It takes another ten minutes to convince her to go to bed without it. Another ten minutes where the responsibility I feel toward her—the fear that I’ll fail her—sits like an anvil on my shoulders. When I have her tucked in for a nap, the curtains drawn tight, I find my way back to the kitchen.
It still smells awful, like something died in here. I don’t know how water and metal can burn like that, like flesh. I pull out the plug and shove the wire underneath the stove so at least it’s hidden.
Something glints at me from the kitchen counter.
A watch.
I reach for it, then pull back. No, it can’t be.
It’s definitely not mine. And I know it’s not Blue’s either. He wears a sleek black digital watch. This one is gold and garish. Cheap but trying to look expensive. I don’t know whose it is or how it got on the counter. Unless…
Unless I stole it. Unless it belongs to Travis.
Oh God, I’m so, so fucked.
I sit on the floor in the dark and cry until I’m as dry and as done as the pot of water.
Chapter Seventeen
I swipe foundation over my cheek.
The swath of beige is stark against the bluish color of my skin. There’s really no hope of covering up the bruise. Even if I could change the color, I can’t hide the swelling of my eye. Or the limp when I walk.
I shouldn’t even have come to the Grand tonight, but I needed to leave the house. I needed to get the watch away from there so I can figure out what to do with it. I’ve told Mrs. Owens to stay inside no matter what she hears. She knows to lock the doors. That won’t hold him off forever. Eventually he’ll come back looking for it. Looking for me.
The watch is nestled among my perfume and makeup. I can’t bear to touch it. I hate that it’s even touching my things. Infecting me. I can’t throw it away, but I can’t give it back. I’m trapped with it.
I stare at the bruises under the harsh theater lighting around my mirror. It’s a lot worse than it looked in the dim bathroom at home. Worse than my reflection in shop windows as I walked here tonight. I look damaged. Broken.
“I have to go?” I say to no one. It doesn’t matter. I have nowhere to go.
Candy approaches from behind. She sits at her station beside me and begins applying hot-pink liner. She doesn’t stare at my bruises even though they’re obvious. She doesn’t act surprised, because she’s not.
“Did Blue do that?” she asks, still running the pencil tip along her eyelid.
“No.” Whatever happens, it’s important that people know Blue didn’t do this. I couldn’t lie about that again, not even to protect him.
“Then who?”
“Who else?” I say, bitterness creeping into my voice. A client. She’ll understand. But even if it weren’t a paying client, it would be the same. Another man, another fist.
They’re all the same except Blue.
“You can’t dance like that,” she says.
I shut my eyes and squeeze, ignoring the shot of pain. “I know.”
“You’ll have to talk to Ivan. Explain why.”
“I think the why is obvious,” I say drily, staring at my messed-up reflection. I look like a public service announcement.
“He’s going to want more information than that.”
I make a face, frustration and a little bit of fear. “He doesn’t want information. He wants me to beg.”
Candy smiles faintly. “I’m sure you can do it pretty for him. He’ll like that.”
Sure, she’s not afraid of him. She’s the only one in the goddamn city who isn’t. He’s always been fair enough to me, but I’m also careful not to cross him. I keep my head down, my tips high, and don’t cause trouble. At least until Blue showed up.
As if I’ve summoned him, he appears in my mirror, his expression severe. “Lola.”
“Bye,” Candy says, hopping off her stool with a little wave.
My eyes narrow. “Did you call him?”
She blows me a kiss. “Thank me later.”
I will definitely not be thanking her for this, but I can’t focus on her now. She’s flouncing out the door, and Blue is advancing on me like a shark scenting blood. His dark gaze takes me in from the failed makeup job to my bare feet. I’m still in street clothes—jeans and a tank top—but it feels like I’m wearing nothing the way he takes me in, like he can see every mark and ache underneath.
“Who did this to you?” he growls.
I don’t know what to tell him. All I know is that I can’t tell him the truth. I catch myself eyeing the gold watch on the vanity and force myself to look at the ground. “It’s none of your business.”
Wrong answer.
He backs me up until I’m flush against my vanity. Lip gloss and eyeshadow tumble to the concrete floor. The bulbs around the mirror illuminate his face with harsh light and stark shadows. He looks menacing—not a man to be crossed.
He’s rough and hard, but when he puts his hand on me, he’s gentle. His finger traces the bruise on my cheek, careful not to touch where I’m swollen and purple. He trails down my neck and runs his forefinger along my collarbone. When he gets to my shoulder, where my shirt covers my skin, I let out a small whimper.