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My fingers close around the lipstick, and I drop my purse onto my seat. My eyes land on an innocuous white envelope on my dressing table.Fiona Clathamis type-printed on the type, and it’s sealed.
With a frown, I set my new lipstick down and pluck the envelope up, turning it over to see if any information is printed on the back. Nothing. Weird. The printed font looks professional, so it must be something to do with the club.
Poking my finger under the seal, I slit it open. Before I can reach inside to pull out the contents, a powder pours out of the envelope, coating my hands. What the hell? Oh god. I’ve heard of that powder stuff that gets sent to TV channels. Isn’t it toxic?
Before I can panic, my hands start to burn. Relief wars with the pain. Thank god. Not some poisonous super toxin from a terrorist attack. No. This is personal. There is only one thing that would make my hands burn like this. Crushed-up peppers. Grant.
Whimpering, I slowly stand, cradling my hands and making my way out of the dressing room, careful not to touch anything. I need to wash my hands. I need this stuff off me. Now.
Ronan and Connor are striding along the corridor as I attempt to open the bathroom door while still cradling my hands.
“Do you need help with that, Fi?” Connor calls, frowning as he notices my poor, red hands. “What’s going on with your hands?”
I lift my eyes from the doorknob. I can pinpoint the exact moment Ronan spots the tears in my eyes. His whole face tightens, and his own eyes drop to my hands.
“Jaysus feck,leannán. What the feck happened?”
“I need to wash my hands with soap,” I whimper.
Thankfully, Connor rushes to open the bathroom door while Ronan ushers me inside, turning the water on so it’s lovely and cold.
I sigh with relief when I shove my hands beneath the flow as Ronan pours some liquid soap over them. Lathering them up, I wash away every speck of powder I can see.
When Ronan pats my hands dry, his mouth tightens. I peek down to see what he’s angrily glaring at. Fuckingow! My hands are red, and the top layer of skin is peeling off. Another whimper slips from between my lips.
“Jesus fuck, Fi,” Connor breathes, staring at my hands. “What the fuck happened?”
I would laugh, considering that’s almost word for word what Ronan asked, but I’m in too much pain.
“Someone left an envelope of crushed peppers on my dressing table,” I whisper, my voice wobbling. “I think it might have been a prank.”
Ronan growls, cradling my hands tenderly in his. “This isn’t a prank, lass. This could have seriously hurt ye.”
What paradise did he grow up in, thinking pranks are all jumpscares and putting salt in a sugar shaker?
“Sometimes pranks are meant to hurt seriously,” I mumble. Ronan glances at me sharply. “Thank you for your help. I should get back to the dressing room.”
Ronan stares at me, his voice filled with disbelief. “Ye can’t do yer set tonight, lass. Ye won’t be able to touch the pole without pain.”
I know he’s right, even if it sucks. I sniff and nod. Ronan places his hand protectively on my back, leading me through the corridor into the dressing room. I keep my hands cradled, wincing as I flex them and the skin stretches.
The dressing room is empty of any other girls, which is expected. I’m usually at least an hour earlier than everyone else.
The room isn’t completely empty. Connor, Paddy, and Niall are all crouched around my dressing table, wearing latex gloves and sweeping up the remainder of the powder.
Paddy holds up the envelope when Ronan and I approach, plucking out a piece of paper from inside.
“There’s a message for you, Fi.”
I crane my neck to peer at it, making sure I don’t get close enough to hurt myself again.
GOTCHA FI-FI
Oh, god. I knew it was Grant, but seeing that awful nickname I hate more than anything else written down…. I swallow the bile threatening to rise, and offer a tight smile to them all.
“I guess it was a prank after all,” I try to keep my tone as light as possible while carefully gathering my belongings, trying only to use the tips of my fingers.
Ronan hovers, one of his hands still resting on my back. He plucks up my purse with his other hand.
