“The contract,” I moaned.
Sighing, Hector released me. My chin dropped heavily to the ground. “Did you even read that thing? All it did was give ownership of your stuff to Callum. Fuck, I wonder if you can even read.”
Callum, is that Mister Big’s real name? The ruse was obvious now. I hadn’t known who I was dealing with. Smoke and mirrors, that was all this was. But the danger wasn’t an illusion. I tried to draw in air—my ribs crunched like rusty pipes. “Not… not fair. It’s not fair.”
“Welcome to the world, kid.” Hector drove one more kick into my kidney. I screamed, my throat full of blood and rage. “Wanna finish him off?”
“Nah,” Tino said. “Look at him. He’s got broken ribs, probably a punctured lung. He won’t last the night. Let him die in the alley.”
My eyes were shut… or perhaps I was already dead. I saw only blackness, heard nothing. The pain was still there but I was numb, as if the injuries had happened to another person. In another life.
They were right, I thought bitterly. I’m so stupid. I was a reckless fool who didn’t deserve a break. There would be no second chances for me. I’d lost everything.
Hope had never been more than a dream.
“Hello?”
A flutter moved through me at the sound of that sweet voice. It caused my pain to brighten; I coughed, shaking with each tiny movement. Living was worse than death.
“Oh god! What happened to you?” She touched my hair; rolled me gently, so that I was looking upwards at the empty sky above. I knew there’d be stars, but I saw none of them. How could a whole galaxy compare to the face of an angel?
She still wore her sequin dress, but a thick, black coat was hiding most of it. Once more she cupped my cheek, her hand bringing me warmth. “I’m calling an ambulance,” she said, never once looking away. “Stay with me. Okay? Are you listening? Help is coming!”
She’d saved me, but she’d done so much more.
This wonderful woman… this graceful angel…
She’d given me a second chance.
I was going to use it.
Chapter Two
Harper
“Climb! Climb! Climb!”
Seven years ago, I’d used these hands to stroke the keys of a piano. Back then they’d been graceful, part of me, a tool that enhanced my songs. These days I still performed on a stage. But now my hands were strong from climbing a metal pole; they were pretty with pink nails and glitter.
It’s funny how our lives can change in an instant.
“Climb, bitch!” a man shouted. His words were blunt, but bravado had lost its effect on me. Men showing off for their friends isn’t personal. No, it’s only when you’re alone with them that you learn what they really think. In a private booth, they spill their guts… the most perverted thoughts swimming in the corners of their minds.
People laugh and say that strippers are therapists to their customers.
That’s wrong.
To these men… we’re less than human.
Being insulted in public is cake next to that fun fact. I could hear “bitch” a million times and still fake a smile. Hoisting myself up the pole, I twisted my body, making the bikini shimmer with my movements. Not every girl in the Golden Goose could pull herself all the way to the top balcony. I could, and the muscle burn was one of the few exquisite things left in my life.
On the top row of private booths, a group of men in midnight suits watched me. Only one of them truly watched me, though. Mister Big had spent years staring at my body. I was sure he hoped he could see into my soul and scoop up my heart if he stared hard enough.
He was wrong. He’d always be wrong.
Reaching the tip of the stripper pole, I bent backwards, thighs crushing the metal while I did a slow spin. Money rained down; my boss’s associates cheered, the balcony only an arm’s length away. For a second, Mister Big met my eyes. I so badly wanted to spit in his face.
Instead, I dropped like a stone.
People squealed and screamed—I caught myself before my body smashed into the stage. As a torrent of cash flitted through the air, I twisted on my ankle-breaking heels, doing a little hip-wiggle.
No matter how my life had changed, I’d always been one hell of a performer.
There were whistles and claps. Scooping up my money, I noticed someone watching me. Well, lots of people were watching me, but this man was hovering by the short steps that led off the stage. His face was a scraggly mess of beard; his hairline receded into nothingness.
But what concerned me was how he kept fidgeting. He’d glance at me, then away, his hands in his pockets—out of his pants and clenching—then in again as he swayed. This was more than nerves; I wondered if he’d taken some kind of drug.
Deciding to avoid him asking me for a private dance, I scooted to the other end of the stage and hopped off it. “Excuse me, boys,” I said, weaving through the crowd.
I could afford to avoid him. I didn’t work here because I needed the money; I did it because it was the only way Callum would allow me to see my little sister.
I’d do anything for her.
*
The parking lot was silent. I was the last to leave, I usually was. Some of the girls had a habit of drinking too much. I’d taken it upon myself to call rides for them; I wasn’t about to let anyone drive drunk.
My old but faithful green Ford Taurus was waiting for me in the lot. I’d had it for years—when Callum tried to buy me something nicer, I always turned him down. This car had life in it. It was an heirloom, one of the last pieces of my mother that I could still touch.
Sometimes, if I shut my eyes and tried hard enough, I could still smell her sandalwood perfume on the seats.
Shouldering my purse, I hummed under my breath. It was a bad habit—one that came out whenever my mother entered my mind. I promised myself I’d never sing for anyone ever again, especially not Mister Big, but humming didn’t count. No one cared if you could hum nicely.
I was reaching for my keys when the hand closed on my wrist. “Hey hun, where you off to?”
It was the man from earlier—the one who’d eyeballed me from the stage. His sour breath poured over me, his grip tightened as I retreated. “Nowhere with you. Let go. Now.”
His scowl showed me how uneven his bottom teeth were; little rotten gravestones in a cemetery assaulted by a tornado. “Come on, sweetie-cakes. I jus’ wanted to get your number. Maybe a drink or two. Wanted a dance, but you kept running off in there.”
“That’s because I was politely avoiding you.” I yanked hard, and when he held tight, I shoved forward, trying to throw him off balance.
“Bitch!” he snarled, stumbling—and for a second I was free. Like a manic bird of prey, he snatched at my purse, grappling until he had his arms around my waist.
“Let go of me!” My lungs burned with the crisp night air. I inhaled deeper; screamed harder. “Let go you piece of shit!”