“Sure thing.” He hands a plain manila folder to me and I let it stay on my desk, thinking.
“What do we have on her?” I ask, opening the folder and moving my fingers over the glossy 5 by 7 picture stapled to the application. It’s a blonde with medium-length hair which is cut to curl toward her face and accent her strong cheekbones. Her eyes are violet. I never knew they made eyes that color. I have all my dancers photographed in nothing but their underwear, and she’s definitely got the body to make men beg. I thumb through the rest of it quickly.
“Just what’s in the file, boss. Well, that and obviously her affection for her brother.”
“What did we do with the little fucker?” I ask him. My eyes keep going back to the photo of the blonde.
“He’s at the warehouse. You have him in one of the containers.”
“So, not yet dead?”
“No, but only because Bruno has been out for his kid’s surgery.”
“How is Thomas?”
“It was a success, thanks to your generosity. Bruno says they even said Thomas would be able to walk after some therapy.”
“Good, good. Tell Bruno to hold off. The kid might prove to be useful.”
“What are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking the asshole might yet prove of use to me,” I tell him without expanding. He knows me well enough that he just closes the door, leaving me to my thoughts.
Ana Stevens. The pretty blonde dancer has no idea what trouble she just landed into. I reach down and adjust my cock because the son of a bitch has been rock hard since I laid eyes on Ana’s picture. Why does it suddenly feel like, despite everything, my day is looking up?
I hate everything about this club. Walking through the front doors makes me feel like I’m being locked in a prison. The staring begins immediately. Men following me with their eyes, watching every move I make. I’m not a person; I’m a piece of meat, an image they want to jerk off to, a notch on their bedpost they can brag about.
Does that sound conceited? Maybe. There’s a difference between knowing you appeal to men and feeling beautiful. I feel tired. At twenty-six, I’m so damned exhausted of living, but I ignore it. I don’t have a choice.
“Hey, Ana! Looking good tonight,” Joe, the sometimes-bouncer at The Dive, hollers out. I smile at him, my hand squeezing his big, scarred, beefy shoulder before walking on back to the private area.
I know the way by heart, which is good, because my vision is limited. My eyes are hidden behind my dark sunglasses. It doesn’t matter that I’m inside. I play a role, wrapping myself in a package that makes me a mystery, all designed to make men interested. They see something unobtainable.
In truth, the sunglasses hide the bags under my eyes until I get in the dressing room so Joyce can cover them in makeup. Not being able to sleep is a bitch.
I sit down at the makeup table with a heavy sigh, letting my overnight bag I keep my shit in fall to the floor. Joyce immediately comes over and starts the major tease job she always does on my hair. I hate it. I usually wear my hair simple and straight. Hell, most of the time I tie it in a messy knot and go on. But I make money off of being the Ice Queen who every man wants to melt, so I let Joyce have her way.
“You’re late,” she chastises.
“Been out looking for Allen.”
“Still no luck?”
“None. I’m starting to lose hope, J.”
I hate having this conversation. I like Joyce. She’s been good to me, and talking about this stuff with her seems wrong. When she squeezes my shoulder tight in response, our eyes meet in the makeup mirror. We’re so different, but she’s like the mom I’ve never had. She’s fifty-two but looks to be in her early forties. She has this brown curly hair that she always has styled and teased yet clipped up out of her way. Joyce has these pretty green eyes with flecks of gold in them and they see far more than people give her credit for.
“If you don’t start sleeping, it’s going to affect your show, Ana.”
“I know. I tried.”
“Might have worked if you’d quit crying over that damn brother of yours.”
She’s not wrong. Still, I can’t seem to stop the tears. I lost Allen a year ago in every way that mattered. That doesn’t mean that having him missing is any easier. He’s been gone for over a month now. He’s disappeared before, but never this long.
“He’s my responsibility,” I tell her, the truth of that lodging in my stomach.
“Yeah, but he’s killing you.”
“I can’t help it.”