Love the Way You Lie (Stripped #1) (8 page)

“Why are you pissed that I was worried about you? Is it so bad that someone cares?”

“Yes, it is so fucking bad. It’s a death sentence around here, so cut that shit out.”

Realization settles over me. “Oh. You’re worried about me.”

She scowls. “I couldn’t care less about you. I was dancing before you got here, and I’ll be dancing when you’re gone. You’re a goddamn chime of the clock.”

I can’t really help the smile that spreads across my face. “You really care.”

“I really, really don’t.”

“Can we braid each other’s hair and tell ghost stories?” I tease.

An exasperated look crosses over her face, so vehement, so
desperate
that I think she might actually hit me. That’s how much she doesn’t want to care about me. How much she wants to stay detached, just like I did. But we can’t quite do it. Maybe that is a death sentence, but if it is, we’re already dead.

She glances to the door—empty—and then back at me. Her voice is quiet and, this time, sincere. She isn’t trying to pretend we don’t care. She’s telling me that she does. “You might be safe in my apartment. People know me there. But not on the street. Not wandering around alone. And if you got caught there, who would take care of whoever it is you’re hiding.”

My eyes widen, because I may have formed attachments at work, but I’ve
never
confided about Clara. She’s never been to the club, and she’ll never come here. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’ve seen you take food from the kitchen at the end of the day. And since you’re thin as a beanpole, I figured you weren’t chowing down while watching infomercials.”

I shut my eyes. “Has anyone else—”

“Not that I know of. Even Lola doesn’t suspect. I’d know if she did because we talk about you.”

Despite my distress, my lips lift in a faint smile. “Gee, thanks.”

“It’s because we do care,” she whispers. “And we don’t want you to die.”

*     *     *

I’m blinded every
time I go onstage, but this time is different. Because even though I can’t see, I know Kip is there. I can feel him watching me, wanting me,
counting on me.
When I am onstage, it’s impossible to hide. I’m exposed. And I have to face the pain in my chest, the one I feel because I’m bound to let him down.

I dance with sure feet and strong hips. I dance like this will be my last time onstage. I dance for
him.

Even though I pretend not to see him near the front. For a man undercover, he isn’t hiding. He isn’t slinking near the edges, in the shadows, hoping not to be seen. He’s in plain sight—like me. We have that in common. It binds us together when I’d rather forget.

Blue finds me after my dance, when I would have gone onto the floor to make the rounds. He grabs me when I try to move past him. “What happened to Candy?” he demands.

I blink, taken aback. Sometimes he seems to almost care about us girls. Although maybe he’s just angry at damaged goods. And his fingers dig into my arm. “I don’t know. She didn’t tell me.”

“She talks to you.”

“Well, not about that.”

He blows out a breath and looks to the side. His hand falls away. “Is it the same place Lola’s gone?”

I didn’t even know Lola had left. If we are soldiers, we are falling one by one. What are we defending? I have Clara. I don’t know what Lola or Candy has. “I thought she wasn’t working today.”

“Only because she called and took herself off rotation. It’s not like her to miss a Saturday, though. Not when Ivan—” He stops abruptly, lips firming. He’s said too much, which is strange enough. But I can feel his distress, which is stranger still.

His concern feels like water tugging at my feet, an undertow. It’s swirling beneath the surface, waiting to suck me down. There’s a current in this club. I can’t see it, but I can feel it.

“Lola can take care of herself,” I say because it’s true. Between the three of us, Lola is the tough one. The take-no-prisoners one. Men need to look out when she prowls through the floor, not the other way around.

“Yeah, right,” he mutters. “Just like Candy and you.”

I flinch. “We do our job. That’s all you pay us to do.”

His grin is dark and unpleasant. “And I do my job, which is to keep you ladies pretty and available.”

It’s almost soothing to hear his crude words, having the Blue I know and loathe back. He’s an asshole, and I wouldn’t know how to deal with him otherwise. “I’m available. For those who pay.” I raise my eyebrows to let him know that he hasn’t. Not ever.

Not for any of the girls, as far as I know.

His eyes darken as he looks me up and down, taking my measure. He’s had his hands on every girl in this club, if only to rough us up or move us around. We are dolls to him, and he’s the one pulling strings. There is lust in his eyes, and a threat. But his heart’s not in it.

The startling thing is to realize he has a heart after all.

“Look, if you want to keep us pretty, check on Candy. Someone’s hurting her.”

“No shit,” he snaps. “She looks like a fucking evidence photo. How am I supposed to put her on the floor?”

Charming. “If you don’t know who’s messing with her, tell Ivan. He’ll get it out of her.”

“I bet he will,” he mutters in a tone that means exactly what Candy had said.
He’d like it too much.
“Maybe I should tell him about you.”

My heart thuds. Does he mean Kip? Ivan must have told him I’m supposed to stay away. So why hasn’t Blue told on me yet? What does he want from me—a bribe? “What do you want?”

His gaze sharpens. “I want you to do your fucking job.”

It’s hard to speak. “I’m doing it.”

“And watch your back.”

My chest feels tight. “I always do.”

He sighs, shaking his head.

He doesn’t believe me—or maybe he just knows it’s a hopeless cause. I can watch my back. I can watch as the tiger gets closer. I can watch as he leaps. And there won’t be a damn thing I can do to stop him.

“I know that guy,” he says. “When you’ve been in the game as long as I have, you get to know who the players are.”

“What game is that?”

A smile then. “The killing game.”

T
he club doesn’t
have any windows, but I know it’s been raining. The customer’s clothes are wet—especially the tops of their shirts and the hems of their pants. They hustle inside and then linger over empty glasses, reluctant to get rained on again. That would be good for business, except that a bunch of horny guys who would’ve come in have decided to stay home. It’s dead here.

I finish my dances and make the rounds with minimal fanfare. When it’s time to go home, I’m exhausted, my mind numb. I wrap my jacket tightly around me as I step outside.

There’s only a light drizzle, though the hours of stormy weather have left their mark. All the surfaces are slick, from the brick walls to the metal lampposts. Puddles stretch over the sidewalk, almost touching. I pick my way through them. My feet are already aching. The last thing I need is a shoe full of freezing water.

I’m so focused on the ground that I almost don’t see anyone there.

A shadow detaches from the wall.

I only have time to gasp and clutch the duffel bag to my body like a shield. Then a hand is on my arm, tugging me in, dragging me into the alley.

My shout is muffled by the hand that is over my mouth.

I’m pressed with my back to the cool brick, a hard body in front of me, unmovable—trapped. It’s pitch-black in the alley, with only our harsh breaths mingling, communicating before we’ve said a word.

His head lowers. I can’t even see the shadow, the shape of it. I can only feel him coming closer.

Warm lips press against my temple. It feels almost chaste, except that he’s holding me up against a wall, pressing his whole body into me, thick and hard against my hip.

I shiver.

“Easy,” a low voice says in the darkness.

Kip.
Relief fills me even though it shouldn’t. I can’t trust him. He’s speaking to me like I’m an animal, a horse he has to gentle so I don’t rear up.

And maybe that’s all I am, because my instinct is to fight.

He removes his hand from my mouth, and I hiss, “What are you doing?”

I hate that my voice comes out wobbly.

“Waiting for you.”

That’s what I was afraid of. But if he wants to hurt me, he’ll have to try harder than that. I’ll make him fight for it.
The killing game.
I don’t even know what that means. I just know I can’t trust him. “Get away from me.”

I don’t expect him to listen—but he does. He steps back. Just enough that the streetlamp outlines his height, his shoulders. I still can’t see his expression. He is only a shadow, a deep voice. Only a question. “Who were you afraid of?”

You.
“Men who drag me into alleyways.”

“I’m not going to hurt you. Only talk.”

“Is that why you kissed me?”

“That wasn’t intentional. You smelled so fucking good.”

“I smell like I’ve been dancing onstage for hours. Which I have been.”

He leans close, breathing in at my temple. Inhaling me. “So fucking good.”

That shouldn’t be a compliment, not when he’s acting like a caveman, but God, that makes it better. More primal. More real. “Right, well, I’m a stripper in a shitty neighborhood. It can give a girl a complex.”

He glances to the street like he’s never seen it before. “Get attacked often, do you?”

“Not often. I’m careful.” Except for not seeing him at all. He’s like a lion hiding in the tall grass. Only in this case they’re tall buildings of steel and concrete. By the time the gazelle sees him, it’s too late.

“Then why do you work here?” he asks.

I roll my eyes. “Let’s not do this.”

“Do what?” He looks so damn innocent, his eyes a touch too wide. He knows exactly what I’m talking about.

“The rescue game.”

“The rescue game,” he repeats.

“You know, where you ask about my problem as if you care.”

“I do actually care, though.” His lips curve. “A little.”

That makes me snort. “And then you offer to help me out. You can spot me a hundred for my light bill. Or hey, here’s an even better idea: I can go live with you rent-free. All I have to do is fuck you every night.”

“Ouch.”

“And then leave when you get tired of me.”

He is silent a moment. “Wow, you really think I’m a bastard.”

Something in my chest twists. I could have just let him say his piece. It probably would have been the same shit that every stripper has heard before, but I didn’t give him much of a chance, did I? “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

“No, I mean, you’re right.”

“Really?” It doesn’t surprise me that I’m right. It surprises me that he’ll admit it.

“I am a bastard,” he says. “Bastard enough to charge you your share of rent, that’s for sure. And we’re trading off on doing the dishes.”

A smile tugs at my lips. “Too soon?”

“A little. I could spot you a twenty. We’ll work up from there.”

I roll my eyes. “Okay, so maybe I jumped to conclusions.”

He stops, dead serious. “No, you’re right to call me on my bullshit. Even if that wasn’t exactly what I want from you.”

“So what is it that you want from me?”

He is quiet. “To walk you home. Can I? Tomorrow.”

It’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever been asked. Like holding my hand, like a kiss on the cheek. I’m lonely enough that it seems impossible, and I stare disbelieving at the oasis. Maybe a part of me liked it dry. “And today?”

“Today…” He slides a hand down my hip, hitching me up between the wall and his body. “Today we can play a game.”

“Not the rescue game,” I whisper.

He runs his tongue down my neck while his hand reaches under me, lifting me higher, until my feet are off the ground. “Don’t count on me to rescue you, Honey. I’d only disappoint.”

But he won’t disappoint me in this. That’s the unspoken promise as his fingers find my pussy and rub through my yoga pants—hard and fast. My moan is caught in his mouth, his lips flush against mine, his tongue seeking and rough.

“What’s the game then?” I ask, shuddering as he nips my shoulder.

“The game is whoever comes first…loses.”

My laugh turns into a gasp as the rigid length of him presses flush against my clit, our clothes made of air and whimsy—nothing at all. We rock this way, in time to that ancient rhythm, feeling the beat of our hearts and our sex. There’s a beat coming from the other side of the wall, the music of someone onstage, the sound of someone’s defilement, and we use it, make it our own, writhing against each other until we reach a fever pitch.

Then abruptly, I’m back on the ground.

I would fall except for his hands steadying me, turning me around.

I’m facing the wall now, almost hugging it, face and breasts against brick. And my ass exposed as he yanks down my pants, pushing them to my knees. Coarse hands position my hips, pushing me out further so he can see… so he can penetrate.

There’s a rip. And a tear. And a blunt nudge at my sex.

I’ve fucked his fingers and his boot. But this is the first time he’s put his cock in me. It’s fitting that I’m not looking at him. Both cold and hot as I press against the cool, gritty surface and get invaded from behind.

He’s so thick, and I whimper. “Almost there,” he mutters.

But if I thought he’d take mercy, go slower, I’d be wrong. He presses all the way deep, tilting my pelvis to take him all the way inside. My mouth opens on a silent gasp. I’m too full like this. Too full of his cock. Too full of memories.

This is how Byron fucked me, from behind.

But it’s completely different too. Completely hot. Completely amazing as he fills me, again and again. As his hand reaches around to play with my clit. Casually, as if we have all the time in the world. There’s no rush, even with us out in the open.

He can fuck me forever—and he does, sliding into me until I’m slick and swollen, until my clit is plump and needy against his fingers, begging for relief.

My moan has all my pent up need. To be held and fucked. To be wanted.