It was the doll dress. The glass cabinets lined with dead girls’ things. The casual way he’d saidyou’ll meet them downstairs.
Women got used up too easily in this world. If I wasn’t who I was—if I hadn’t learned how to be dangerous—I would’ve ended up just like them.
The water went cold.
I didn’t move.
I stood there shaking, trying to remember how to breathe like I had yesterday.
When I finally stepped out, I stood dripping in front of the mirror.
I had changed so much about myself in the last three years.
And I’d been content. But now that was blown to hell.
My real phone kept buzzing on the nightstand, reminding me that my burner was probably still back at the dead man’s house.
I sighed.
I had fucked up.
I left the bathroom to answer it.
The caller ID flashed Diamond, the only girl at the club I actually trusted. She had retired after marrying Dutch’s brother, Malik.
“Hello?”
"Oh my God. I'm so glad you answered," Diamond said, her voice frantic. "I called you so many times last night trying to warn you. Dutch was going to let that fat creepy Russian fuck that's always messing with the girls have you. Malik told me. Thank God you're safe."
I opened my mouth to respond, but the call waiting clicked in.
Cooly.
I knew a call from him meant money or trouble. I met him a few months after I left Florida at the club. He was in the back, solo,watching me like he couldn’t get enough. The ring on his finger caught the strobe lights, and even from ten feet away—
After my set, he sent a bottle to my table. Dom Pérignon.
He walked over and took a seat, real bold-like.
"You lost?" I asked.
"Nah." He looked up at me like he was studying a painting. "I think I just found something."
Cooly was fine. Dark-skinned. Locs. Golds in his mouth. He hid his muscles under tailored jackets. I don’t know what he did, but he did something to be rich as fuck. Money was on him heavy. One day he was in a Bentley, and the next day a Maserati. The watch on his wrist was worth a house. I was attracted.
He wanted me too. Made it clear from that first night. He was patient. Respectful. He'd show up to my sets. Sit in the back. Watch. Then leave after a few words. He talked me out of my phone number.
Sometimes he'd text: You good?
Or You ate today?
Sometimes it would be I'm thinking about you.
I never told him to stop. Never encouraged him either.
He helped me get new identification. He had connections everywhere—fake IDs, passports, money transfers, you name it. When I needed something, he made it happen.
Without asking for anything in return.
