I quickly change into my server’s uniform as the other girls take their time fixing their hair and makeup while swapping out costumes. I’m out on the floor in minutes with a smile on my face, ready to charm the big tippers and hopefully make enough cash to pay off my credit card bill. Momma always said there was no rest for the wicked; I guess she forgot to mention that it’s also true for the damned.
The next three weeks play out similar to the last. When I’m not dancing or serving at the club, I’m rehearsing, or if our schedules align, meeting up with Cole. He’s been true to his word, not pushing for anything that I’m uncomfortable relinquishing. It’s easy, but more than that—it’s fun. He makes me forget the mess I’m in. We’ve done nothing more than kiss and although I want to take it further—God, sometimes I think he or I or both might die if we don’t—the timing doesn’t feel right, and something always seems to get in the way. Shifts that need covering, a meeting he has to attend, or my rehearsals bumped up or pushed back. Callum has started paying me weekly, and with the tips I bring in from serving I’ve managed to pay off my credit cards and a few of my smaller bills. The rest of my money is being stockpiled in my sock drawer, ready to hand over to Mr. Carter in a little under three weeks’ time.
I’ve managed to pull together a little over $2000 since starting at the club. I’ve worked my ass off serving and dancing but it’s not enough, and I don’t have the time nor energy to take on a third job. I’m not helping with Cal’s expenses, as it is; I’m eating his food, using his apartment, and I feel like the world’s biggest mooch. He insists that it’s fine and says he feels better knowing that I’m safe, but I’m not his to look after. I shouldn’t be here, and yet I still am. Things have lightened between us; the tension’s somehow lifted, and he doesn’t leave a room two minutes after I enter it. He overheard Annie asking about Cole, only she doesn’t call him that, she refers to him as Mr. Bigshot, so now Cal teases me if I have plans to go meet him, calling him Daddy Warbucks on account of the fact that Annie mentioned he worked in the city and was older than me. It doesn’t matter that it’s only by a few years; the teasing continues, and the more I protest, the more he does it.
Cal and I have fallen into a routine of waiting up for each other, giving an account of the highlights and lows of the day, then making a cup of cocoa with the music turned low before heading to bed. It’s a strange relationship to have with your employer, but I think we moved past that the night he came to my rescue. Cal’s a good guy and more than that, he’s a friend. Our easy banter and late night drinks are fast becoming my highlights. Lauren and the other girls often talk about him as a raging lothario, the eternal bachelor that doesn’t want anything more than a few drinks and a quick hard screw. When they talk about him like that, I have a hard time picturing it. He’s a tiny bit flirty and suggestive if he’s been drinking, but I’ve yet to see him with a woman. He’s professional with all the girls that work here, and he never mentions ones he sees outside of work. We seem to stray naturally away from that part of our life in our midnight conversations.
Annie told me that he screwed around on account of his long-term girlfriend getting pregnant with another man’s child while they were still together. I don’t want to ask him to confirm or deny it, but damn would I like him to open up a little more. He’s a conundrum to me. He’s all hard, masculine features, but as soft as a teddy bear if you catch him in the right mood. That’s one thing I’ve pegged pretty well; he wasn’t joking when he told me that his moods were reflected in the music he plays. The apartment is rarely ever silent; he always has something playing in the background, even if it’s turned down to barely a whisper. It’s still there, an almost perfect indicator of whether or not his nightly confessions are going to be filled with highlights or low points. In the time I’ve been staying here, I’ve only heard one Nine Inch Nails track being played, and I did what he’d requested. I stayed out of his way and skipped our run-down that evening.
I have pretty a big low to tell him about tonight, one that has my blood boiling and my stomach aching. I feel completely blindsided, pissed off and downbeat, and he’s the only person I want to talk to about it. I could call Cole, but I haven’t told him about this part of my life, and I’m not sure that I’m ready to yet, or even if I want to at all. He’s my respite from reality, and as unrealistic and deluded as I may be for thinking that I can keep my worlds separate, I intend to try.
THERE’S LITTLE IN this life that can disarm me the way a woman crying can, especially one I care about. I throw my leg over my bike, kickstart the ignition and push my phone into my back pocket, peeling away from the curb as my tires squeal and the wind stings my eyes. I don’t care that I’m driving twice the speed limit, or that I run a red light and narrowly avoid slamming into a truck as I fly over a crossroad, not giving way. Her message was laced with pained hiccupping sobs. She said she was at her apartment and that she needed me; that was enough for my heart to sink and my nerves to fray as I battled through traffic to get to her as soon as possible.
I pull up outside her building and run straight for the door, catching it as a pizza delivery guy exits. I race up the stairwell, taking them three at a time and burst through the small hallway and skid to a stop outside Tweet’s door. I don’t knock. Instead I try the handle but it’s locked, and panic swells like a raging tide in my chest. I begin shoulder barging into it, my adrenaline spiking with the memory of what I found the last time I turned up in the evening. I stand back ready to kick it down as Tweet slowly opens it. She peeks at me from behind the chain before removing it and opening the door fully for me.
Relief floods through me as I see her standing here in front of me and she doesn’t look to be roughed up. There’s no sign of blood, no bruises, no indicator that she’s in any type of physical pain. My pulse is ringing loudly in my ears, and I want to sink onto my haunches and thank God that she’s okay. But the icy thought of what might have happened that wouldn’t leave external marks flitters across my mind and the panic is back with full force.
“What happened? What’s wrong?” I ask in a hurried breath, pulling her by the wrists and crushing her against my chest. I squeeze her tight, trying to convince my body to calm down. I have her, she’s here, she’s okay. I lift her chin and move my head back so that I can see her face, noticing the redness of her eyes and the faint stain of tears across her cheeks.
“I-I came back to check my mail and make sure that Mrs. Heckles was okay,” she tells me as I walk her backward into the apartment. Listening to her voice crack breaks something deep within me.
“There was something off, I knew it the second I walked in. I got chills and noticed that my bedroom door was wide open. I always close all the doors when I leave, and shut off the lights. They were on too, and I panicked, thinking that someone was in here.” Her shoulders are jerking with the effort she’s making to keep her voice steady, and my fists clench as adrenaline floods my veins.
“I went to the kitchen and grabbed a knife. I didn’t know what I was going to find and I wanted some form of protection…I can’t cut through a cantaloupe, let alone an intruder, but I thought it might scare them away. I crept through to my room, calling out to see if anyone answered and that’s when I saw it.” Her voice gives way to the sobs, and she breaks down crying hard against my chest. I move her to the sofa and run towards the bedroom, not knowing what I’m looking for, but as I throw the door open I know it definitely wasn’t this.