Love the Way You Lie (Stripped #1) (2 page)

Maybe he feels my intuition about him, because he leans forward in his seat.

In one heart-stopping moment, my eyes meet his. I can see his face then, drawn from charcoal shadows.

Beautiful,
his lips say. All I can hear is the song.

I’m not even on beat anymore, and it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter because there’s a cop here and I have to get out. Even if my intuition is wrong, it’s better to get out. Safer.

I’ll never be safe.

The last note calls for a curtsy—a sexy, mocking movement I choreographed into my routine. Like the one I’d do at the end of a ballet recital but made vulgar. I barely manage it this time, a rough jerk of my head and shoulders. Then I’m gone, off the stage, running down the hallway. I’m supposed to work the floor next, see who wants a lap dance or another drink, but I can’t do that. I head for the dressing room and throw on a T-shirt and sweatpants. I’ll tell them I feel sick and have to leave early. They won’t be happy and I’ll probably have to pay for it with my tips, but they won’t want me throwing up on the customers either.

I run for the door and almost slam into Blue.

He’s standing in the hallway again. Not slouching this time. There’s a new alertness to his stare. And something else—amusement.

“Going somewhere?” he asks.

“I have to… My stomach hurts. I feel sick.” I step close, praying he’ll move aside.

He reaches up to trace my cheek. “Aww, should I call the doctor?” His hand clamps down on my shoulder. “I wouldn’t want anything bad to happen to you.”

I grip my bag tight to my chest, trying to ignore the threat in his words. And the threat in his grip. I really
do
feel sick now, but throwing up on him is definitely not going to help the situation. “Please, I need to leave. It’s serious. I’ll make it up later.”

He’ll know what I’m saying. That I’ll make it up to him personally. I’m just desperate enough to promise that. Desperate enough to promise him anything. And he’s harassed me long enough that I know it’s a decent prize. I’m sure he’ll make it extra humiliating, but I’m desperate enough for that too.

“Please let me go.” The words come out pained, my voice thin. It feels a little like my body is collapsing in on itself, steel beams bending together, something crushing me from the outside.

Regret flashes over his face, whether for refusing my offer or forcing me that low. But this time he doesn’t let me go. “There’s a customer asking for you. He wants a dance.”

T
he Grand used
to be a theater, back when the city did more tourist trade than drug trafficking. Back when you could walk down this street without getting mugged. They held ballets and operas and one infamous magic show where a man was killed by a faulty fake gun. Over the years the shows visited less and less. This whole part of the city became gutted, empty. Attempts to revitalize the theater failed because the good, rich folk who had money to spend on theater tickets didn’t want to come to these streets.

Now the building is just a husk of its former glory—faded metallic wallpaper and ornate molding with the gold paint scraping off. Tables and chairs fill the smoky, dark floor. There is a balcony in the back, but it isn’t open to the public.

The rooms for private dances used to be ticket stalls in what would have been the lobby.

They don’t have doors. They barely even have walls. The front window partitions have been ripped away, with only brass rods and velvet curtains to cover them.

The first is occupied by Lola. A flash of red fabric and a long mane of hair between the curtain tells me that much. And I know from her position on the floor and the soft groans that he’s paid for more than a dance.

The second room is empty.

The third room is the farthest from the main floor. The darkest. I can only make out a shadow seated in the chair. All I want is to get the hell out of here, but Blue is standing behind me, crowding me, and the only way to get space, the only place to go is inside.

I slip past the heavy velvet curtain and wait for my eyes to adjust. Even before they do, I know it will be him. Not safe, rule-following Charlie. It’s the other man. The new one. The one with the strange intensity in his stare.

I see the outline of his jacket first. And his boots, forming that same configuration—one leg shoved out, one under the chair. That’s the way he sits, almost sprawled on the uncomfortable wooden chair. He’s watching me. Of course he’s watching me. That’s what he paid to do.

“What’ll it be?” I ask.

“What’s on the menu?” he counters, and I know what he means. He means extra services. The same thing that Lola is doing now. More than just a dance. He looks out from the shadows like the Cheshire cat, all eyes and teeth and challenge. All he’s missing are purple stripes filling in.

And if he’s a cop, he can bust me just for offering it. Cops should have better things to do with their time. But I already know cops don’t do what they should. I know that too well.

I’m running from one.

“A dance, of course.” I run through the prices for fifteen minutes, thirty minutes. No one needs longer than that. They either go to the bathroom to jerk off or come in their pants.

“And if I want more than that?”

Now that my eyes have adjusted, now that I’m up close, I can see the tats at the base of his neck and on his wrists. They are probably along his arms and maybe his chest. There’s ink on his hands too, though I can’t make out what it says.

His black shirt is tight enough to show me his shape, the broad chest and flat abs. Underneath the shirt is a chain or necklace. I can only see the imprint, but it makes me want to pull up the fabric and find out what it is.

He wears his leathers like a second skin, like they’re armor and he’s a fighter. I can’t really imagine him walking through a precinct in a blue shirt. He’s not a cop. But there was that feeling, when I was onstage. I
felt
his interest, more than sexual. I felt his suspicion. I felt every instinct telling me he is there for more than a dance. I can’t afford not to listen.

“There’s no more than that,” I answer flatly.

He grunts, clearly displeased. But it doesn’t sound like he’s going to force the issue—or complain to Blue. “Then dance.”

Right. That’s why I’m here. That’s not disappointment, heavy in my gut. I don’t expect anything from men except to get paid. So I dance, starting slow, moving my hips, my arms, touching my breasts. I’m a million miles away like this. I’m lying on my back, feeling crisp grass underneath my legs, looking up at the night sky.

It almost works, except that I need to get close to him. I need to climb onto him, straddling his legs with mine, reaching for the back of the chair to shake my tits in his face. And when I do, I smell him. He smells…not like smoke. Not like sweat.

He smells like my daydream, like grass and earth and clean air.

I freeze above him, body crouched, my breasts still shivering with leftover momentum.

“Something wrong?” he asks.

And his voice. God, his voice. It’s gone rough and low, all the way to the ground. It slides along the creaky wood of the chair and the concrete floor and vibrates up my legs. It shimmers through the air and brushes over my skin, that voice. We’re not touching in any place, but I can feel him just the same.

I swallow hard. “Nothing’s wrong, sugar.”

“Then sit down.”

He means on his lap. Touching. It’s against the rules, officially.

Unofficially it’s one of the tamer things that happen in this room. “What if I don’t want to?”

One large shoulder lifts, making the leather sigh. “I won’t make you.”

I hear the unspoken word
yet
ring in the air.

I should probably refuse him. Whether he’s a cop or not, he’s throwing me off. That’s dangerous. And if there’s some other cop in the building? That’s even more dangerous.

But for some reason, I lower myself until I’m resting on his jeans, my posture awkward and off balance—until he shifts, and suddenly I’m sliding toward him, flush against him while I straddle his legs. Then his arms circle my body, trapping me. Any second now he’s going to grope me. Maybe take his dick out and fuck me like this. It wouldn’t be the first time.

But he just stays like that, arms firm but gentle. A hug. This is a hug.

Jesus.
How long has it been since a man hugged me? Just that, without touching anywhere else, without his dick inside me? A long time.

My throat feels tight. “What next?” I ask again, and this time I’ll offer anything on the menu. The real menu, with sex and pain and whatever else he’s into.

“I’d like to touch you,” he says, his breath brushing against my temple.

I know that’s not all. We haven’t even negotiated a price, but I find myself agreeing, silent and still.

I look into his eyes and feel something—familiarity. Do I know him from somewhere?

A hundred men come through here. They are nothing to me, and yet I can’t help thinking I would remember him if he had come in another night. I can’t shake the feeling I’ve seen him before. Met him.
Known him.

I should be afraid. And I am, but I’m also wondering about the tattoo on the back of his hand. What does it mean? Then I have other things to wonder about, because that hand is touching me.

He doesn’t start with my breasts or even my ass. Not the obvious places, the important ones. He starts with one hand at the back of my neck. My heart pounds heavy in my chest, almost bursting free. I can’t get enough air. And suddenly this seems like an important place after all, so vulnerable. So small within the careful hold of his hand. How is it possible that his hands are so large?

He slides his other hand under my chin, lifting my face. And looks me in the eye. I can’t look away. His eyes are dark and bottomless, the light glinting like distant stars.

“What’s your name?” he mutters.

Honor.
I almost say it, but that’s not who I am here. Besides, they announced me when I went onstage. He doesn’t seem like the type to forget, not when he asked for me after, not with his hands cradling my head, careful with me but faintly threatening. Because he could snap my neck in a second. He knows it. I know it. I even think Blue waiting outside knows it, but it all comes down to trust.

And I don’t trust him.

“Honey,” I whisper.

He repeats my name like he’s never heard of it before. “Honey.”

My gaze drops to his mouth, which is firm and almost thin. A hard man’s lips, with scruff shadowing his jaw. “And yours?”

Those lips curve into a half smile. “You’re better off not knowing my name.”

That much I believe. It makes me trust him more. “I’m better off not sitting on your lap. Better off not taking my clothes off for strange men every night. I guess that ship has sailed.”

His lids lower with something like appreciation. “You can call me Kip.” He must have seen I didn’t quite believe him, because he laughs softly. “It’s my real name. Not like Honey.”

I wince at the pointed jab, but what does he expect? The truth?

There is no truth. Honey isn’t my real name, but as each day goes by, I feel less and less like Honor Moretti. I’m transparent, like a ghost. Insubstantial. That’s what hiding does to you. It makes you invisible.

He relents at whatever expression’s on my face, softening. “It’s short for Kipling.”

Just those few words and he’s given me something. Something personal. Something real. That’s rare in this club. That’s rare in the whole world. It makes me want more. I’ve seen the jut of old bone from the ground. I want to dig deeper, to uncover more truths. “As in Rudyard Kipling?”

His eyebrows rise. He tries to cover it up, but I’ve already seen.

“Are you surprised a stripper has read poetry?” I ask.

“No.”

“Liar.” I’m not mad though. The girls here are mostly surviving. We’re kicking up to the surface. It doesn’t leave a lot of leisure time for reading. “So, your parents were fans?”

“Just my mother, as far as I know.” He gives a rueful smile like I’ve disarmed him. Which only proves he came here armed. “I’m just glad I got Kipling and not Rudyard.”

I like him this way. More open. Less threatening. It eases me enough that I run my hands down his chest, drawing a shudder from him. “Did you grow up with Mowgli and Baloo?”

“Until I was sick of them,” he says. “I had a big book, the kind you can only find in a garage sale. The paper yellow and the binding turning to string.”

“It sounds lovely.” My hands play lower—at the flat, hard plane at the bottom of his abs. Strippers often chat up the customers. Some of them come for more than a rub down. They want to talk, to flirt. They want to use us like therapists and then fuck us after. It’s a kind of foreplay.

I tell myself that’s why I’m talking to this man. No other reason. Not because I want to.

“It was,” he says, “at the time. I’d get lost in them. I wanted to go live in the jungle.”

“And then you grew up and realized you were already there.”

His smile is pleased and sly. He likes this. “Is that where we are? The jungle?”

“The ground is made of concrete and the trees are full of glass. But there are snakes here. There are hunters.”

“I thought it was just a story,” he says lightly.

“Stories are powerful.” They’re life and death. They’re survival. There wasn’t much to do locked up in my room except read. And dance. I am a world away from that life, but that still holds true. I still spend most of my time reading and dancing.

And I’m still locked up, in a different way.

He looks too curious for my comfort. “So what stories do you tell?” he murmurs.

I shrug, for all the world nonchalant. “Same old story. Broken home. Ran away. Now I’m a stripper.”

It’s a sanitized version of the truth.

He frowns, uncertain, a furrow between his eyes. It makes him look younger than his scruff and his swagger and his size would indicate. Not like he feels sorry for me, though. Instead he looks like I’m a puzzle. Something to figure out.