Love the Way You Lie (Stripped #1) (9 page)

“Come, Honey,” he whispers in my ear. “Come on my cock. I want to feel you gush.”

And I can’t hold back—not my body’s responses, not my tears. I shudder through climax, clamping down hard, feeling wet heat spill over his cock and down my legs. I lose the game, but it doesn’t feel like losing, not with molten pleasure filling my body. Then he’s gripping my hips like steel, digging into the soft flesh, using my body like a torque, thrusting up into me as he climaxes with a growl.

*     *     *

Byron is supposed
to be the dangerous one. My father. Even Ivan. They are like winds that blow me, pushing me onward like I weigh nothing. Even when I dig my heels in, the rock face is slippery with pebbles and I can’t find my balance. I’m afraid of the wind, afraid of its force, but what I didn’t realize is that the greater danger lay ahead of me. Kip is my cliff. Every gust of wind pushes me closer.

It’s only a matter of time before I fall.

Kip is waiting outside when I leave the club. I breathe a sigh of relief. Each time I think I must have scared him away. He doesn’t come inside the club anymore. I envy him that.

“Is this going to become a regular thing with you?” I ask.

The streetlight a few feet away draws more shadows than it hides. His eyes are dark, unfathomable. But the quirk of his lips, it tells me all I need to know. “I have something for you.”

“Really?” This interests me more than it should. I start walking, and he steps beside me easily. Just like that he’s walking me home, as if we’re in high school. As if either of us were innocent teenagers.

I don’t know what it would have felt like to do this. For one thing, I never went to school. I had tutors and books. I had locks on my doors. And for another thing, I’ve never been innocent. I’ve always known about the world I lived in, the violence it contained.

He reaches into his back pocket, and part of me, that corner reserved for fight-or-flight, tenses. What if he pulls something awful out? It’s not like I really know him well.

Then he reaches out, palm up, with something small and cylindrical on his hand. “For you,” he says.

I take it, examining the smooth silver casing. And the trigger. “What is this?”

His expression grows somber. “I figured since you are experienced with men jumping out of alleyways, you should have something to protect you. It’s a Taser.”

A Taser? I ran away from violence. I don’t want more of it. Even to protect myself, I’m not sure I could hurt someone else. How do you choose your life over someone else’s? Not that a Taser would kill someone.

At least, I think it wouldn’t.

“Careful,” he says, his hand covering mine.

Maybe he saw my fingers going loose, almost dropping the Taser. I freeze at the feel of him, the warmth. The gentleness. It’s almost as jarring as seeing him come out of the shadows.

“Like this,” he says. “This is the safety switch. Right now it’s on. When you want to use this, you’ll flip it and then press this here.”

His fingers manipulate mine as he shows me how I’d use this. Hypothetically. It’s a good thing his hand is around mine because my hand is shaking. I might tase myself, which would be too painfully symbolic—as well as actually painful.

“This will hurt,” I say, like a question. Even though I know the answer.

“It will incapacitate someone,” he says, letting go. “Long enough for you to get away.”

I run my finger along the smooth metal case. It’s still warm from his body. “Will it hurt them?”

He smiles a little. “Oh, it’ll fucking hurt. Doesn’t matter how big he is, he’ll go down. But if you mean long-term injuries, no. You’re very concerned about this hypothetical guy. He would have been hurting you if you use this. Why do you care what happens to him?”

“I just do.”

He studies me. “If someone bothers you, don’t hesitate.”

I take his measure, imagining what it would be like to use this on him. It feels impossible, but that doesn’t matter. Just the idea that he got this for me makes me feel warmer, stronger. “So I could use this on you?”

“That depends,” he says. “Am I bothering you?”

He has a certain elemental quality in that dark T-shirt hugging his abs, the black leather jacket molded around his arms. The buttery denim encasing his legs. Like a panther. But that is a disguise, as much as the stilettos and tear-away bra I use onstage. It’s a flashy kind of sexiness, designed to distract.

Beneath that smile and those muscles is an intelligence I should be wary of. A watchfulness. He knows exactly what to say to get under my defenses. He knows exactly what to give me, in the form of this small weapon, to make me give in.

“No.” Pinpricks batter my eyes. I blink quickly. “Thank you.”

A slight lift of one large shoulder. “It’s nothing.”

“No,” I say, too loud. I try to lower my voice, but I know it’s still betraying me. “I’m serious—thank you. This is one of the nicest things…”

I can’t talk. I couldn’t explain it even if I could. Men have always wanted to use me, to hurt me. He is the only one who wants to protect me.

He doesn’t move much, but his energy shifts, withdraws. He becomes almost bashful. His voice is gruff when he says, “Honey, if that’s true, you need to meet nicer guys.”

My laugh comes out watery. I got expensive jewelry from Byron, but that was about him, about dressing me up like a doll. Kip gave me something thoughtful, something to help me feel safe. I’ve only felt this way once, but it’s already addictive. I want to tell him something else I’m afraid of, just like he keeps asking me to, and watch him fix it for me.

There’s a reason I don’t do drugs like Candy, though. I can’t afford to be dependent.

“You’re more than enough for me,” I tell him. More than I can handle, actually. I take his hand and tug him toward the alley he must have been waiting in.

He follows me two steps and then pulls me back to him. “Sweetheart?”

The word shudders through me. That’s addictive too.

“I want to thank you properly,” I tell him.

But he drops my hand. “That’s not necessary.”

Now he sounds pissed, like he’s clenching his teeth. A muscle in his jaw flexes.

What did I do wrong? I know he wants me. I put my palm on his chest and feel his heart steady underneath. Trailing lower, I feel the bulge in his jeans. Oh yeah, he wants me.

He steps back. “I’m leaving now. And next time you see me, you should use what I gave you.”

Then he is gone, merging back into the shadows, disappearing the same way that he came.

Six months ago

T
here is a
space between the walls of the office and the hallway. I don’t know if it was some flaw in the original architectural plans or the result of shoddy workmanship. Or maybe the gap is intentional, a barrier between the ugliness that happens inside this room and the family living space. But I learned as a child that I could fit my body into that space and eavesdrop. Even though I have grown into a woman, I can still fit, my breasts and ass pushed flat against the dusty inner walls.

That’s where I go when I leave my father and Byron in the office. Something about the way they spoke, the energy in the air, told me it was going to be important. So I hide and listen.

Byron’s voice is soft but firm. “We need to announce it. Tonight.”

“So soon?” My father’s voice is a sharp contrast, faint and rasping. So unlike the man I looked up to for so long, the man who could command mercenaries and criminals. Now he suffers every time he takes a breath.

I’m not even sorry.

“This will give us time to make arrangements.”

“She hasn’t even been told,” my father says.

I stiffen where I’m crouched. What haven’t they told me?

“Telling her was your job,” Byron says sharply. “She’s your daughter.”

My mind races, flashing disturbing images behind my eyes, a terrifying slideshow of all the things they could do to me—all the things my father wouldn’t want to say.

Furniture scrapes over hardwood. “It doesn’t matter if she knows,” Byron continues. “She’ll find out with everyone. And she’ll be thrilled. A governor’s son? He’s a bigger catch than I am.”

Ice floods my veins. Oh no. This is so much worse. Because they aren’t talking about me. They’re talking about Clara.

“I’m not sure about the match,” my father murmurs. I have to strain to hear him. “Those reports, in the newspaper…”

“Exaggerations,” Byron says smoothly. Always smooth.

A pause. “There were pictures.”

My heart beats faster. My father never speaks to Byron this way, becoming more meek as he grows sicker. As Byron takes over.

“Pictures can be faked. You know that as well as I do. Evidence only says what it’s meant to.” Even from here I can hear the undercurrent of warning in Byron’s voice. My father is at his mercy, he means. Byron is the one in charge now, despite the deference he still shows my father in public.

There is more murmuring. Then the clap of a fist on a solid wood desk.

“Don’t worry so much,” Byron says in an easy tone. “The governor and I go way back. Pledged to the same frat, a few years apart.”

“It’s not only Clara I worry for,” my father says. “Honor. There are marks…”

Oh God. He’s really bringing them up? He’s really
seen
them? I shudder, running my hands over my arms. There are goose bumps there. This is too strange a conversation to hear. I wish I’d walked away.

I’ve never been sure whether my father has noticed the bruises. On the worst days Byron would lock me in my room. A cell-phone photo taken by a maid and sold to the tabloid could derail his political ambitions, after all. I guess I’d assumed my father was too distracted—too much in pain—to notice the smaller marks Byron left. It almost hurts worse to know he saw them but did nothing.

Even if he’s standing up to Byron now.

“She doesn’t concern you any longer,” Byron says softly. “She’s my fiancée. Soon she’ll be my wife. Whatever we do behind closed doors is my business.”

“Yes…yes, of course. But Honor is a woman now. And Clara is still just sixteen.”

“Honor is mine to take care of. Clara too, by extension. I’ll watch over them when you’re gone.”

Now the threat is explicit, potent in the air. Even through inches of cherry wood paneling I can feel it. I wait, holding my breath, to see if my father will stand up for his younger daughter the way he didn’t for me.

“Besides,” Byron says, his tone lethal, “Clara isn’t even yours.”

I flinch. The idea doesn’t come as a surprise—everyone in the house, everyone in the extended family, must know the truth. But I’ve never heard anyone speak it before. And instead of growing angry, that seems to win my father over. Or at least wear him down.

“She would only have to date him now,” my father finally says. “A governor’s son. Great connections. Clara will be happy. And Honor too.”

*     *     *

Anything you do
with other people ends up being a performance. I learned to smile the right way, to walk the right way. The way my father wanted me to.

Like many six year olds, I had an obsession with ballet. But unlike other six-year-olds, I wasn’t placed in a classroom full of giggling children and pink ribbon. Instead a tutor was hired—a
ballerino
from the Royal Ballet in London and award-winning choreographer. There was no room for error. No room for the chubby layer of girlhood. Hours of practice every day honed my body and my mind until all I knew was how to please.

How to perform.

My father had molded me into the perfect stripper, although he would be horrified to find that out. Or maybe he already knew. Fucking me over my father’s desk, the bruises. He’d looked the other way.

“Want to grab a bite?” Lola asks as I head out the back.

I shake my head. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I don’t bother telling her an excuse, something she’d know was a lie.

She looks me up and down. “Wouldn’t hurt you to eat.”

We’re all slender here. The difference is she has curves that balance out. I trained my way through the time I would have grown breasts, and at twenty, I doubt they’re going to grow. “The men seem to like me okay.”

“Because you dance like a fucking ice princess. You’re untouchable.”

“The men seem to touch me okay too.”

She smirks. “You should borrow Candy’s outfit. You’d pass for thirteen.”

I make a face. “Don’t be like that.”

“Honest?”

“Mean.”

Her gaze flicks down, but I see the hurt before it does. “Same thing around here,” she murmurs before turning away.

My hand reaches for her—to apologize, to tell her I’ll eat with her after all. We’ll find some greasy diner and spend five bucks on rubbery egg whites. It wouldn’t be so bad. But I can’t give up this time.

I learned long ago to keep some things to myself. So I curl my hand into a fist and push out the back door. There is only one place around here I’ll find privacy. Not onstage. Not even in the motel room I share with my sister. No, my refuge is the roof of the building, behind the stairs.

Metal creaks as I climb to the top. The old fire escape isn’t remotely stable, and that means I’ll be left alone. Cracked concrete and debris, so different from the fine ballet floor my father had installed.

No one can see me here, and when I dance, I dance for myself.

A simple dance, without music—only the sound of my breath.
Plié. Relevés.
I dance for myself as the sun spreads over the city, yellow hands reaching building by building, until my muscles are sore and my breath comes short. I stretch my body in a grand arabesque until it becomes my own again—no longer a thing to be wrung out by other hands. I push myself now.

I make myself hurt.

If I’m too late, Clara will worry. So eventually I grab my duffel bag and head for the stairs. I climb down, yanking at the strap of my bag where it gets caught on the metal.

“Need a hand?”

I jump and almost bang my head into the railing.
That voice.
It rumbles through me, diving for every soft and vulnerable space, making me flinch. Kip.