There’s shock too, and that helps.
It’s dreamlike. I’m not really here, undressing and shaking my ass for strangers. I’m not even awake.
The sky is already a murky orange by the time I leave. A fine mist hangs between the buildings, a cross between fog and morning dew. The Grand is closing. Blue is ejecting the last customers, and they wander away, tripping their way over the uneven cobblestones, bleary and already hungover. Half the stones in the driveway are gone, pieces of the building’s façade missing, as if we’re in some battle-torn country. And we are. Wars are fought and lost on this street.
The well of the central fountain contains only dried leaves and cigarette butts. Whatever statuette once adorned the center pillar has long since been cracked off, leaving only a jagged edge jutting up. It’s a fitting centerpiece for the courtyard and the Grand as a whole, broken and proud.
I’m still in a trance as I head to Candy’s apartment. The numbness helps me here too, dulling my fear as I step over the bums and scary-looking men slumped over in the stairwell.
My knock echoes off the faded green walls.
She doesn’t answer.
“Candy,” I say, pressing my face against the door, hoping she’ll hear me. Still no answer. I try the doorknob just in case, but it’s locked.
Worry churns in my stomach. If she OD’ed on something behind that door…if she went home with some guy and he tied her up in the basement… there are so many ways she could get into trouble. So many ways to get hurt.
I know that from experience.
“Candy.” This time it’s a whisper. I know she won’t answer. Whether she’s high or just gone, she’s beyond my reach.
Silly to think I could help her, when I can’t even help myself.
I climb over the men on the stairs, hopeless and distracted. I almost don’t notice the man who holds the door open for me. In fact I’m already turning toward the sidewalk outside Candy’s apartment when I feel the prickle on the back of my neck. The same one I felt the first night he showed up at the strip club.
I freeze. Every muscle in my body locks tight.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” comes a masculine murmur behind me. A familiar male voice.
My heart pounds. My hands clench around the handle of the duffel bag.
“Honey,” he says softly. And there’s none of the mocking this time, even though the name is fake. He sounds mostly concerned.
Oh God, it’s him. I’d hoped I was wrong. He may say he’s not going to hurt me, but no man shows up uninvited to a stripper’s room with good intentions. I don’t turn, don’t face him. I speak to the empty sidewalk instead. “What are you doing here?”
“I followed you.” He pauses. “It’s not safe here.”
A chill runs over my skin. How did I miss him? And what else have I missed? Time on the run has given me certain skills, but I’m not a spy. I’m an heiress. A principessa. At least that’s what I was trained to be. I can host a dinner party for the most wealthy, lethal men in the country, but I don’t know how to spot a tail. I don’t know how to fight one.
I swallow hard. “What do you want from me?”
A blowjob? A fuck? These are the only things I have to give.
His sigh caresses my temple, gently ruffling my hair. “I just want to talk.”
That makes me scoff. He may stalk me, and I may fuck him, but at least we can be honest about it. “Then why are you in my space?”
Politeness is a ten-dollar bill tossed onto the stage. But for this, stalking and holding open the door in a parody of gentlemanly manners, he can get out of my personal space. He can stop making my heart beat too fast and my skin feel clammy and hot.
After a pause, he steps back. Not far, but enough that I can breathe again. I turn to face him—and again I’m struck with that sense of déjà vu, of recognition. Have I met him before? I would remember that face, the hardness of his features, the hint of vulnerability in his dark eyes, but all I have is a strange feeling, like I trust him even though he’s a stranger.
Obviously it’s a feeling I can’t trust.
I consider running for it, as useless as that would be. He’s too fast for me. And I don’t want to see what he’s like when he gets rough. And besides, I’d run the risk of leading him to the motel room—and to Clara.
It’s not like I could call the cops on him—at least not without answering a lot of other uncomfortable questions. Instead I let him ease the duffel bag away from me when he moves to take it from me. Without asking, of course. He slings it over his shoulder in a dark parallel to chivalry. He’ll let me go when he’s ready to.