Love the Way You Lie (Stripped 1)

“I told you not to date them,” Lola says.

I don’t look up as I pull sweatpants and a tank top on. I’m naked underneath, but the soft fleece is a relief after the harsh elastic and even harsher lights onstage. “Who says I did?”

“You have the look. Let me guess. He bought you dinner, got a blowjob, then didn’t call again.”

That’s close enough to the truth that I can’t refute it. But it’s not the whole truth. It doesn’t take into account that he seems to want more than sex. It doesn’t take into account that I can’t give him that.

“It doesn’t matter,” I say. “It’s over.”

Lola rolls her eyes. “Of course it’s over. We’re not the girls they take home to mama. We

’re not the ones they keep.”

I shudder. I’d been the girl that got kept before. If I was lucky, I’d never have to go back. “Maybe I’m the one who didn’t call him. It’s not only men who want sex with no strings attached.”

She laughs. “Oh, sweetie, you’ve got so many strings you’ll never get free.”

My heart clenches because she’s right. I’m running and running, trying to stay safe, desperate to keep Clara safe, but I’m failing. It’s easy to see that I’m failing, standing in the dressing room of the strip club, feeling pathetic over some guy. Over a customer, of all people. I’m working as hard as I can, giving up everything—even my dignity—and it isn’t enough.

You’ll never get free.

A knot forms in my throat. I couldn’t speak even if I knew what to say.

Lola’s face falls. “Shit. I didn’t—”

“Don’t worry about it,” I say, my voice rough. And I push past her before she can stop me.

Chapter Twelve

I enter the dressing room the next day and immediately know I’m in huge trouble. The room is empty. No Candy, no Lola, no other girls. Just Ivan, sitting on my stool.

He’s waiting for me.

I can see that from the stillness of his body, the watchfulness despite his casual pose. He looks huge on that stool where I sit, huge next to the vanity I use. It’s a reminder of how much power he has—both physically and otherwise—and I’m guessing he planned for that.

“Honor.”

I flinch, and I’m not even sure why. No one else is here, but it hurts to hear him say my real name. I’m not really Honey—that’s just a facade. But I’m not Honor either, that locked-up girl back home. I’m someone else, someone without a name. “Is something wrong?”

“Apparently.” He pauses, watching me. Like he wants me to confess.

“Did you find something about my mother?”

“I’m not sure why I’d be expected to hold up my agreement when you aren’t holding up yours.”

Fear grips my chest. “I’m dancing for you. That was our agreement.”

“And as one of my dancers, you do what I tell you. So if I tell you to stay away from Kip, you stay away.”

I flinch. “How did you—”

“Does it matter? I find out about everything that happens in this club eventually. And you’ve been spending too much time with him for it to go unnoticed. Private dances are one thing. But outside the club? You deliberately disobeyed me.”

I bite my lip against all the apologies and pleas that want to slip out. I’ve lived my life under a powerful man’s thumb. I know what it is to beg and scrabble for the smallest freedom. But I left to get away from that. It’s a hard thing, being used by every man I meet, placating their demands to earn a little more time. Sometimes I feel like I’m buying freedom with freedom, debt piling on debt, until I’ll owe the whole world just to die.

But he has something I want. Something I need. Information.

I can see the gleam in his eyes. He wouldn’t have come to a bargaining table without the upper hand.