Better When It Hurts (Stripped 2)

My life isn’t about luxury. It’s about survival.

He stands back, leaving the door wide open. “You hungry?”

My stomach chooses that moment to grumble. “No,” I lie.

He raises one eyebrow but doesn’t say anything as I walk past him.

The dining table is set for two. I freeze, staring. Uncomprehending. Actually I’m starving. The last thing I ate was a package of roasted peanuts from the vending machine at the dialysis place. Mrs. Owens doesn’t like to eat after she’s had it done, so I settled her into her bed at home and came directly here. The idea of eating sounds amazing. The idea of eating with Blue, that he would have set up some kind of meal for me, that he would have planned this, feels like a dream.

I whirl on him. “What is this?”

His expression is unreadable. “Dinner. If you want it.”

“Is this some kind of date?”

“Does it look like a date?”

I look again at the place settings for two, the low candles in between. My mind rejects that, like an optical illusion that you can’t stop seeing. “It does, but I know that’s crazy.”

There’s a pause where he seems to weigh how much to tell me. I don’t know whether he decides to tell me a lot or a little, but when he answers, his voice is grim. “It’s just food. Something to keep up your strength because you’re probably going to need it.”

There’s the Blue I know and fear. Of course you don’t need candles to eat. “Is that all?”

“What else would there be, Lola?” His lids are lowered, his mouth set in a flat line. The displeasure on his face makes it clear how dumb my idea about a date would have been.

“Nothing,” I say, feeling sullen and hurt even though I know he’s right. He never promised me anything. Actually he did promise me things. He promised to get me back. And that’s what he’s doing. The disappointment shouldn’t feel like acid on my wounds.

“Then get in the fucking chair.” He nods to the far end, where I guess I’m supposed to sit. And be served food? His expression turns hard. “And take that fucking top off. I want to look at your tits while I eat.”

* * *

He made lasagna and warm breadsticks. He pours me wine. It’s the most romantic thing anyone has done for me. And through it all, my bare breasts make it painfully clear that this is not a date. This is not because he likes me and wants to please me.

This is for him—either to fulfill some fantasy of his or simply to humiliate me.

Maybe to him, those are the same things.

“How do you know Mrs. Owens?” he asks.

My gaze snaps to him. I don’t like him asking about her. I don’t like him even knowing about her. She’s personal. Far more personal than my breasts, which men see all the time. Hell, he sees them all the time, even if it’s only part of his job. “How do you know her name?”

One large shoulder lifts in a half shrug. “Simple to find out.”

“So you were snooping.” I can’t help but make a face. Emotion is showing weakness, and he is my kryptonite. “If a guy at the club did that, you would kick them out.”

Amusement flickers across his face. “Guess that’s a benefit of being in charge.”

My eyes narrow. “Speaking of that, why did you decide to work at the Grand? You knew I was working there.”

“Had to do something after I left the army.” His expression hardens. “I imagine it’s for much the same reasons that you work there.”

I snort, looking at the crown molding and modern chandelier above us. He was obviously doing very well, not counting pennies to make the mortgage. Strippers made a lot but supporting even a small house and medical bills was expensive. “I doubt that.”

Something shifts in the room, and in him—an alertness that’s too subtle to see. Only feel. “She’s not your mother.”

Foster kids learn not to share much about their pasts with whatever new foster brother or sister is around. It makes you vulnerable to people who have their own issues and may very well lash out. Besides, you’ll most likely get shuffled around soon.

I was pretty much the same, except with him. I told him how my mother had died, the way she’d braided my hair and let me play at her makeup table. I told him how my father had been in a motorcycle gang and gotten himself thrown in prison. So when she killed herself, I entered the system. There was one important detail I hadn’t told him.