Love the Way You Lie(29)

I swallow, thinking of my own mother. Surely she wanted better for me than this, than a stripper for a daughter. “Maybe she understands,” I say, voice shaky. “Maybe she knows you’re doing your best.”

He looks down, and I can only see him in profile. We walk another block before he brings himself under control. “You remind me of her,” he finally says.

I almost stumble even though there’s no crack in the sidewalk. And I’m never clumsy. There’s nothing to blame this on except pure shock. But I force myself to keep walking, head down. It may not be what I expected, but I know that from him it’s the highest compliment. “Thank you.”

“She had so many dreams. And no hope.”

Or maybe not a compliment. And it makes me angry for him to think of her like that. To think of me like that—so many dreams and no hope. “That’s not fair. She could’ve hoped and not told you.”

He laughs. “Oh, she told me. She told me about the mansion we’d live in and about traveling the world. We lived in the fucking rubble of those dreams. We lived on them. There was damn well nothing else. Instead of enough food for dinner, we had stories. She didn’t deserve that. And neither do you.”

“That’s not what I’m doing. I’m not waiting around for someone to come with a mansion or a plane ticket.” Actually I wouldn’t mind the plane ticket right about now. But I’ve had more than my fill of mansions and their locks and their secrets.

“Do you know how the tiger got his stripes?”

“Should I?”

“Probably not. It was in the book of stories from Kipling, the garage-sale antique.” His smile is both mocking and fond.

It makes my heart ache, imagining him as a little boy—hungry and yearning. “So what is this story?”

“It’s dark,” he warns, “as these stories often are. The animal kingdom is a violent place.”

Not so different from the human world then. “I’m not afraid.”

“Aren’t you?”

I don’t answer.

He tips his head down, hiding his expression. “So the tiger used to be the king of the jungle. Not the lion. Back then the tiger didn’t have any stripes. And he ruled with complete wisdom and mercy.”

“The good old days,” I say, voice wry.

He glances at me, lids half-lowered. “But one day two bucks came to him for advice, covered in blood. The tiger was taken by bloodlust and jumped on one of them, ripping out his throat.”

I swallow. Not so different from the human world at all.

“And so the tiger left the jungle in shame. When he came back, the weeds and the marshes rose up and marked him with black stripes so that everyone would see what he’d done.”

“If only the real world had that,” I say. “Then we’d know who was bad and who wasn’t.”

“I think maybe it does. Look at me. Most people know on sight that I’m bad news.” He’s talking about the tattoos that wind their way up his forearms. And maybe also the leather jacket and the boots.

And the grim air of danger that surrounds him.

“You put those on yourself,” I say softly. “Not like the tigers.”

“To me that’s what the story is about. The things we do to ourselves. The way we hurt ourselves and mark ourselves.”

It’s a cautionary tale. He’s warning me away from him.

I don’t say anything until we reach the thin, sagging palm tree that marks the perimeter of the Tropicana motel. I feel a little sick imagining a tiny version of Kip, a little boy watching his mother mourn the life she wanted. I feel sick imagining the tattoo gun piercing an older Kip’s skin while he looked on, thinking he deserved it as some kind of penance—as some kind of warning to the world around him.

But he has no idea what I deserve. “I’m sorry for what happened to her. But I’m not her.”

“I know that.”

“And you can’t save me or whatever you’re trying to do here.”

A sad smile flickers across his face. “I know that too. That isn’t what I’m doing here.”

He hands me my bag and stands with his arms at his sides as I start to walk away. My fists tighten on the straps of my bag. I stop, staring straight ahead, away from him.

After a beat, I ask, “Why are you here then?”

It can’t just be for sex. He could get that in the Grand. Why does he want to spend time with me?

But when I look back, the sidewalk is empty. He’s already gone.





Chapter Ten





I think about the feel of his hand around mine all day—warm, dry, and protective. It’s the last feeling I need to be most worried about. Protective. Am I having some kind of breakdown? Am I losing touch with reality? Because Kip is a customer, the roughest kind. He’s not my white knight. It’s men like him I need saving from.