoffing, I spit, “Jealous? Of what? Being jealous would mean that I care, and in case you missed the memo, I don’t.”
“Then why are you here?” he counters, pressing me harder into the truck when I continue fighting.
“I thought I left something behind, but I was mistaken.” It’s a double-edged sword, and he knows it. “Now, would you kindly let me go? Or—”
“Or what?” he challenges, placing his palms on either side of my head.
“Or I’ll scream.”
There is a shift in the air—the calm before the storm.
I open my mouth, ready to make good on my word, but when Bull slams his hand over it, I smile in victory. What a chump. Without hesitation, I bite down on his fingers—hard. He hisses but doesn’t let go, which has me resorting to other measures, such as elbowing him in the stomach.
A pained oof escapes him, and he loosens his hold.
Shoving him off me, I frantically fumble with the handle and eventually get it open. It only smashes back shut when Bull forces it closed.
Spinning around, I come face-to-face with him, ready to slap his cheek. But it’s evident I’m not ready for anything at all because when we lock eyes, I suddenly can’t breathe. There is so much fury swirling behind those hypnotic eyes.
The static between us awakens every part of me. My heaving chest betrays not only my anger but my excitement as well.
When he cages me against the truck once again, I shove against his chest, but he only
pushes me back down. “You shouldn’t be here,” he warns, inches from my lips.
“Let me leave, and we won’t have a problem.”
He tongues his cheek, smirking. That smirk is different from the one I saw inside. This smirk is filled with hunger…for me. “Tell me why you’re here, and I’ll let you go.”
“I was taking a walk,” I lie, refusing to allow him to intimidate me. “Last time I checked, that wasn’t illegal. But I suppose it doesn’t make a difference to you. You do what you want, when you want, consequences be damned, right?”
The hardening of his jaw is the only sign betraying his thoughts. “Finally, it’s sunk in.”
“Oh, it’s sunk in all right,” I counter, eyeing him something wicked. “Christopher told me what really happened”—I pause, needing a moment—“that night.”
“What really happened then?” he questions with a cynical grin.
“He said you started the fight. Over some girl. Your brother and his friends jumped him and were out for blood. It got out of hand, and it was either him or—”
“Or what?” he coaxes, the truck whining under the force as he pushes down harder onto it.
“Or Damian,” I whisper, suddenly afraid. “It was self-defense.”
Bull’s gaze eats me alive as he scans over every inch of me. “Fiction can be fun,” he finally says, shaking his head.
“Did you? Did you start it?” I ask, licking my trembling lips. I don’t know why it matters. I just need to know if Christopher is telling me…the truth. Today has thrown everything off-center.
Bull reads between the lines and senses my suspicion. Christopher is my brother, and for the most part, I believe him, but a small, traitorous part demands I open my eyes and see the full picture.
The way he responded to that poor, defenseless man today isn’t normal. Neither is him watching me dance.
Why would Bull do all this if what he told me wasn’t true? Vengeance is blind, and maybe he’s seeing what he wants to see, but I don’t think he is…and that’s why I’m here.
“Yes, I started it,” he confirms. “There was a girl.”