Wild Dirty Secret(9)

Even my eyes were steady. Clear. Empty.

I searched my appearance for something, any sign of weakness—none. This was what strength looked like, then. Oh, I had confidence aplenty. I strolled and drawled and acted my fucking heart out, but that was the secret. For me, it had never been an act. I hadn’t been hiding what was inside me. There was nothing inside me.

So what was one more empty promise? If he really cared, he would be here right now. He would have protected me from this. What was one more trick? If the life was all I had, I might as well live it.

I touched up my makeup, just because. My hand trembled only a little, but my face came out flawless, like always. And then there was nothing left to pretend, no way left to stall.

The hallway was still empty, and I started to head back to the sitting area. I heard a sound over the pulse of the music: a muffled cry. The hair on the back of my neck stood on end; my heart began to race.

No big deal. Of course there would be those sounds at a party like this, where women were paid to perform, to endure. Probably she had faked it on purpose. But I knew she hadn’t.

Still, don’t get involved. That was the first rule of staying alive. Even that pitiful kid from yesterday had instinctively understood how it worked: look away, pretend you don’t see, don’t start trouble.

But there it was again, that sound. It curled sharp nails into my gut, signaling danger. Get away.

I was twenty-four, had stayed alive for six years by keeping to myself. Those latent self-protective instincts were still there, still honed, and yet I couldn’t walk away, couldn’t leave her there without knowing.

I crept down the empty hallway and paused at one closed door. At first there was nothing. I almost turned away, left, but then I heard a moan. A female moan of fake pleasure, and that was fine, just fine. Time to go.

A thud sounded from the end of the hall and then echoed in my chest. Inexorably I walked to the last door, knowing through instinct or experience exactly what was happening here. It didn’t matter the men or the woman; it was always the same. Too much, too fast, too hard. I didn’t know, wasn’t expecting. Too late, bitch.

A tear slid down my cheek. It was more than just my safety at stake here. Get away.

I twisted the knob and pushed the door open a crack, exposing just a sliver of the scene. The face of a girl, her face contorted in fury. The grin of a man. Hands holding down arms. The low sound of laughter. A little slice of hell, and what was I supposed to do about it?

I could do nothing.

This wasn’t a young girl on an empty street corner who could be cured with a fast-food burger and a lifetime of therapy. This was one of Henri’s girls, off-limits for me and mother-fucking-hen Marguerite Faust. No one could help her, just like no one could help me.

I saw her body jerk with purpose. Heard the crack as her kick landed on someone’s skin. The laughter grew louder, more combative.

Shit. She was going to get herself killed that way. Beaten, at the least. Didn’t she know that? Didn’t she care?

But Henri didn’t do hand-holding. Had he recruited this girl fresh out of high school? Given her money she desperately needed to get away, to help her friend, only to indebt herself to him forever? Dumped her at this party without any training or knowledge or a goddamned thing?

This wasn’t about me. I told myself that, but it didn’t help.

I pushed the door open and stepped inside. Four guys, not counting the ones out in the sitting area or my erstwhile boyfriend.

I smiled and set my hips to sway. “Hello, gentlemen. I see you’ve started the party without me.”

Three of them shifted their attention to me, though one kept struggling with the girl. And she kept fighting, clearly too panicked or just stubborn to let me take the lead.

The one with an earring in his eyebrow grinned and patted his knee. “There’s always room for one more girl.”

I trailed my finger across his jaw as I passed him. “Always, honey, but not before the big show.”

“The show?” another one asked, his voice breaking. Jesus, younger and younger.

“Didn’t you know about that?” I paused in my contemplative pose, often applied to men who liked to kneel, to pretend submissiveness while I spanked their behinds—at least until they turned the tables. “I wouldn’t want you to be late.”

I stopped by the bed, where both the girl and the guy half sitting on her were watching me with bemusement. They actually made a cute couple if I ignored the whole sordid violence routine. It was always the handsome ones.

With a wink for the good-looking asshole, I leaned over the girl and skimmed a finger up the middle of her belly and between her breasts, hoping it would cause her the least discomfort. Then I kissed her, soft, gently, for show, not pleasure. Never that.