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CHAPTER FOUR
*Zane “Father” - Chaplain*
Does she stop? No. Another song starts, and Lace does it all over again. Each track is more self-destructive than the last. Every song and dance combination translates as an eerie hymn that tells her story louder and more clearly than words ever could.
Lace is branded from the hickey of ownership Coty left on her neck to the marks of ownership dancing has left on the top of her lacy, tattooed feet and everywhere in between. A red imprint from the pole stands out strikingly across her stomach, and bruises are forming on her knees, inner thighs, and down her shins, pink for now but promising to turn an ugly shade of black before sunrise. As ugly as anything can get when it comes to Lace.
I swear all the blood trickling out of the cut in my bottom lip from the hit I took at the brawl seemed to suck back inside my body and down to my toes when Coty said I had another job to do. One was enough. Finding out the job was to watch Lace was neither worse nor better. Discovering her in here, dancing, filled me with a moral struggle so deep I nearly threw up. This moment is raw and deeply private. Meant only for her, not for me or anyone else. But can I stop watching from my hiding spot? Of course not. No matter how much I want to.
I never knew dancing on a stripper pole could be like this. What Lace is doing right now is legit talent. She is so good. Every movement bleeds sincerity.
Mouth parched, I lick my lip, only to collect a line of dried blood on my tongue. Eating the memories and hating the taste, my mouth fills with saliva, body impulsively trying to get rid of the flavor. Holding it in to help prevent possibly giving myself away by spitting it out only makes the sensation worse. A sour tang creeps up my throat.
Scrambling out of my dark corner, I crawl toward the closest trash can, trying hard to keep quietly to the shadows. Surprise, surprise, my attempt at going unnoticed fails. A thunk comes from the stage, and the music lowers just as my clammy hands grip the plastic rim.
Caught red-handed, no sense in hiding anymore, I spit and practice the breathing technique Kio taught me, inhaling slowly through my nose, concentrating hard on how my ribcage expands with the intake of air before releasing the breath just as slowly while focusing on how my abdomen relaxes during the controlled effort.
Lace is on the move. Her light steps patter over the hardwood floor. Still battling against my weak stomach, I mentally visualize her location as she heads toward the bar. There are a few moments of silence, some rustling, the tink of ice cubes, then the thump of a glass being set down. “Come here,” she says over the softened music.
The acidic stomach contents singeing my throat go away only to be replaced with bitter disappointment; Coty should have chosen someone else for this task. With as much feigned pride as is possible in a moment of utter failure, I stand and turn around.
The reflective catchlights in her brown eyes change a rainbow of colors as Lace nudges the drink suggestively. “Whiskey Ginger. This should help your stomach. Top shelf.” She bounces her eyebrows, squeezes some lime into the glass, plucks up a stirrer, and gives the drink a few swirls. “I know you still have just about twenty-four hours before reaching that much coveted legal drinking age, but no harm in a little early birthday drink, right?” Instead of putting the stirrer aside or into the sink, Lace puts it in her mouth and twirls it between her lips.
Throat burning and mouth still achingly dry, I only just barely manage a response while approaching the counter directly across from her. “My age has nothing to do with why I avoid alcohol.”
“Let me guess. One of your parents is an alcoholic. Cry me a river. Think of this as a medicinal excuse then.”
A little off-put by her brashness, I toss the attitude right back at her. “Let me guess. You think the ginger will settle my stomach. The only ginger in bar ginger ale is in the name. The sugar will make my nausea worse.”
Lace raises a single dark eyebrow and her chin tucks a little. I have to bite down on my tongue to stop a knee jerk apology from escaping.
She clears her throat and slowly removes the stirrer from between her lips. “Yes, I am well aware. Whiskey is what settles stomachs, hun, not ginger ale. Not the commercial type, at least.”
In my peripheral vision, the shape of her breasts still rises and falls from the recovery efforts of her dancing, and it takes every bit of discipline not to look down as she leans forward, props her elbows on the counter, dips the stirrer back into the golden liquid, wraps her fingers around the tumbler, and slides it closer to me along with the napkin adhered beneath. “The two just so happen to taste good together.”
Now that the stirrer has transferred her flavor to the drink, I can only imagine how much better it will taste. My mouth salivates at the thought. In the next heartbeat, my hand is completely wrapped around hers. I drag my thumb over her knuckles to add a little warmth to the chill in her fingers from the icy glass.
Her long, dark lashes move in slow motion as she blinks down at our point of contact and back up again. “Atta boy.” Lace sucks in a quiet breath. “Promise not to tattle? I would really hate to be put in the slammer for serving alcohol to someone underage. Can you imagine? Of all the things.” She chuckles weakly and gently eases her hand out from under mine.
That weary, pretend happiness does me in. I would kill to see her smile for real again. Since killing is out of the question for now, I try humor instead. “The bouncer forgot to check my ID on the way in. No harm, no foul.”
I do get a smile, a more authentic one this time, yet it mixes with a cocktail of conflict much like the cocktail of conflict meeting my lips at this very moment; the ever so slight inward curve of her eyebrows gives her away.
While the perfect spicy, sweet, carbonated blend gives my scratchy throat exactly what it needs, I watch over the rim of my glass as she fights to mask her telltale expression by turning away from the counter and walking around to join me on the customer side.
With the bartop separating us, I was doing just fine. For the most part. But when Lace hoists herself onto the counter, crosses her legs, looks down at me, and twists a finger into one of my curls, my heart starts hammering. She then removes the drained tumbler from my hand, runs her thumb along the shape of my jaw, and I flinch.
“Gabe clocked you good,” she whispers.
“Gabe?”
“Yeah. The guy who hit you.”
“Oh, him. Yeah. Then K.O. just had to step in and steal my retribution,” I huff out.
The topic brings her back to life, and a spark alights in her eyes. “K.O. has been gunning for that man since he first heard rumor of him. You held no chance.”
“They know each other?” I move my jaw gingerly side to side, testing just how deep the tenderness goes.
