“It’s Maisie.” My mother.
I use my foot to push the chair away from the door and unlock the dead bolt. A girl can’t be too careful, especially when there are mobster types who think I have their money.
Maisie holds up a white paper bag gone translucent with grease. “I brought breakfast.”
I step back to let her inside, my stomach growling, my whole body tight with hunger. It doesn’t want whatever dollar taco is in that bag. It wants gnocchi and garlic bread. It wants West.
She slides two hot dogs in cardboard containers onto the counter, the meat shiny and brown. “Voila.”
I make a face. “Are those from yesterday?”
“Don’t get picky,” she says, sliding one over to me and taking the other for herself. “We have bigger problems to worry about.”
Dread sinks in my empty stomach. “Jeb?”
I’ve called my parents Maisie and Jeb for as long as I can remember. They’re more like an aunt and uncle who sweep in on a whirlwind with greasy food and cheap presents—and then leave when they’re ready to go back to their own lives. We’ve spent more Christmases apart than together. I’m eighteen now, so the state thinks I’m old enough to take care of myself. The truth is I’ve been doing that since I turned twelve.
Maisie looks down, but not before a rare flash of emotion crosses her petite features. “They took him.”
I stand up, shoving the stale hot dog away. “You said we had until next week.”
Her face is pale, matching the white-blonde hair I inherited from her. “They moved up the timetable.”
“Christ.” I run my hands over my face, trying to wipe away the exhaustion. It takes a long time to set up a con this big. Next week was already pushing it. “Why didn’t you tell me about this mess sooner? Maybe we could have worked out a payment plan or, hell, I don’t know.”
She hesitates. “We didn’t want to scare you.”
“You didn’t want to scare me,” I repeat dully. I’d told them I wanted to go straight. I’d
told
them I’d never steal from the Grand, when they’d first suggested it months ago. Then they’d showed up last week, cowed and terrified—and I’d had to help. “You need me to steal fifty thousand dollars from my dangerous, violent boss or Jeb’s fingers will get cut off. I think we’re past being scared.”
She bites her lip, giving me the pouty look that has gotten her out of so many tight spots. Well, that and her body. Jeb and Maisie are both good-looking, and they don’t consider anything done in pursuit of a con to be cheating. “We knew you’d get mad,” she said, her eyes going wide.
I hate that I look so much like her. I used that same look on the customers at the Grand to milk them out of their money. It’s nothing like what she does, though. They gave me their money fair and square. Maisie only ever lies and steals.
“Who took him, Maisie?” I know they owe money to
someone,
but not who. “You need to tell me.”
They’ve been cagey about the whole thing. Of course, that’s standard operating procedure for Jeb and Maisie. Still, I didn’t expected Jeb to be abducted over this—and not so fast.
We should have had more time.
She sighs, her eyes falling shut. “The Caivano family.”
“The mob? You stole money from the goddamn mafia?” God, no wonder Maisie and Jeb are terrified. The Caivano family isn’t likely to work out a payment plan.
Her voice takes on a whining quality. “I knew you’d get angry.”
“Oh no. Don’t try to turn this around. You stole fifty thousand dollars from the mafia. And they aren’t just going to cut off a finger, are they?”
The fear in her eyes proves my point. “They have him, Bee.”
“They’re going to kill him. And then they’re going to kill you. And then they’re going to kill me for being related to you, along with anyone else you’ve ever spoken to or known.”
She shivers, and at least now I know she understands the situation. She understood it before she knocked on my door. She understood it when she stole these day-old hot dogs, but hell. This is all she knows how to do. Smile and pout and wheedle her way to getting what she wants.
Trade up.
That’s what she used to tell me. Other parents taught their kids to tell the truth, to be nice. Maisie taught me that the only thing that matters is trading up, even if you piss off some of the most dangerous men in the city.
Even if it means betraying people who trust me.
Her hands turn palm up, helpless. “Now you understand why we needed you to do the job.”
The job. Bitterness is sharp on my tongue. This job that will cost me my job. More than that, it will cost me people I’d begun to think of as friends.
It will cost me West.
“I told you I’ll do it.”
“We have to do it now.”
She says
we,
but of course she means that I have to do it now. Not her. “When then?”
“The night after tomorrow.”
An incredulous laugh bursts out of me. “Christmas Eve?”
I’m not sure why I thought that would be sacred to her when nothing else is.
She looks earnest. “The club will be closed. We have to do it soon.”
I shake my head, frustrated. “It’s
too
soon. We aren’t even sure we can get into the security system. We haven’t worked out all the kinks and—”
“We don’t have a choice.” She takes my hand, her blue eyes startling in their honesty. I’ve never seen her this focused on me before, not in eighteen years as her daughter. She’s the flighty one, while I had to negotiate with the landlord for an extension on our rent. Now she looks dead serious—and worried. “They said they’ll kill him if we don’t bring the money soon. They…they sent me this.”
She pulls something from her pocket and sets it on the counter. I’ve seen that plain silver band before.
They once hocked my bike with the ribbons in the handles. They’ve gone for days without food. They’ve traded their last dime for a security code to use on the next score. They give up anything and everything in pursuit of the game, but I’ve never seen Jeb not wearing this ring.
Now it’s on my cracked kitchen counter, tarnished and coated in dried blood.
My throat tightens at the threat contained in that small band of silver. It tightens further at the thought of stealing from Candy and Ivan. Candy, because I’d started to respect her, even like her. And Ivan, because everyone in the city knows well enough to fear him. Stealing from him is as bad as stealing from the Caivanos.
The only difference is that I won’t get caught. I can’t get caught.
T
he sound of
laughter draws me into the dressing room. It’s a foreign sound, but I can’t help but smile along with them. The girls have gathered their chairs and stools in a circle around Amelie. Her tummy is just starting to show, and she stops dancing next week. She holds up a little onesie with a mustache on it that says,
Mommy’s Little Man.
The group gives a chorus of
oohs
and
ahhs
.
There’s a table set up near the door with gifts and a diaper pail for cash. I’ve been to a few of these baby showers in the time I’ve been working here. The tradition is to give both money—to help out the new mother—as well as something cute to open during the shower. Normally I would throw in a hundred bucks or more. I’m not even close to these girls, but babies are crazy expensive and I like the idea of pitching in. In some ways it’s as close to a family as I’ve ever gotten.
Only, I don’t have a hundred bucks.
Maisie took most of my last paycheck. She said she’d use it as a payment toward the debt—a gesture of good faith so they’d give us more time, though obviously that didn’t work.
And West took the money from the wallet. Or hell, maybe he left it lying on the ground.
No, most likely he returned it to the rightful owner, along with the wallet. Bastard.
So I’m flat broke. I press my last five-dollar bill between my fingers, feeling my stomach turn over. Without glancing around, I toss the money inside the diaper pail. It’s shameful, and not only because I’m contributing so little money. It’s shameful because I know I’m going to do worse tomorrow night. I’m going to steal from this place. I’m going to betray their trust.
“Bianca!”
I jump at the sound of my name. It feels like everyone stops and turns to face me.
Amelie smiles and waves me toward her. “Don’t put that on the table. I want to see.”
Dumbly, I look down at the small package I’m holding. At least I could make this from the supplies in my apartment. I’m not sure I could have made myself show up empty-handed. “It’s nothing,” I manage to say. God, I wish no one was looking at me. “Just something I made.”
“You made this?” Amelie looks excited, and I curse myself in my head. Why did I say that? I meant that it’s small and probably not even pretty.
I try to back away while she rips into the tissue paper, but I’m trapped by people and baby clothes all around, forced to stand in the middle of the pile while my lame offering is exposed.
Amelie squeals as she pulls out the knitted hat—brown with little teddy bear ears. Cute, but it’s not like it was my idea or anything. I saw it once on a kid in a fancy stroller that looked like it belonged in the space age. That hat probably came from some ritzy store that I couldn’t afford. This hat I made myself. I enjoy knitting. It’s something to do with my hands when my body is too sore and tired to move.
“This is
the
most adorable thing I’ve ever seen,” Amelie says, sounding awed.
“It’s amazing,” Candy agrees. “I didn’t know you could knit. You’re so talented.”
It makes me blush and stammer that their praise seems genuine. I’m not used to that. I’m not used to doing anything right, actually. I prefer to stay in the edges, in the shadows, so that my inevitable fuckups don’t get witnessed by anyone else.
Everyone is witnessing this, though. The hat is getting passed around, with each person exclaiming over it and rubbing the yarn between their fingers.
“Do you take commissions?” Vivian asks. “I would
love
a scarf in this fabric.”
I’m not sure what I even answer. Something that sounds like yes but really means no. The truth is I’m not even going to be around long enough to make anything. Once I do the job tomorrow, I’ll have to run. That fact feels like acid on my skin. I would have loved to skip work today, but I couldn’t risk raising suspicion.
Then Amelie is standing, and before I can back away, she has her arms around me. It feels sweet—and painful, because I don’t deserve her gratitude. I don’t even deserve to be here.
I manage to extricate myself without causing a scene, and they’re already moving on to some game involving baby bottles.
My stomach feels like it’s going to claw its way out of my throat. Hunger? Okay, sure, but I already tossed my last five dollars into a diaper pail. Besides, as starving as I am, I’m not sure I could keep anything down.
I press my hand over my mouth and stumble out of the dressing room. I’m not even sure where I’ll go since the Grand opens in an hour, but I have to get out of here.
My eyes are on the floor, head down—so I don’t see the wall of masculinity in front of me until I slam into it. I know without looking that it’s him. West.
And God, it’s almost like I want to be caught by him. Like I want to be
seen
by him, because before I can remember to hide my eyes, I’m looking up. He can see the tears in my eyes.
Concern darkens his expression. “What’s wrong?”
I can’t even answer him. I can’t speak. I brush past him—he lets me. The dank outside air feels like freedom, but I know it won’t last for long. I’ll have to go back to dance, and he’ll be there. He’ll be waiting.
I
like dancing
because of how honest it is. Trading sex for money has been around for centuries. Since the beginning of time, really. Cavewomen who bared their breasts, their bodies would have learned how to trade that for food and protection and warmth. The practice is still around today, part of every relationship—the endless transaction of pleasure and survival.
Stripping just brings it out in the open, makes the equation a little simpler for everyone to understand. This much for a lap dance and that much for a private show. It’s the opposite of a con because everyone knows what they’re going to get.
And that’s how I dance—sexual but also straightforward. Some people have called me emotionless. The ice queen. Oh, they’re probably right, but it doesn’t hurt my tips any.
Then Ivan gave the Grand to Candy, and she switched the place over to a burlesque theater. A little more flash, a little less flesh. The biggest difference is that I’m usually dancing with other girls. I have to admit, it’s kind of nice. There’s an energy to the group of us, a collective strength.
Then the song ends, and I’m alone again.
Up there I felt nothing but the burn of muscle and beat of music. Now I feel nothing but dread.
I trail the other girls down the hallway with track lighting on the floor.
A large body steps in front of me. My heart skips in fear before I recognize him.
West.
I’m not afraid of him, not in the way I am of most men. At least I know what they want from me, even if I have to worry that they might take it by force. West is looking for something different, and that scares me in a different way.
His eyes are dark with concern. “Is something wrong?”
I force myself to give him a cool smile. “Why would you think that?”
“Maybe because you’re going to make yourself bleed.”
My gaze flicks down, and I realize my fists are clenched tight, nails pressing into my palms. I open my hands, and white crescents remain in my flesh, bloodless and pained. So I haven’t hidden my tension as much as I’d hoped.
That’s dangerous. Dangerous because when they discover the club has been robbed, West will remember that I was nervous.
He’ll know it was me.
I give him a sultry smile. “Nothing is wrong now that you’re here.”
He narrows his eyes, not fooled for an instant. He tugs my hand, and then we’re in the dark hallway behind the stage, hidden from view, even from each other. The music moves through us, some familiar Christmas tune, more feeling than sound. “You missed your last shift,” he says.