I make myself hurt.
If I’m too late, Clara will worry. So eventually I grab my duffel bag and head for the stairs. I climb down, yanking at the strap of my bag where it gets caught on the metal.
“Need a hand?”
I jump and almost bang my head into the railing. That voice. It rumbles through me, diving for every soft and vulnerable space, making me flinch. Kip.
I whirl to face him. “You scared me.”
He raises an eyebrow, looking wholly unconcerned. “I wondered where you went.”
My heart is still beating too fast, and I take the opportunity to examine him. He wears his usual dark T-shirt and dark jeans, with a black leather jacket. I don’t fuck around, the clothes say. I’ve seen a lot of posers come through the club, but the watchful eyes and scarred hands back up his claim. This is a man who knows how to fight. This is a man who has fought before—and won.
I have no business with a man like this. I don’t need another person to perform for.
“Don’t,” I say flatly. “Don’t wonder. If I’m not in the club, I’m unavailable. If I’m not there, I don’t even exist. Forget you even know me.”
He smiles without humor. “I’m afraid I can’t do that.”
Of course he can’t. Or won’t. But then, I can’t seem to stop thinking about him either. And not just when he’ll show up again and whether he’ll fuck me. Not just how much he’ll pay me. No, I can’t help wondering where he goes when he leaves. If there’s a woman waiting for him. Hoping there’s not.
Crazy.
I heft the bag high on my shoulder and push past him. “I’ve had a long day.”
“Let me walk you home,” he says. And then he plucks the bag off my shoulder without waiting for a response. “I already know where you live,” he says when he sees me open my mouth. “So you’re not giving anything away by letting me come.”
I snort. “Right.”
“I’m just walking. Making sure you get home safe. Then I’m gone.”
I shouldn’t believe him.
Hesitating, I wrap my arms around myself. A shudder runs through me. Sometimes I just get so damned tired of protecting myself—of protecting Clara. Of being vigilant against everything and everyone. Sometimes I wish someone would be on my side, someone I wouldn’t have to protect.
“Hey,” he says, his expression softening. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
“Aren’t you?” All my bitterness, my fiercest wish for relief comes out in the question.
His eyes widen a moment. Then he looks away.
And isn’t that my answer right there? It’s not even a surprise. The bile that rises in my throat is completely uncalled for. He’s just like all the other men in that building.
Worse, because he makes me hope for something more.
He seems to be struggling with himself. Over how much to tell me? Over whether to hurt me? As rough and cold as he is, I can’t really imagine him dragging me into the nearest alleyway and beating me. But then again, most men didn’t see Byron as a monster.
The woman. The woman closest to a man can tell you what he’s really like. Sometimes she’s the only one who knows.
“I just want to walk you home,” he says quietly, and it has the ring of truth.
And I can’t fight him anymore. He’s here with his tiny drops of kindness, and I am dying of thirst. “Fine. Walk me home then. But you have to tell me something about yourself. Something other people don’t know about you. That’s the price.”
He will have to perform for me instead of the other way around.
He doesn’t seem surprised. He nods and starts walking. I follow him, reluctantly curious to hear what he’ll tell me. I have to admit, it’s kind of nice without the strap of the bag digging into my shoulder. And it’s very nice not having to watch every shadow against some unseen attacker. No one will bother me with Kip at my side.
“My mother,” he says. “She sang. Professionally, for a short time. Plays and stuff, before she got knocked up and married my asshole of a father.”
“Wow.”
“She had a beautiful voice.” He laughs softly. “Not many toddlers get sung Madame Butterfly for naptime. She wanted me to be better than this.”
My heart clenches at the hardness in his expression, like he’s holding something back. Emotion. I guess even men who fuck strippers in back rooms and then stalk them have feelings too. I don’t want to care, but empathy creeps over me like the sun to the city—unstoppable.
“I’m sorry,” I say finally. Because even though I don’t know the end to his story, I do. Whether that asshole father was abusive and eventually killed her or whether she just died a sad death, I know the ending isn’t a happy one. I know that from the clench of his jaw and the tightness of his fists.