“Don’t go anywhere,krasotka,” he says with a wink. “We’ll be chatting soon.”
The door closes behind them, and I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding.
Candy grabs my arm, her nails digging in. “What the fuck was that about? You in some kind of trouble?”
I shake her off, plastering on a smile that feels as fake as Trixie’s tits. “Nah, probably just some mix-up. You know how it is with these Russian types. All mystery and melodrama.”
But even as I say it, I know I’m full of shit. This is bad. Really fucking bad. My first thought is Dad. The worthless bastard’s been MIA for a week now. But this doesn’t feel like his usual bullshit.No, I’ve got a sinking feeling that my little encounter with D has something to do with it.
Fuck’s sake, Wren.
No more getting mixed up with those suit-wearing pricks or tatted-up thugs. Last thing I need is to wake up in some warehouse with my fingers cut off.
22
Wren
Ifeel like I’m smack in the middle of this clusterfuck.
Candy’s still eyeing me like I’m about to sprout a second head. “Wren, seriously. What the hell is going on?”
I shrug, aiming for nonchalant and probably missing by a mile. “Told you, it’s nothing. Probably just some misunderstanding about a lap dance or something.”
Trixie snorts. “Yeah, because mobsters always show up looking for lap dance refunds. Pull the other one, it’s got bells on.”
“Fuck off, both of you,” I snap, pushing myself off the couch. My legs feel like jelly, but I’ll be damned if I let it show.
I need to get out of here. Now. Whatever this is, I want no part of it. I make my way to my locker, trying to look casual as I grab my street clothes.
“What, you’re leaving?” Candy asks, her voice rising an octave. “In the middle of your shift?”
I yank on my jeans, not bothering to take off my stage outfit first. “Got a family thing. Em’s not feeling well.”
It’s bullshit, and they probably know it, but I don’t care. I just need to be anywhere but here.
I’m pulling my top over my head when Jojo’s voice filters through the thin walls of her office. She sounds… scared. And Jojo doesn’t do scared.
“Look, we don’t want any trouble with the Skull Collectors, alright?” Her voice is higher than usual, like she’s trying to project. “I’m telling you, Wren wouldn’t have anything to do with your man. She’s just a dancer, for Christ’s sake!”
Skull Collectors? What the fuck kind of name is that? Sounds like a metal band reject.
I glance around, desperate for an escape route. The main door’s blocked by Brick. The back exit’s on the other side of the room, past the Russians.
Trixie must see the panic in my eyes because she suddenly steps forward, arms outstretched. “Oh, my God!” she shrieks, stumbling toward Scarface. “I don’t feel so good…”
And then she pukes. All over his expensive shoes.
The room erupts into chaos. Scarface is yelling in Russian, Jojo’s cursing up a storm, and the other girls are either laughing or making exaggerated gagging noises.
I don’t waste a second. I duck behind the couch, crawling on my hands and knees toward the back exit. The carpet’s sticky and smells like spilled beer and God knows what else, but I don’t care.
I’m almost there when a hand grabs my ankle. I look back to see Punching Bag, his face twisted in a snarl.
“Going somewhere?” he growls.
I kick out, my heel connecting with his nose. There’s a satisfying crunch, and he lets go, howling in pain.
I scramble to my feet and bolt for the door. I can hear shouting behind me, but I don’t look back. I burst out into the alley behind the club, the cold night air hitting me like a slap to the face.
