That’s it. She’s sealed her fucking fate in my book. Those people had lives. They had partners. They had children . . . and she doesn’t give a fuck about any of it.
I pull out my gun without hesitating, knowing allowing her to live will only cause more problems. “You! You’re the one who told him? Those dealers your father is responsible for killing were dads. They had kids. Your father destroyed lives, and then you come along and lay in my fuckin’ bed. You don’t deserve to fuckin’ live! You don’t get to fuckin’ breathe anymore.” My words somehow become soft at the end, but I know why. It’s because I truly care about this woman. I don’t want to do this, but I don’t have a choice. I pull the trigger without an ounce of hesitation, because Celia’s the type of woman who will continue to be responsible for the death of others. Eliminating her ensures no one else dies at her hand, and I can live with myself for doing that.
I had the club deal with Celia’s body, because I just couldn’t do it. I’ve had this woman by my side for weeks. I’ve had her in my bed . . . and while she offered to listen to my problems, acting like she was a safe ear for me to talk to, she was reporting everything back to her father.
I shut my eyes, hating what I had to do. I’ve never harmed any woman. I’ve never even cussed one out, and yet I did with her because her betrayal was so horrible. She cost people their lives and then acted like she didn’t even care about any of it. Yet, she wanted me to think she had a hard time choosing between being by my side and being a rat for her father. No, she didn’t. She already made the decision when she decided to keep feeding him intel.
She was the first woman I ever trusted enough. The one woman I considered making my ol’ lady . . . and this is where my judgement got me in the end. It put me in an impossible position and I took away something that truly mattered to me. In hindsight, I’m not sure if I can really trust any women. Fuck, my own relationship with my mother was a shitty one at best. I guess from the beginning, my relationships with women haven’t been that great. The only ones that were decent were the ones with my half-sisters, but they were all killed except for Octavia.
Fuck, they were killed because of me.
Because I was foolish enough to be deceived by someone who I thought only had good intentions.
I pick up the only thing in front of me, the stereo system to my TV and throw it as far as I can across the room. It crashes into the bricks and breaks into pieces from the impact. I stand here in my bedroom, breathing hard, my chest rising and falling.
She told me she wanted to meet up with my sisters to see if she could make amends with them, and said she wanted to do it in a way that looked like a coincidence. I told her how they were going out to the movies together for a girl’s night, and instead of being honest like she said . . . she had them all killed, except Octavia. Octavia somehow managed to get out of it alive, and I’m so grateful she didn’t pass away like the rest of them. I loved all of my sisters, but since they passed I’ve noticed my relationship changing with Octavia.
A knock comes to my door and I don’t hold back my rage. “I’m not in the mood for visitors!”
Sure enough, my door comes open and I turn back to see whoever has the balls to walk in here after I said I didn’t want any visitors. Sure enough, it’s my father.
He walks in slowly and shuts the door behind him, then approaches me, his eyes set on the stereo system.
“I like how you changed the curtains. It looks nice,” My father says, completely avoiding what he was just looking at.
My room is half drywall, half exposed brick and I have large windows that have been here for as long as the building has. I had some dark blue curtains a while back, but I wanted something different, so I ordered some blackout American flag ones which tie the room together I think. Hell, Celia helped me pick out a lot of the shit in this room . . . and as I think about it, I grab every fucking thing she helped me decorate it with, throwing it against the brick. My dad stands beside me and watches, not saying a word until I’m finished.
“I know you’re angry. You have every right to be, but promise me you’re not going to blame yourself. This wasn’t your fault. You couldn’t have known she was going to do this to you.”
I turn and look right into his eyes, wondering if he was named Ice because of how cold they can look some days. I know it’s not. I know it’s because my father did every drug under the sun back in his day, mostly crystal meth and cocaine.
I inhale slowly through my nose, knowing he has no idea what’s running through my mind right now. “Dad, get the fuck out before I say some shit I’ll regret later.”
He keeps his eyes on me. “Fine, but don’t go and do anything stupid.”
He heads toward the door, opens it slowly, almost like he’s waiting for me to tell him to stop, but I don’t. He leaves my room and shuts the door behind him, and I’m stuck with my heavy thoughts, knowing there’s one thing I will never do ever again—trust a woman with my heart.
CHAPTER ONE
Kara
Friday nights are always the longest. And the loudest. But they also bring in the highest tips. Always been that way. Ever since my first job as a stripper twelve years ago, when I was fifteen passing for eighteen. Weekdays are slow. Saturday night is OK, but not great, since Sunday is church and God day, and even the biggest freaks like to pretend they’re not then. Can’t have huge dark bags under your bloodshot eyes and alcohol still on the breath when you sit next to the missus in the pew, now can you?
I used to joke about that with every stripper I ever worked with, before, after and in between sets.
It’s not funny anymore. I’m twenty-seven years old. Old being the operative word. Pretty soon I won’t get a job at a high-end strip club like this here Silhouette no matter what—or who—I do.
Up until a few months ago, I thought I’d never have to touch another pole in my life. Funny how quickly life can turn from one thing to another. I should be used to it by now. But then again, I never was a fast learner.
Like for example, I should’ve left Javier the first time he slapped me. But I let it drag on because I thought I had it made with him. Living in his high-rise three bedroom apartment that he let me decorate with his black American Express card. He let me charge whatever I wanted on that card. Expensive clothes and shoes, all the spa treatments I wanted, and more jewelry than I’d ever need.
Dumb little me thought a few slaps here and there, when I got too loud and obnoxious, was a fair enough exchange. It was better than getting groped and slapped by random sleazeballs at decrepit shithole strip clubs, at any rate.
I’d probably still be getting slapped around by Javi if he hadn’t been killed on New Year’s Eve. Hell, I might’ve been killed at that same party, if he hadn’t busted my lip and made me bleed all over the dress I was wearing to the party. My face was too messed up, so he couldn’t take me with him after that.
At least this Silhouette place I’m working at now isn’t a dump. It’s actually a very decent place, and I haven’t seen a poor person walk through the door yet, in all the months I’ve been working here.
I’m standing by the back door, waiting for the girl currently twirling on the pole—Diamond-to be done so I can go on for my last set. Then it’s home and bed until I get to do it all over again tomorrow night.