Chapter Six
Kip prepares my coffee.
Of all the things that have happened in my life over the past twelve months, over the past twenty years, this is the thing I find strangest. He not only orders my coffee, but when it becomes clear I am not moving to take it, he pulls the little packet to his side. I’ve never been served, never been helped by people who weren’t paid to do it. Never been helped by anyone who didn’t have something to gain. So what is he after?
“Cream?” he asks.
I nod my head, and he tears the lid off the little cup of nondairy creamer. We’re sitting at a corner booth in a crappy diner. Everything is dirty here, including me. But not him. He’s not exactly clean either. He’s something else. Something dark and serious and solemn. His hands mesmerize me, so large and strong and yet careful. He’s stone, rough-edged and impenetrable. And I am air, already blowing away.
“Sugar?”
My nod is surer this time, quicker, because I want to see him do this.
He doesn’t disappoint. Broad, square-tipped fingers rip open a single blue packet. He pours sugar into the black liquid and stirs. He gives me this, when all the other men just take and take.
I have experience with big, strong men. Careful ones too. I know they are the worst kind. But somehow I don’t think he’ll hurt me. Maybe that’s just wishful thinking. Maybe he’s a mirage. I could open my eyes and find myself in the middle of a desert, dying of thirst. But that’s where I’ve been. Even if he’s an illusion, it can’t hurt worse than the truth.
I wrap my hands around the ceramic, trying to soak up the warmth.
As if he notices, as if he cares, he says, “Want my jacket?”
“No.” Every kind thing he does makes me want him more. And makes me push him farther away.
Weary amusement flickers over his coarse features. “I appreciate you coming here with me.”
“You didn’t give me much of a choice.”
“No.” He sobers. “No, I didn’t. And I imagine you’ve had your fill of men pushing you around.”
I shift on the hard plastic cushion. I’ve been pushed around in the literal sense. Does he know that? Is it possible he knows where I’m running from—who I’m running from? But the more likely answer is he means the men at the strip club. “I can take care of myself.”
“I don’t doubt that.” There’s a pause while he seems to be debating how much to tell me. “I’ve been watching you.”
How much do you know? “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”
He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, gaze intent on mine. “I’m not planning to hurt you. I just want to get to know you.”
My chest tightens. “Where I come from, that’s the same thing.”
His eyes darken. “But you can take care of yourself,” he says, the words a challenge.
The smile that comes out is more a baring of teeth. It’s either that or cry. “I’m gone, aren’t I? And I’m never going back.”
He’s not impressed. “You’re dancing in a strip club and walking down the worst street in Tanglewood. You have no defenses. You have nothing to protect yourself.”
I flinch. “Is this how you get to know someone? By insulting them?”
Regret passes over his face. “No. I’m an asshole. I just meant maybe you don’t have it all figured out. And that maybe I could help.”
“No one can help me.” No one goes up against the Moretti family and lives.
Which is why I know that one day they’ll find me. And kill me. As long as they don’t touch Clara, I’m okay with that. That’s enough. It has to be.
“Maybe not,” he says, “but I have a confession to make. I do want to help you. But I also need your help.”
My laugh comes out unsteady, almost breathy. Afraid. “I bet you do. I bet you have a very big, very serious problem that I could smooth right out for you. Soften you up.”
He doesn’t crack a smile. “Honey,” he says with warning.
But it sounds ridiculous. The name is ridiculous. His low, serious voice just makes it worse.
I laugh then, for real. I think this is the funniest thing I’ve heard in days, or weeks. Or months. It’s the funniest thing I’ve ever heard, this fake name and fake smile and fake relationship I can’t have. And help? That’s not real either. That’s a story he’s telling, whether he knows it or not. You know what’s real? Sex. That’s all I have to offer him.
I might become a little unhinged as I sit there laughing. I expect him to get all serious and angry, but then something crazy happens. He starts laughing too. First it’s just a quirk of his lips and a soft exhale of breath. But then he chuckles alongside me, shaking his head.
His smile fades. “You don’t belong in that place.”
I suck in a sharp breath. “And why’s that? My tits aren’t big enough? I don’t use the right songs?”
“You keep thinking it’s not going to hurt,” he says gently. “The dancing. The fucking. You’re still surprised when it does.”
Pain is a wide chasm in my gut. “What do you know about dancing?”
“Not much,” he admits. “Just what I see. I see you expecting the best from the men that come through there. It’s a kind of suicide, sweetheart. It hurts just to watch you.”
“You’re wrong.” Anger is cold as ice, numbing all the other feelings. “I’m exactly right for this job. Because I don’t give a fuck.”
His smile is sad. “Then tell me your name.”
My lips tighten. “Never.”
He nods once. “I’ll see you on Saturday, Honey.”
“And I’ll suck you off,” I warn, though it’s the strangest warning I’ve ever given. “That’s all.”
“We’ll see.” He drops a twenty on the table and stands to leave. “Take care of yourself until then. This isn’t a safe part of the city.”
* * *
Watery daylight breaks over the city just as I reach the extended-stay motel.
Not quite as run-down, not quite as terrifying as Candy’s building, but still depressing. Red brick faded to pink. Iron bars on the windows. Palm trees in the courtyard do little to make the place more tropical or cheery. Neither do the Christmas lights wrapped around them. It’s a colorful prison.
Heavy curtains in my room’s window block my view inside. I pull out the key card and slip it into the reader, already looking forward to a long day’s sleep to help me forget what I did at night. Clara. The name is on the tip of my tongue, ready to call out in greeting. But some deep-seated instinct keeps me cautious.
I struggle with the heavy duffel bag that has my work clothes and shoes. The heavy door is like a rat trap, trying to snap closed, jarring my shoulder in the process.
The motel room is dark.
And the little Madonna statuette stands in the window.
It’s a figurine made of thin plastic, with a white cord attached. It’s designed to light up, but the lightbulb inside has long since died. It was actually in the motel room when we got there. Clara fished it out of the trash and put it on the window. She claimed it would protect us. And it has. It’s our way of signaling that something is wrong. If we’re ever found out, if the room is compromised and one of us is forced to run, we’ll take the Madonna out of the window. It’s a relief to see it each night, standing small and gaudy and proud in front of the drapes.
I am cautious, looking left and right before using the key card. I am always cautious, because if someone tracked me here and really wanted to hurt me, I’d be screwed. My only saving grace today was that Kip hadn’t tracked me all the way home. And that he hadn’t wanted to hurt me.
No, he just wants to fuck you.
All the lights are off, even the bathroom. “Clara,” I whisper.
No answer. I step farther into the room, and my eyes slowly adjust. I can make out the two beds and the table in the corner. And a dark bundle in the center of one bed, almost hidden in the shadows. I cross the room and gently shake her shoulder.
Clara blinks up at me. “Honor?”
“I’m here.”
“Oh thank God. I was so worried about you. You were late. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” My voice comes out too sharp, so I try to soften it. “I’m fine, but you remember what we talked about. If there’s trouble, I won’t bring it back to the room. You have the stash of money and—”
“I’m not leaving without you,” she says fiercely.
Worry tightens my gut. If anything goes wrong at the strip club, if I don’t come back when I’m supposed to, Clara is supposed to run. Without me. But she never quite agrees to it. Sometimes she is silent while I detail the escape routes. Other times she tells me no.
I extend my hand, and she lets me pull her up. I don’t let go, instead hugging her close and breathing deep. We may not agree on everything, but I love her. She’s my sister, and I’ll never let anything happen to her. She squeezes me back, tight enough to steal my breath.
Her voice is small. “I thought you might not come back.”
It’s easy to forget that she’s only sixteen. She’s been brave through this whole thing, but she’s still a kid. She should be worrying about pop quizzes and who asks her to homecoming.
Not living in a broken-down motel, afraid of a man at the door.
My throat feels too tight to answer. But she’s counting on me to be strong, so I am. She’s the only thing keeping me together. The urge for us to run now rises up in me. Kip’s questions hit too close to home. He knows something more than he’s telling me, but it could just as easily be about the club than my past. And Ivan… well, now he’s telling me not to leave. It’s a shit time for him to take an interest.
We’ll stay, for now. “Remember, Clara. If I don’t come back twenty-four hours after I should, you need to go. Don’t ask questions. And don’t wait for me.”
She looks down. It’s not agreement, but it’s all I can get for now.
I change the subject. “Did you do your lessons today?”
She can’t go to high school, and obviously we don’t have the tutors from home, but I still insist she does her high school course work. I’m determined that she’s going to at least have the knowledge, even if she won’t have the diploma with her name on it. One day in the future, the dust will settle.
One day she’ll be able to live a regular life. I have to believe that, or all of this is for nothing. Every baring of my breasts, every touch of a stranger—for nothing.
I see you expecting the best from the men that come through there. It’s a kind of suicide, sweetheart.
“Of course. It was easy.” Clara switches on a lamp, sending a weak glow over the tattered bedspread and furniture.
“Give it to me. I’ll check it.”
She rolls her eyes and hands over the workbooks. “Yes, Mom.”
I freeze, remembering the dark-haired, dark-eyed woman who was our mother. The woman Clara barely knew. A deep longing rends my chest. I know she couldn’t have helped us through this. In some ways it’s her fault we’re in this mess. But I still miss her.
Clara looks stricken. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”
Her cheeks are still gently rounded, as are her arms. I grew up like a beanpole, growing breasts late. They’re still small for a stripper. But Clara was always a bundle of joyful, chubby girl. She’s gotten slimmer as she grows into a teenager, her waist tightening, her curves turning womanly. But her eyes still sparkle like a child’s. Eventually her baby fat will fall away. She will no longer curl up like a child when she sleeps. But I want that sparkle to stay.
I’ll do anything to keep it. I already have.
“It’s okay,” I say softly. “I’m just sorry you didn’t get to know her longer.”
She takes my hand. “I am too. But I couldn’t ask for a better big sister.”
“God, you’re sweet.” And it strikes me then, with the force of an explosion, how similar she is to Kip. How open they both are. Maybe that’s why I seem to trust Kip, even when I clearly shouldn’t. Maybe that’s why I don’t want him to die.
Her smile is like his too—sad. “I love you.”
My hand tightens around hers like a vise. I can’t say it back. Haven’t been able to say the word love since the day I heard my mother cry out for the last time. There are too many other words crowding it out. Words like run and hide and don’t let them touch you.
And the biggest word of all, floating right at the surface, struggling to break free. Help.