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The change of topic gives me whiplash, and I harden my expression. “You don’t need to see them. You work at the distillery, and that’s how it stays. Just do your job and stay out of my way.”

“You’ve made your point.” But her slender shoulders fall at my harsh tone, betraying the weight she carries.

Without another word, I turn my back on her and let myself out of the Creek House. As I head to my ranch house, I tell myself I don’t need to know about Delilah, don’t need to know why she’s here, or what’s put the shadows in those big brown eyes.

One thing’s for certain. She’s a beautiful little liar.

9 Delilah

“Ain’t No Rest for the Wicked” by Cage the Elephant blasts through my Bose speakers. One of my favorite songs to dance to. The changing tempo, the loudness, the bright burst of energy. My body pulses with anticipation, with the music. But instead of dancing, I’m frozen.

Like I’ve forgotten the moves.

Puffing a lock of hair from my face, I shove the ottoman out of the way. The coffee table’s been moved to the porch. I need space, but it all feels off.

It’s been like this for the last two days.

I can’t dance. Can’t move my body in ways that feel powerful and strong.

Every time I try it feels like I’m reliving that night again. Dancing for Sammy. The silver flash of the gun. Blood.

“Fuck.” I curse and rub my palms across my face.

The last two days have consisted of good sleep. The kind where you wake up and can’t figure out what year it is for half a second. I finally feel over the exhaustion. Tomorrow, I start work in the distillery. I’m glad for it. To give my thoughts, my anxiousness someplace else to go.

Staying busy is what I’m good at.

Even if that means more questions. Cole Weston and his dark prying eyes. The man’s protective of his ranch and his family. Who can blame him? I don’t want to drag him into my mess. Looking out for myself is my only option.

My gaze drifts to my boot. Cole saw right through me. He knows something’s up. The USB drive reminds me of the story “The Tell-Tale Heart.” An ever-present reminder until I’m slowly driven insane.

Truth is, I’m afraid of what I’ll find on there. Terrified if I open it, it will send me off the precarious cliff I’m standing on to someplace far below.

I shake it off and restart the music. As I roll my hips, I feel my body loosen, my pulse kick up. I lie on my back, moving into my floor work. Lift my legs and move them like waves. Calm happiness flows through my body.

I’ve loved dancing all my life. It came to me as naturally as breathing, a way of expressing myself when I couldn’t find the words. As a little girl I always wanted to be a ballerina, but we never had any money for actual lessons. I begged to go to Swan Lake. My and Lucy Lou’s favorite encyclopedia was volume B, and I studied every move under “ballet.” As I got older, I loved doing silly little dance-offs with my friends, and I watched YouTube videos to train myself. Jazz, hip-hop, modern dance.

I was good. But I got even better when I was hired at the club.

I’m not a stripper because I had a bad childhood. I’m a stripper because it pays well. Because I love dance. Because owning and doing what I want with my body is power. I’ve never felt sexier than when I’m wearing six-inch platforms and a lace G-string, and hearing a damn good song.

My first time onstage, I was terrified. Embarrassed. I forgot every move I had rehearsed. But that night, I made $500, and I felt better about myself. Within a week, I got my footing. I learned it’s an art. Strippers are normal people, not whores or sluts or whatever the pearl-clutching Karens of the world want to think.

I provide a service and get paid. A good fucking amount too. I support myself on my own with no help from anyone. I showed up for myself. I made my life.

And now I have to remake it again.

Exhaling, I sit up, then roll myself backward and slide down onto the floor.

My phone pings. I rise and grab it from the nightstand. I’ve been trying to get in touch with Melly, but she hasn’t gotten back to me.

Instead of Melly, it’s a text from Belle.

You haven’t been talking to anyone have you?

No. Only you.

Promise? Lady, I can’t help you if you’re not honest with me.