Love the Way You Lie (Stripped 1)

He seems to be struggling with himself. Over how much to tell me? Over whether to hurt me? As rough and cold as he is, I can’t really imagine him dragging me into the nearest alleyway and beating me. But then again, most men didn’t see Byron as a monster.

The woman. The woman closest to a man can tell you what he’s really like. Sometimes she’s the only one who knows.

“I just want to walk you home,” he says quietly, and it has the ring of truth.

And I can’t fight him anymore. He’s here with his tiny drops of kindness, and I am dying of thirst. “Fine. Walk me home then. But you have to tell me something about yourself. Something other people don’t know about you. That’s the price.”

He will have to perform for me instead of the other way around.

He doesn’t seem surprised. He nods and starts walking. I follow him, reluctantly curious to hear what he’ll tell me. I have to admit, it’s kind of nice without the strap of the bag digging into my shoulder. And it’s very nice not having to watch every shadow against some unseen attacker. No one will bother me with Kip at my side.

“My mother,” he says. “She sang. Professionally, for a short time. Plays and stuff, before she got knocked up and married my asshole of a father.”

“Wow.”

“She had a beautiful voice.” He laughs softly. “Not many toddlers get sung Madame Butterfly for naptime. She wanted me to be better than this.”

My heart clenches at the hardness in his expression, like he’s holding something back. Emotion. I guess even men who fuck strippers in back rooms and then stalk them have feelings too. I don’t want to care, but empathy creeps over me like the sun to the city—unstoppable.

“I’m sorry,” I say finally. Because even though I don’t know the end to his story, I do. Whether that asshole father was abusive and eventually killed her or whether she just died a sad death, I know the ending isn’t a happy one. I know that from the clench of his jaw and the tightness of his fists.

I swallow, thinking of my own mother. Surely she wanted better for me than this, than a stripper for a daughter. “Maybe she understands,” I say, voice shaky. “Maybe she knows you’re doing your best.”

He looks down, and I can only see him in profile. We walk another block before he brings himself under control. “You remind me of her,” he finally says.

I almost stumble even though there’s no crack in the sidewalk. And I’m never clumsy. There’s nothing to blame this on except pure shock. But I force myself to keep walking, head down. It may not be what I expected, but I know that from him it’s the highest compliment. “Thank you.”

“She had so many dreams. And no hope.”

Or maybe not a compliment. And it makes me angry for him to think of her like that. To think of me like that—so many dreams and no hope. “That’s not fair. She could’ve hoped and not told you.”

He laughs. “Oh, she told me. She told me about the mansion we’d live in and about traveling the world. We lived in the fucking rubble of those dreams. We lived on them. There was damn well nothing else. Instead of enough food for dinner, we had stories. She didn’t deserve that. And neither do you.”

“That’s not what I’m doing. I’m not waiting around for someone to come with a mansion or a plane ticket.” Actually I wouldn’t mind the plane ticket right about now. But I’ve had more than my fill of mansions and their locks and their secrets.

“Do you know how the tiger got his stripes?”

“Should I?”

“Probably not. It was in the book of stories from Kipling, the garage-sale antique.” His smile is both mocking and fond.

It makes my heart ache, imagining him as a little boy—hungry and yearning. “So what is this story?”

“It’s dark,” he warns, “as these stories often are. The animal kingdom is a violent place.”

Not so different from the human world then. “I’m not afraid.”

“Aren’t you?”

I don’t answer.

He tips his head down, hiding his expression. “So the tiger used to be the king of the jungle. Not the lion. Back then the tiger didn’t have any stripes. And he ruled with complete wisdom and mercy.”

“The good old days,” I say, voice wry.

He glances at me, lids half-lowered. ?

??But one day two bucks came to him for advice, covered in blood. The tiger was taken by bloodlust and jumped on one of them, ripping out his throat.”