Better When It Hurts (Stripped 2)

She looks at me, and her eyes widen. Surprise registers, and I know she doesn’t remember seeing me this afternoon with blood on my face. “What happened to you?”

“It’s nothing,” I say quickly. “I fell down.”

Deep understanding crosses her face. She may not remember, but she knows. “Let me get the first-aid kit.”

“I took care of it.” What little I could do. “I really need to sleep now, and you do too. We can have tea when we wake up, I promise.”

Her gaze drops to the empty tea-cup in front of her. A vague smile crosses her face. “I’ve already made tea.”

It takes another ten minutes to convince her to go to bed without it. Another ten minutes where the responsibility I feel toward her—the fear that I’ll fail her—sits like an anvil on my shoulders. When I have her tucked in for a nap, the curtains drawn tight, I find my way back to the kitchen.

It still smells awful, like something died in here. I don’t know how water and metal can burn like that, like flesh. I pull out the plug and shove the wire underneath the stove so at least it’s hidden.

Something glints at me from the kitchen counter.

A watch.

I reach for it, then pull back. No, it can’t be.

It’s definitely not mine. And I know it’s not Blue’s either. He wears a sleek black digital watch. This one is gold and garish. Cheap but trying to look expensive. I don’t know whose it is or how it got on the counter. Unless…

Unless I stole it. Unless it belongs to Travis.

Oh God, I’m so, so fucked.

I sit on the floor in the

dark and cry until I’m as dry and as done as the pot of water.

Chapter Seventeen

I swipe foundation over my cheek.

The swath of beige is stark against the bluish color of my skin. There’s really no hope of covering up the bruise. Even if I could change the color, I can’t hide the swelling of my eye. Or the limp when I walk.

I shouldn’t even have come to the Grand tonight, but I needed to leave the house. I needed to get the watch away from there so I can figure out what to do with it. I’ve told Mrs. Owens to stay inside no matter what she hears. She knows to lock the doors. That won’t hold him off forever. Eventually he’ll come back looking for it. Looking for me.

The watch is nestled among my perfume and makeup. I can’t bear to touch it. I hate that it’s even touching my things. Infecting me. I can’t throw it away, but I can’t give it back. I’m trapped with it.

I stare at the bruises under the harsh theater lighting around my mirror. It’s a lot worse than it looked in the dim bathroom at home. Worse than my reflection in shop windows as I walked here tonight. I look damaged. Broken.

“I have to go¸” I say to no one. It doesn’t matter. I have nowhere to go.

Candy approaches from behind. She sits at her station beside me and begins applying hot-pink liner. She doesn’t stare at my bruises even though they’re obvious. She doesn’t act surprised, because she’s not.

“Did Blue do that?” she asks, still running the pencil tip along her eyelid.

“No.” Whatever happens, it’s important that people know Blue didn’t do this. I couldn’t lie about that again, not even to protect him.

“Then who?”

“Who else?” I say, bitterness creeping into my voice. A client. She’ll understand. But even if it weren’t a paying client, it would be the same. Another man, another fist.

They’re all the same except Blue.

“You can’t dance like that,” she says.

I shut my eyes and squeeze, ignoring the shot of pain. “I know.”