An idea began to take shape and my heart hammered.
It was a stupid idea. A dangerous one. But the thought of Camila out there, alone, outweighed the fear of Tristian’s reaction.
He expected to take me to the gym tonight while he prepped for his next fight. Though I loved watching him train, I needed answers more.
Acting before I could second-guess myself, I sent him a message to say I wasn’t feeling well and that I felt it was best if I avoided joining him at the gym tonight, told him to just head there straight after work.
It wasn’t a total lie. My head was a mess. He’d spent the last week pulling me in and pushing me back until I’d lost my footing completely,
The mess with my father, and the truth about Darragh, had only complicated things. That was why I’d needed space in the first place.
My lie to him sent, I flipped back to the message from May.
My breath hitching, heart skipping a beat, I tapped out a quick reply and hit send.
Pick me up.
Okay. Bad idea. Bad idea. Bad idea.
The mantra pulsed in time with the bass as we stepped into The Obsidian. The atmosphere was the same as last time: thick expensive cologne, cheap sweat, and adrenaline. May and Amber, already half-gone by pre-game shots, dissolved into crowd on the dance floor, leaving me stranded.
And I felt exposed. My blue sparkly bodycon dress, brought by the girls and hastily changed into in Tristian’s bathroom before clambering into the same car as last time I came here, felt less like an outfit and more like a neon sign for predators, glistening under the strobe lights. I teetered on May’s white high heels, tried to look like I belonged.
I didn’t.
I wanted to avoid Darragh, but the desperation was winning. The man had eyes everywhere and I needed him to see.
Instead, I made my way to the bar, hoping the bartender who had briefly become my ally last time was on shift tonight.
He was. When his eyes landed on me, his expression shifted from professional boredom to anger. Hurriedly finishing the pour of a bright orange cocktail for a barely-dressed girl swaying at the bar, he took her money, then strode to meet me.
His expression was tight. “What the fuck are you doing here? I thought I told you before that you don’t belong here.”
“I’m looking for someone.” My hands shook as I fumbled with my phone, pulling up a photo of Camila. “It’s my sister. I haven’t seen her in weeks, and I’m worried about her. I thought someone here might know something.”
The bartender narrowed his eyes at the screen, then looked back at me, his gaze softening into something that looked horribly like pity. He ran a hand down his face, stressed.
He glanced around discreetly. When he spoke again, it was lower as he leaned in. “Yeah, I recognize her. She used to work here.”
My heart leapt. “When are her shifts? I need to see her, I need—”
The bartender lifted a hand to cut me off. “Used to,” he repeated. “It’s been probably a month since I last saw her.”
The hope that had flared in me died. “D-do you have any idea where she might have gone?”
His expression was tense as he seemed to consider something. Then, heavily, he said, “Look, I’m not going to sugarcoat this. Girls that work here only do it for one of two reasons: to pay off their debts… or because they’re being trafficked.”
The world seemed to tilt. My throat constricted. “W-what?”
He shook his head, his voice low and dangerous. “Why the fuck do you think I keep telling you that you don’t belong here? Pray that your sister was only here to pay off a debt, or God knows where she could be.”
My mind reeled. “What... what kind of debt could she be in?”
“Drugs,” he said heavily. “Weed, meth, cocaine...”
The air left my lungs. Camila wouldn’t… she couldn’t have turned to drugs. It was just unthinkable.
And yet… the way our parents treated us, Papa parading us around like meat to broker business deals with his perverted contacts, first Camila before she rebelled, then me when I failed to stop him; the trauma that had been inflicted on both of us… I was broken from it, but at least I had Tristian. Camila had no one.
