Better When It Hurts (Stripped 2)

“You will be.” She lowers her voice. “They say he killed another kid at his last home.”

My eyes widen. Okay, that’s new. I’ve been in the system a long time. I’ve been in homes with a lot of strung out, violent kids. But I’ve never met a murderer. “What for?”

A shrug. “Dunno.”

It’s enough of a mystery to propel me to the window. I look downstairs where a maroon town car sits in the driveway. Mrs. Moreno is my caseworker too. She stands with a clipboard, her gray hair frizzy in the summer heat. A boy lounges against the hood of the car, his body relaxed, his expression bored. He’s wearing a plain white T-shirt, jeans, and black boots.

Was he wearing the same thing when he killed a boy?

All I can think about is if the blood spattered on his white T-shirt.

* * *

He doesn’t walk me home. I guess that would be too sweet, some twisted version of wholesome. We could have held hands as if we were coming back from a date instead of leaving a strip club. I would have pretended the Grand was still a theater and that my whole life was just a show, something I could leave behind at the end of the night.

That was just a fantasy. In reality he led me to his beat-up truck and pushed me inside.

“Which way?” he asked as he turned out of the parking lot.

“Toward the freeway.”

A mechanical click from the door makes me jump. The locks. Right.

The Grand isn’t that safe, but near the freeway, where I live, is closer to a war zone. I don’t have much of a choice. It isn’t even my house. Stripping pays for the electric bill and keeps the fridge stocked, but I can’t move. Not yet.

He drives with a cool efficiency I envy. I’ve never driven a car. I don’t even have a license. Driving lessons aren’t exactly a priority when you’re living on the streets. But Blue knew how to drive when I first met him. He’d told me about the way he used to race the cars owned by his previous foster dad before he got kicked out.

There’s a new alertness to him now, a competency born of experience. He’s been to the military, driven through a real war zone, and I imagine he looked just like he does now, focused and calm.

“Why’d you come back to Tanglewood?” I ask softly. The alcohol has worn off, along with the laughing, blustery high I’d been on. Now I’m just thoughtful and curious—and uninhibited enough to act on it.

“Where else would I go?” His voice is bland, as if he doesn’t care where he ends up.

“And the Grand? Why work there?” I don’t know why I’m pushing him. It’s like pressing on a bruise. I know it’s going to hurt, but I can’t help myself. As sick as it is, I crave the pain.

And at least if he tells me why he’s here, at least if he pushes back and holds me down—that will be honest. It’s worth a lot to me, honesty. After a life of lies, it’s worth everything.

He grunts, and I think that’s all I’ll get, a caveman answer. A refusal. After a beat, he adds, “The pay is good.”

That makes me smile. “Yeah, it fucking is.”

His glance is dark, expression intent. “So that’s why you do it?”

My defenses go up fast and hard. “Do what? Fuck men for money?”

“You don’t fuck them.”

I hate how sure he sounds. I hate how right he is. “How would you fucking know what happens in the VIP rooms?”

“Because I watch you.”

I cross my arms to hide my shiver. We go under the big freeway bridge, the wide shadows smoothing over us like we’re underwater. “Take a right at the next light.”

He nods and keeps driving. I watch his profile in the moonlight, how hard it is, how fierce. I imagine him on a mission like that, heading off to kill someone. I wonder if he’s killed a person. No, I know he has. I just wonder how many. Maybe he’s on a mission right now. Maybe he’s planning on taking me down. Not by killing me. That would be too easy. He’s going to make me suffer.

Candy thinks I’m wrong. She thinks I’m overstating how much he hates me, that he doesn’t want to hurt me at all. Some days I want to believe her. He just wants to fuck you, she says, and some days—God, some days—I think I wouldn’t mind that at all.

But then I see those big hands grip the steering wheel, relaxed and powerful. I see his forearms flex. I see the memories in his eyes when he looks at me. And I think he can’t possibly forgive me. Not when I can’t forgive myself.