Chapter Eleven
It’s close to dawn when I climb down the fire escape, careful not to rattle the metal too much. I’ll have to hurry to make it back to Clara in time. That’s the excuse I have for leaving without waking him up. Okay, I’m not just leaving. I’m sneaking away. But Kip is asleep. I must have drifted off at some point too.
It will be easier for both of us if I’m gone when he wakes up. We aren’t going to run away together. This isn’t a fairy tale. I won’t make the same mistakes my mother did. I know better than to trust a man.
I know better than to love one.
Candy is leaning against the brick wall. She takes the cigarette from her lips and blows smoke in my direction. She looks me up and down, clearly unimpressed by what she sees. “Didn’t we tell you not to get involved with the customers?”
Of course they did—and the worst part is, they’re right. There’s no way this ends well for me. “I’m not involved,” I lie.
She laughs, low and bitter. “Doesn’t get more involved than fucking outside the club. Let me guess, he didn’t have to pay you for that one. That was just for fun.”
I flinch because I hadn’t even thought to ask for payment. What we did suddenly feels cheap. And that’s what it is…cheap. “Stop,” I whisper.
“Is that what you told him?” Her voice is taunting, her eyes whip-sharp. I’ve never seen her like this. I can only think I’ve earned her wrath for ignoring her advice. For keeping my secrets.
“We just talked.”
A roll of her pretty eyes. “I heard you up there.”
My face burns with embarrassment. I climaxed up there, not nearly quiet enough. I enjoyed myself up there, and maybe that’s the most embarrassing of all. I finally figured out how amazing sex could be, and it was on the roof of a strip club.
I hear the metal clang, and then Kip is working his way down. He’s got his shirt back on and his jeans and his boots, and damn does he look good in them.
Then I glance at Candy and realize she caught me checking him out. I blush, even though I think it’s bullshit. The men can ogle us all night long, but I’m not supposed to appreciate a fine masculine body?
He nods at Candy, his voice rough from sleep. “Morning.”
She snorts. “Get yourself a free fuck, did you?”
“That’s not how I would’ve put it, no,” he says, though he doesn’t seem surprised by her sharp words.
“I bet.”
“You have a problem with me?”
“Several, actually.” She smirks. “I know who you are.”
Her words sink in like ice through my skin. She knows something about Kip that I don’t. Unless she’s lying. But his expression goes completely blank, stripped of emotion. And I know it’s real.
“Good for you,” he says, just as flat.
Her gaze slides over to me, her eyes way too innocent to be real. “Does she know you’re related?”
“What are you talking about?” I ask. Related to who?
“Why don’t you fill her in?” she tells Kip. Then she drops her cigarette and strolls back into the club, using her stage walk to swing her hips.
I turn to Kip. “Tell me.”
He shakes his head. His eyes are opaque, as solid as the brick wall behind me. “There’s nothing to tell. My brother is an asshole. He had a reputation around here.”
“So do you, apparently.”
That makes him smile. But I know that’s not the whole story. He’s definitely hiding something. Candy knows he’s related to some asshole, but why would she think I’d care about that? It brings home the fact that there’s a lot I don’t know about Kip. More than just who his brother is. I don’t even know his last name.
The he does something that makes my gut clench. He reaches to his back pocket—for the gun? Maybe he’ll try to give it to me again. But I can’t take it. Or his wallet? For money. And not just because of Candy’s jab. He once told me he’d always pay for the privilege. He promised me that. It had been his line in the sand, but I’m erasing it.
I know it’s messier this way.
“No,” I say. “Don’t.”
He cocks his head to the side. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t make this cheap.”
* * *
Everything is hazy and dark. Not like the stage, too bright to see. Blinding me. The woods are so dark. I can just barely make out the pale path ahead of me. I follow it, hoping to find an open space soon. Somewhere safe to rest. But the trees seem to grow closer and closer on either side until I can barely breathe. In the dark wall of the jungle I can see green eyes blink at me. I can hear the hiss of a snake.
I bolt awake.
I’m drenched in sweat. Like in my dream, it’s dark. I can barely make out the faded floral bedspread covering me. The walls are pitch-black and looming. But this isn’t a jungle. It’s the motel room.
My heart is pounding a million times a minute. I pull myself out of bed and get a drink of water from the bathroom. Then I stand beside Clara’s bed and watch her sleep.
I get comfortable watching, sitting on the edge, tucking a foot under me. Even with my eyes adjusted to the dark, I can’t make out her face. It doesn’t matter. I know her face as well as my own. I can see the bedspread rise and fall ever so slightly. That’s what matters. Maybe it’s creepy to watch her sleep. I don’t care. As long as she’s breathing, as long as she’s safe, then what I’m doing is worth something. I’m worth something.
She must sense me there, because she stirs. She rolls over, toward me. Does she have bad dreams too?
Her eyes blink open. They’re bright in the darkness. Not green, though. Not scary.
“Honor,” she says, voice thick with sleep.
“Go back to sleep,” I say, soothing. “Everything’s fine.”
I hope I haven’t scared her. And I haven’t. She trusts me to protect her. The only problem is I don’t know how. My life has never been about safety. It’s a foreign idea, like landing on the moon. Or falling in love. All I know is how to survive.
“Are you okay?” she asks, still in that distant voice. She must have one foot still in her dreams.
“I’m fine,” I promise. And I know I should leave it at that, but something pushes me onward. She’s vulnerable now. She’s more honest than she’d ever be waking. “Are you okay, Clara? Are you happy here?”
“Not happy. Can’t be happy.”
I flinch. I should have known the answer—maybe I did know all along—but I wasn’t prepared to hear it. Not in the middle of the night, so soon after the nightmare.
“God, Clara,” I whisper. “What have I done?”
I know we couldn’t have stayed there. I could never let Byron or his friends touch her. But this isn’t okay either, this shitty motel room. Can’t be happy.
“She’s hurt,” Clara whispers. “She’s hurting.”
Who is she talking about? Herself? I search for my voice, for some comfort I can give. “No one’s going to hurt you, baby.”
“They’ll kill him.”
I shiver.
Her hand reaches over the blanket and grasps mine. She feels ice-cold. I squeeze her hand. In those final moments she’d been fully lucid. I could feel her slipping away now, back into sleep. That is for the best. She probably won’t even remember this tomorrow.
They’ll kill him.
The truth is, they probably already did kill him. A young man who lived on our father’s estate, the son of one of his guards, helped us escape. I wait until her breathing evens out and her grip around my hand loosens before I get up. I’m still nowhere close to sleep, so I wander over to the window. The drapes in the motel room are heavy and wide. They block out most of the light. So when I push them aside to peek through, even the faint light pricks my eyes.
The sidewalk is empty. Everything is still and quiet.
My hand brushes the Madonna statue, and it wobbles on the sill. It’s light, hollow. Made of plastic. I’m not sure who would buy a statue like this as a religious symbol. It’s too irreverent. But we’re using it as one.
She looks over us, this mother holding her child. She protects us. It’s worked so far.
I put my fingertip on the top of her head. Just a little while longer. Once I get proof against my father, I can use it as leverage. We’ll be free of him then.
We won’t need the protection of a burned-out light-up Madonna anymore.
* * *
My father is a descendent from one of the original leading families in Las Vegas. Due to the path of our family tree and criminal politics, he didn’t play a major role in the larger organization. But he was still respected. Still feared.
He would tell me bedtime stories with delitto d’onore. Honor killings. About men who disrespected their families and had to be put down. I didn’t realize until later that delitto d’onore is why he might have killed my mother. Didn’t realize it until later that it’s why he might kill me…if he finds me.
Maybe one day I’d figure out what honor really meant, because I couldn’t be like him. I couldn’t give Clara away to one of Byron’s friends. I couldn’t let her be all but sold to a monster—all in the name of family honor.
Like I had been.
I’m done with honor. I’m ready to be bad. To break the rules for more than just money. Except, of course, the man that I want to break them with doesn’t come back. For five nights. Five long nights of dancing in a smoky room, of evading grabbing hands. The girls figure out something is up with me.
“I told you not to date them,” Lola says.
I don’t look up as I pull sweatpants and a tank top on. I’m naked underneath, but the soft fleece is a relief after the harsh elastic and even harsher lights onstage. “Who says I did?”
“You have the look. Let me guess. He bought you dinner, got a blowjob, then didn’t call again.”
That’s close enough to the truth that I can’t refute it. But it’s not the whole truth. It doesn’t take into account that he seems to want more than sex. It doesn’t take into account that I can’t give him that.
“It doesn’t matter,” I say. “It’s over.”
Lola rolls her eyes. “Of course it’s over. We’re not the girls they take home to mama. We’re not the ones they keep.”
I shudder. I’d been the girl that got kept before. If I was lucky, I’d never have to go back. “Maybe I’m the one who didn’t call him. It’s not only men who want sex with no strings attached.”
She laughs. “Oh, sweetie, you’ve got so many strings you’ll never get free.”
My heart clenches because she’s right. I’m running and running, trying to stay safe, desperate to keep Clara safe, but I’m failing. It’s easy to see that I’m failing, standing in the dressing room of the strip club, feeling pathetic over some guy. Over a customer, of all people. I’m working as hard as I can, giving up everything—even my dignity—and it isn’t enough.
You’ll never get free.
A knot forms in my throat. I couldn’t speak even if I knew what to say.
Lola’s face falls. “Shit. I didn’t—”
“Don’t worry about it,” I say, my voice rough. And I push past her before she can stop me.