Chloe backs away, holding her hands up. I have Shawn’s hands behind his back and I lower my face next to his so only he can hear me.
“If I ever see you anywhere near Chloe, I’ll cheerfully break both your kneecaps. Are you paying attention?” I wince inside as my Dad’s words come out of my mouth.
He groans, blood spilling down his face. I want to punch him, take out my frustration on his stupid, entitled face, but I slowly release my grip on his hair and wipe my hands on my jeans. He uses too much hair gel.
Chloe’s gone. I want to rush after her, but I stare at Shawn instead, who’s grasping his nose and whimpering. I’ve made a mess of this. She won’t want to dance with me, even if she could. There was fear on her face. I’ll have to text her to let her know I’ve gone to the city.
This violence is part of who I am. It’s the fabric of the life I’ve inherited, the life my father is ordering me to go back to. And it’s better if I keep my distance from her and Dylan now. Keep my two lives separate.
It’s safer for all of us.
ChapterOne
CHLOE
The thumping bassline vibrates up through my feet and thumps in my chest. I’m standing near the bar in this crowded nightclub, out of place in my short, floral dress and tennis shoes. I’m dressed for work, minus my apron, while around me are women in bodycon dresses and towering platform stilettos, and seedy-looking guys wearing watches that probably cost more than my yearly rent. It’s certainly not how I imagined spending my evening, but with the restaurant closed for the night I guess I have no choice.
Dylan is deep in conversation with the Grind’s owner, Mitchell Davert. My brother is waving his arms in an animated way. In contrast, Mitchell is completely still. He’s an older man with black hair flecked with silver, perfectly groomed and dressed in an expensive-looking suit. He glances over at me and his eyes flicker as he gives me the once-over.
I can't help but feel out of place here at the Grind. Even the name makes me feel like a hick. The dim lights, pulsating music, and scantily clad dancers are a far cry from our small home town of Darlinton. Growing up, it was just the three of us; Mom, Dylan, and me. Mom used to call us The Three Musketeers. We were a team, solving any problem that came our way around the dinner table. Until Mom got sick and her insurance didn’t cover the treatment she needed to find out what was wrong with her. Then it was my brother and I, with Mom in the hospital, trying to fix a puzzle that had a piece missing.
"Hey, Chloe," a voice interrupts my thoughts. It's Dylan, his face etched with worry. "This Davert guy is a dick. You okay?"
"Yeah, just thinking about Mom," I reply, forcing a smile. He squeezes my shoulder reassuringly, but he's just as worried as I am.
"I'm going to talk to Mitchell again. Stay close, alright?" Dylan pats my arm. I nod, knowing there's no point in arguing.
My big brother’s always looked out for me. He’s the capable, confident one. But now he’s worried, and that makes me want to step up and reassure him. Our need for money has changed everything. Just for a second, I wish I could turn the dial back. Back when playing in the fields and climbing trees were our biggest concerns. I'd give anything to go back to those days, to have our mom healthy and smiling again.
"Want a drink? On the house," the bartender shouts over the music. I shake my head, not trusting myself to speak. A heavily muscled man, his eyes cold, stands in front of me.
“Mr. Davert would like you to join your brother.” It doesn’t sound like a request, so I follow him over to the roped-off area where they’re sitting.
"Chloe, come sit next to me," Mitchell says, his voice dripping with dangerous charm. I approach him, my heart pounding like the bass of the music around us. His two bodyguards loom behind him.
"Tell me, Chloe," he begins, leaning in close, "how much do you love your mother?" The question catches me off guard, and I instinctively draw back.
"More than anything," I reply, trying to keep my voice steady. He smiles, his eyes predatory. Up close, underneath his fake tan, there’s something unhealthy looking about him and he smells of stale tobacco.
"Your brother's loan is due," he continues, gesturing toward Dylan, whose face is paler than usual. "And it seems he's having some... difficulties coming up with the money."
Dylan sits forward in his chair. “It’s only due because you’ve called it in early, Mitchell. I told you the restaurant’s been less busy than usual but we should be able to–”
Mitchell waves his hand. “I’m not interested in excuses.Mymoney,myrules.”
My brother sits back in his chair as the strobe light skitters around the club.
"Chloe," Mitchell says, his voice even, "I have a proposal for you. If you want to help your brother out, I suggest you stay here as a dancer. You'll act as collateral until he pays back the money he owes."
It’s so ridiculous that I laugh, and then glance at Dylan, who is shaking his head. He tries to stand up and one of the bodyguards pushes him back into his seat, keeping his hand on my brother’s shoulder like a vice.
“How do you know I can dance?” I should probably be more scared of this sinister man, but being called ‘collateral’ makes my hackles rise.
Mitchell smiles. The left side of his mouth has gold-capped teeth which glint in the neon lights. “Oh, we know all about you and your brother. I never make a loan without finding out who I’m giving my money to. Your dance scholarship and that prestigious college were very impressive. One might say you’re wasting all your talent working in your brother’s little restaurant.”
I shrug. “That’s my choice. Dylan’s restaurant is going to be a huge success. It’s my Mom’s illness that takes priority now.”
Mitchell shakes his head. His hand traces the surface of his glittering gold watch. “As I said before, excuses don’t interest me. And who knows if you’ll work out here, but we’re a dancer down this week. You’re a little more…voluptuous than our usual girls, but let’s see what you can do.”
