*
He doesn’t walk me home. I guess that would be too sweet, some twisted version of wholesome. We could have held hands as if we were coming back from a date instead of leaving a strip club. I would have pretended the Grand was still a theater and that my whole life was just a show, something I could leave behind at the end of the night.
That was just a fantasy. In reality he led me to his beat-up truck and pushed me inside.
“Which way?” he asked as he turned out of the parking lot.
“Toward the freeway.”
A mechanical click from the door makes me jump. The locks. Right.
The Grand isn’t that safe, but near the freeway, where I live, is closer to a war zone. I don’t have much of a choice. It isn’t even my house. Stripping pays for the electric bill and keeps the fridge stocked, but I can’t move. Not yet.
He drives with a cool efficiency I envy. I’ve never driven a car. I don’t even have a license. Driving lessons aren’t exactly a priority when you’re living on the streets. But Blue knew how to drive when I first met him. He’d told me about the way he used to race the cars owned by his previous foster dad before he got kicked out.
There’s a new alertness to him now, a competency born of experience. He’s been to the military, driven through a real war zone, and I imagine he looked just like he does now, focused and calm.
“Why’d you come back to Tanglewood?” I ask softly. The alcohol has worn off, along with the laughing, blustery high I’d been on. Now I’m just thoughtful and curious—and uninhibited enough to act on it.
“Where else would I go?” His voice is bland, as if he doesn’t care where he ends up.
“And the Grand? Why work there?” I don’t know why I’m pushing him. It’s like pressing on a bruise. I know it’s going to hurt, but I can’t help myself. As sick as it is, I crave the pain.
And at least if he tells me why he’s here, at least if he pushes back and holds me down—that will be honest. It’s worth a lot to me, honesty. After a life of lies, it’s worth everything.
He grunts, and I think that’s all I’ll get, a caveman answer. A refusal. After a beat, he adds, “The pay is good.”
That makes me smile. “Yeah, it fucking is.”
His glance is dark, expression intent. “So that’s why you do it?”
My defenses go up fast and hard. “Do what? Fuck men for money?”
“You don’t fuck them.”
I hate how sure he sounds. I hate how right he is. “How would you fucking know what happens in the VIP rooms?”
“Because I watch you.”
I cross my arms to hide my shiver. We go under the big freeway bridge, the wide shadows smoothing over us like we’re underwater. “Take a right at the next light.”
He nods and keeps driving. I watch his profile in the moonlight, how hard it is, how fierce. I imagine him on a mission like that, heading off to kill someone. I wonder if he’s killed a person. No, I know he has. I just wonder how many. Maybe he’s on a mission right now. Maybe he’s planning on taking me down. Not by killing me. That would be too easy. He’s going to make me suffer.
Candy thinks I’m wrong. She thinks I’m overstating how much he hates me, that he doesn’t want to hurt me at all. Some days I want to believe her. He just wants to fuck you, she says, and some days—God, some days—I think I wouldn’t mind that at all.
But then I see those big hands grip the steering wheel, relaxed and powerful. I see his forearms flex. I see the memories in his eyes when he looks at me. And I think he can’t possibly forgive me. Not when I can’t forgive myself.
I point in silence at the remaining turns, one after another, rats in a maze.
He pulls into the driveway, so cracked down the middle we dip and roll in the seat. Before I can get out or even reach for the door, he has the engine turned off. Then he’s stepping out of the truck.
“No,” I say. “You don’t have to…”
It doesn’t matter. He can’t even hear me until he opens the door beside me. By then I’m too shocked to speak. No one has ever opened the door for me. It feels like some kind of extravagant gesture, one that can’t possibly be real. And definitely not sincere. It’s like he’s mocking me with it, making me see how it would be if we were actually dating, if he actually liked me, if I actually deserved for him to.
I step out of the truck quickly, stumbling in hurry and shame, still drunk but mostly sad.
I don’t wait for him to say anything. I just walk quickly to the door. His footsteps follow me. His heat follows me. Even his musky scent follows me, and I duck my head as if that will help me escape him. The door is blocking my path. To get through I’ll have to dig through my purse and find the key.
I’ll have to face him.