Текст книги "Reveal"

Автор книги: Elle Brooks

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Reveal

Copyright © 2015 Elle Brooks Author Ltd

Editing by Marie Piquette

Cover design by Indie Solutions

Formatting by JT Formatting

All rights reserved.

Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication many be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without prior written permission of the above author of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products, bands, and/or restaurants referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication / use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

This work is registered with and protected by Copyright House & UKCS.

License Notes

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Table of Contents

Title Page

Epigraph

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Epilogue

A Preview of Promises Hurt

Other Titles

About the Author

“The greater danger for most of us lies not in setting our aim too high and falling short;

but in setting our aim too low, and achieving our mark.”

– Michelangelo

WHEN I WAS eight years old my father took me on a hunting trip. I was excited, elated to be spending time with him, just the two of us. ‘Quality time’ he’d called it. All my free days were spent with my mom as she ferried me to-and-from my dance recitals. Dad and I were like passing ships in the night. I’d see him at dinner if he wasn’t working late and I cherished those days. He’d sit beside me at the table, tweak my nose, call me kiddo and ask about my day. The day of the hunt we drove for a long time before leaving the car and walking out into the woods. I remember him telling me to stay quiet, not make any sudden movements that might alert our prey as we descended upon it. I held my breath, my lungs burning, screaming for oxygen, but I stayed still, not making noise. The deer knew we were there; it sensed the danger even though we were camouflaged by the long grass and as still as a photograph. I watched as Dad lined up his shot and squeezed the trigger, but he was too late. The deer had bolted, barely escaping with its life. One more second and it would have been too late. I was pumped with adrenaline and eager to carry on and find a new target. I never spared a thought for how terrified the poor animal must have felt knowing it was being stalked. I was the predator, top of the food chain, and the upper hand was mine.

Tonight I’m the prey.

I watch—skittish and on high alert like that deer as the door rattles on its rusted orange-brown hinges. The pounding is so strong, so undeterred and fierce, it sounds like the persistent unwavering beat of a healthy heart. Each bang echoes around the shoebox that is my small apartment, reverberating through my chest as I rock back and forth, silently praying the tired old locks will hold out. I can’t open it—I don’t dare– something tells me if I don’t give my caller what he wants right here and now, my front door won’t be the only thing that takes a beating.

“There’s no one home, sonny,” I hear Mrs. Heckles, my eighty-nine-year-old neighbor shout from across the hall, and the hammering stops. My momentary solace dissolves quicker than it arrived as the silence is replaced with the sound of my racing pulse thrashing wildly in my ears.

“You see him leave?” he bites back at her in a scathingly harsh tone, and I wince.

“Him? Oh, you mean, Daniel. Yes, he up and left early last week and hasn’t been back since. Good job, too. If I get my hands on that darn boy I’ll strangle him for deserting poor Robyn. What business do you have with him, anyway?”

God love her, Mrs. Heckles is the sweetest old lady I’ve ever known, but she must be the nosiest too. There isn’t a single ounce of privacy on the fourth floor—my floor—with Mary Heckles walking the halls. She’s the eyes and ears of this building. Nothing and nobody get past her without her acknowledgement.

“He owes me money. Don’t suppose you know if he’ll be back?”

“Don’t suppose even Robyn does. Headed back out west as far as I’m aware. Took that poor girl’s heart and all her money with him,” she sighs.

Oh God, please be quiet and go back inside.

Her telling this jerk anything else, no matter how small or inconsequential it may appear, is the last thing I need.

“So she’s still around then?” The timbre of his voice gives credence to the images I’ve been conjuring in my mind—making my stomach churn. Mr. I-could-kill-you-with-one-finger has a hint of hopefulness in his otherwise gruff forty-a-day habit tone. I wait as he morphs from intimidating to polite and utterly charming in an instant.

Shit! Don’t answer, Mrs. Heckles. Please, please don’t answer.

“Sure, you want me to tell her you called, Mister—?” she replies, waiting for him to fill in the blank and offer his name.

Damn it!

My shoulders drop and I shudder as a cold bead of sweat races between my shoulder blades and down my spine. I move my legs out from under me, drawing them up and hugging them tightly to my chest as I strain to listen.

“Carter, Mr. Carter. That would be very kind. Here’s my card—if you could give me a call when she shows up, that’d be swell.”

The knot in my throat burns and I can feel the sting of tears begin to prick behind my eyes as I lean against the back of my sofa. I’m hidden like a five year-old playing hide-and-seek. Only the thought of being discovered is terrifying. Their voices begin to trail off and I listen for the dull thud of his boots retreating down the hall before I summon the courage to move out from my hiding place.

I’m shaking; I don’t know if it’s from the adrenaline of thinking he was going to force his way in here, or the realization that he’ll be coming back. I could kill Danny right now. I’m a twenty-four-year-old woman, too scared to leave my own apartment. It’s the one place that’s supposed to make me feel safe. Offer comfort, not elicit dread deep in my belly. What if another asshole wanting me to make right on my spineless ex’s debts decides to show me he’s not kidding? I’d never been slapped before until a few days ago, not even as a kid growing up with older siblings. I can still feel the sting on my cheek and the throbbing behind my eye thinking about it. I guess the whole you don’t hit women rule goes out the window when the guy that owes you ten grand ups and does a midnight flit on you, leaving his girlfriend to settle the debt. Apparently sharks of the human variety don’t like to be told to go screw themselves—I’m not going to forget that lesson in a hurry. My mother always said my smart mouth would land me in hot water. Well, now it has. Only this time it’s scalding, fifty feet deep and I’ve forgotten how to swim.

MY MEETING’S BEEN canceled, but instead of being pissed, which on any other occasion I would be, I’m making use of the small window opening up in my otherwise stacked day. I hate deviating from my schedule, but fuck if I can manage another hour without a decent cup of coffee. If Sophie can’t figure out that damn espresso machine in the office, I’ll have her re-distributed and find an assistant that can.

I’m rocking on my heels in line at the Starbucks outside my building and I watch as the polished glassy black leather of my overly-expensive designer shoes crack under the strain of my movements. I could’ve had Sophie come down here and get this for me, but I’ve been working on the Michaels’ case since five-thirty this morning, and I’m glad for the ten-second blast of fresh air I get crossing the street into the store. The barista, a tall, awkward-looking guy with too much product in his wavy dark hair is idly chatting to the woman at the front of the line. He’s unaware, or more likely unbothered, that there are four other people waiting to be served while he flirts unashamedly. I can feel my blood heat as he carries on his conversation, biting the side of my cheek in an attempt to calm my temper. Everything is pissing me off lately. It’s out of character for me; I’m the cool and collected one in the family, or at least I used to be.

This case feels like a goddamn noose around my neck. If I win, I’ll make partner and at thirty years old, I’d be the youngest in the company’s history. The pressure is immense. My whole life is centered on this one case, and everything has to be on point. Not only do I have to deliver professionally, but my private life has been hijacked and is under scrutiny, too. Having family on the board isn’t quite shaping up to be the ideal situation I thought it would be. For the last eighteen months, I’ve endured my parents’ input on everything: who I date, whether or not they portray the right public image, what social events we need to be seen at, and whose proverbial ass I need to kiss in order to keep everyone happy.

“Sir, you ready to order?”

A spike of irritation races down my spine as I meet the barista’s irked glare. He’s spent the last however long flirting with a customer while the rest of us waited patiently for him to be shot down and carry on serving. Now he has the nerve to look annoyed that I’m keeping him waiting by not stepping up to the counter quickly enough.

“Venti Americano, black.”

I dismiss his efforts to upsell me on my coffee choice as smoothly as I can. I’ve no desire to try their new Columbian roast, or add a shot of some synthetic-tasting syrup; I want a coffee, not dessert in a cup.

“Name, sir?”

He’s poised with his marker on the cup, brow arched. I really don’t like this kid. “Cole.”

“Collect your drink at the end of the counter. Sugar and creamer are behind you. Have a nice day, Cole. Next!”

I can’t actually remember the last time I engaged in a real honest-to-God conversation with somebody, instead of these clipped exchanges, each of us striving to communicate with as few words as possible. It’s amazing that in a city of 8.4 million people someone can feel this lonely.

I hear the shriek a millisecond before I register the searing hot pain shooting down my chest and abdomen, leaving a fire in its wake. What the hell?

Wide dark eyes flash panic at me before my mind makes sense of what’s happening. My shirt, pants, and shoes are drenched in steaming hot coffee, and I pull at the once-white cotton of my button down, peeling it from my blistering chest. I’m holding my breath and sucking my stomach back in a feeble, inept attempt to place as much distance as I can manage between my skin and shirt. Neatly stacked bottles of water on the countertop catch my eye, and I grab one with my free hand, quickly biting off the sports cap before dousing myself in the cold liquid.

Goddamn, this burns.

If I weren’t in public, I’d be shouting profanities and stripping out of these clothes like a madman. The background noise dissolves as I look up, realizing I have an audience.

“I’m so sorry, are you alright?” A voice belonging to the dark eyes trembles, cutting through the silence. I watch as the woman brings her hand up to her full pink lips and sucks down on her wrist. There’s an angry red welt from her spilled drink.

Shit!

“Here.” I pull her wrist from her mouth with a little more vigor than I intend, and she stumbles towards me. There’s not much water left, but I squeeze the plastic bottle; letting the last few drops slide over her skin and cool the burn. She’s still looking at me wide-eyed as I lift her hand, bringing it closer to me as I blow gently over it. Goosebumps break out and race down her arm. My chest is on fire, but this girl’s face has me tending to her needs and not mine. I’m sure she’s about to start crying when a young girl comes from the back with napkins and damp washcloths. I’m still holding this stranger’s wrist; her face is quick to smooth out and look swiftly unaffected as she pulls from my grasp.

The store begins to bustle like someone has released a pause button, and a new wave of energy has blown into the small store. The show’s over, and people start talking amongst each other once more, realizing there’s nothing more to see. The young girl frowns, looking irritated at me as she bends to set about drying the huge puddle of coffee and water over the floor. I would have offered to clear the mess myself, but her scowl has just sealed her own fate.

I push a cold, damp cloth against my chest as my coffee assailant wraps the remaining one over her hand.

“I really am very sorry, I didn’t realize you were standing so close behind me. Are you okay?” There’s genuine concern in her voice. I look up from dabbing at my hot raw skin. My suit is completely ruined and I’m doing a mental inventory to determine if I have a full change of clothes back in my office. I know I have a couple of shirts and ties. It’s the first time I actually take the whole of her in, and not just her huge almond-shaped eyes, or the tussled mounds of long dark chocolate hair framing her sad face. Jesus, she’s pretty. Not in an overtly sexual way either, even though she has those pouty rose-colored lips and a hint of a blush staining her cheeks. She’s just so—I can’t think of a better word—appealing.

“I’m good. My clothes on the other hand– completely ruined!” I smile, but it fades the moment the words escape my mouth and her face crumples.

“I’ll pay for your dry cleaning,”

“Wait, no, that’s not what I meant. I wasn’t trying to insinuate that you should…”

“It was my fault.” Her voice is soft, quiet, a little dejected even, as her eyes slip down to her sneakers. I swallow hard, feeling like I’ve somehow upset her. My comment was on the sarcastic side, sure—but I’d meant to make her laugh. The silence has gone beyond socially acceptable and is quickly veering into awkwardness. I either need to break it or bow out of this strange standoff. She’s not lifting her head, and I’m assessing her pale skinny jeans and an oversized white t-shirt that hangs off one shoulder. There’s no way I’m letting this woman pay for my dry cleaning. Hell, I’ll just toss the shirt away when I get back to the office.

The one thing I do want from her, though, is her number. I smile in an attempt to project a little more friendliness in my tone and tell her, “That’s really not necessary. Plus, yours is ruined, too.” I point at her shirt, and she looks down at the stain and shrugs as though she couldn’t care less. “How about you let me buy you another drink, and we’ll call it even?” I ask, suddenly wanting to prolong our encounter.

“How’s that even? I spill my drink on you, ruin your clothes and you buy me another?”

Her head cocks to one side as she bites down on the corner of her bottom lip while looking me over. I watch closely as her eyes roam over me from head to toe, and I swear I feel her gaze touch every part of my body. The word ‘pretty’ suddenly feels arbitrary and doesn’t fit anymore. This girl’s not pretty, not even close; she’s stunning. I stand transfixed as a small smile tugs at her mouth. I resist the urge to grin at my apparent success in passing her laughably unsubtle inspection, and the thought excites me...a lot.

“I’d love to stay and have coffee with you, but I’m already late for my audition.”

She bends and picks up a backpack I hadn’t noticed from the table, slipping it over one shoulder as she takes a step back from me.

“Audition? Let me guess, pretty girl in the Big Apple.” I run my hand over my jaw and pause briefly. “I’m going with actress?” She smirks and it makes me forget that I’m covered in scalding hot coffee. I can’t help but return it. “I’m right?”

“Yeah, um—no. I couldn’t act if my life depended on it. I’m a dancer.”

“Dancer,” I repeat with an appreciative nod, having no idea what else to say. My mind is firmly in the gutter about how flexible dancers are, and what I could do to her—the positions I could take her in if she’d only let me. My trousers are tightening at the thought. It’s an unacceptable and somewhat embarrassing response given the situation and our current surroundings. I’ve regressed to my college self without a single drop of Patron.

“I’m Cole.” I clear my throat and stand taller, thrusting out my hand for her to shake.

“Robyn,” she says, shifting on her feet and looking at her watch. “I don’t mean to be rude, Cole, but I really do have to get going.”

Instantly I’m far too disappointed than I should be. I want her to stay but that’s not in the cards, and honestly, I don’t have time to sit here with her anyway. She’s still watching me, and I’m staring back at her vacantly as I imagine what her body looks like under that loose-fitting shirt before realizing she can’t get past me.

I slap myself mentally. “Sorry, here.” My shoes squeak against the sodden floor tiles as I sidestep out of her path and watch her quickly weave her way through the maze of tables towards the exit.

“Nice to meet you, Robyn—painful—but nice!” I shout just as she reaches the door. She lets out a little laugh, scrunching her nose and mouthing ‘sorry’ before turning and walking away.

Damn it.

I push my way to the front of the line, ignoring the disgruntled comments about waiting my turn and lean over the counter. I ask the server who was flirting with her if Robyn’s a regular. Once I’ve established that she’s in here at least a couple of times a week I leave and head back to work—coffeeless, burned, wet and wearing a huge shit-eating grin for the first time in months.

“I’M SORRY, HONEY, but the spots have already been assigned. We only needed three girls. Sixty showed up. We sent half of them home without even auditioning them. The client’s already made up his mind.”

I pull my headshot and resume from the choreographer’s outstretched pristinely-manicured hand; he didn’t even glance at them. I take a deep breath in a futile attempt to steel my resolve. I wanted to land this job so badly; no—I needed to land this job. I’m broke and don’t have a single contingency plan. I have no clue what to do. It’s been a week. 161 hours since Mr. Carter banged on my door. Each morning, my first thought is that I miss Daniel. My second is that I wonder if this is the day Carter will decide to try again. My third is that I hate Daniel. It’s surprising how exhausting the apprehension is.

I spin on my heel, quickly making my way out into the corridor and head towards the bulletin board. I can only pray something new has been posted that I’ve somehow managed to miss. Lacing my way past people stretching, kit bags, water bottles strewn across the floor, I stumble—it’s like an assault course in these halls.

“Robyn! Hey, wait up.”

I turn to see Lucy, an old friend, make her way towards me. Her long Amazonian-like body moves gracefully through the obstacles in her way, effortlessly commanding people’s attention as she strides purposefully. I’m enveloped in a tight hug against her caramel skin as soon as I’m within her reach; she hugs me so fiercely I think she must know it was just what I needed.

“How are you? I haven’t seen you since we danced for the Tragic Lovers’ music video last year. How’s that hella hot guy of yours?” she drawls in her thick Boston accent, pushing me back to see my face. It’s the final nail in my coffin. The proverbial straw that breaks the camel’s back. Before I can stop myself, I’m having a full-blown meltdown in the middle of the hall. Heated tears are spilling rapidly over my cheeks in a torrent, and I can feel snot begin to bubble from my nose as I hiccup.

“Holy shit, that good, huh?” Before I can reply she’s maneuvering me into an empty studio and closing the door behind us. “What’s going on, Robz?”

“I don’t even know where to start,” I sob, dropping my bag onto the floor as I sit down, Indian-style, on the cool hard wood. “Danny couldn’t catch a break. Nobody wanted to sign him and you know how passionate he is—was– about his music. He had so much interest, but would he give a little? Bend to anyone’s suggestions? No! He kept saying that he wasn’t going to sell out and jeopardize his music by being a puppet for some big label. He’d racked up so many loans, credit cards, he even had me borrow money, and like a fucking lovesick puppy—I did.”

Her eyebrows are raised; her eyes stretched wide in surprise.

“We were just about making the rent each month with the money from my work paying for our living costs. But I guess he got tired of the struggle. He left last week, sent me a fucking text saying he was sorry but he couldn’t do it anymore—he couldn’t do it anymore!—like the sacrifice was all his! He’s headed back to California. I tried calling him, but he’s swapped out his cell I guess. He’s just left me here with a shit ton of his debt, Lu. What the hell am I going to do?”

She lets out a long whistle and leans her back against the door, crossing her arms and ankles as she pins me with a look of concern. I know things are hardly looking peachy for me at the moment. Hell, my rose-tinted spectacles were sat on and destroyed the moment Danny disappeared. Seeing my concern mirrored in Lucy’s eyes, though, I feel a whole new wave of hopelessness wash over me. How can this be my life?

“He’s really done a number on you, huh? What a dick! How much debt has he left you with?”

“That’s the thing, Lucy; I’m not entirely sure. At the moment, it’s standing at the ten grand mark. I’m praying it doesn’t climb any higher. I don’t have that kind of cash. All my savings disappeared paying for his sorry ass.”

I want to scream in frustration, but what good would it do? I’d look even crazier than I do now. I’m sitting blubbering in the middle of a dance studio to the first person who showed enough compassion to listen.

“I need to find more work; I’ve already been told I have…” I count down on my fingers, working out the math since the day he’d caught me at the entrance to my building and issued a deadline. “Ten days.” Oh God. Don’t hyperventilate, Robyn. “Ten days to come up with eight hundred dollars for some scary-as-hell loan shark who slapped me when I told him it wasn’t my debt to settle. Apparently next time he won’t be so polite and understanding.”

“What! He hit you? Where were you? Have you reported it? Son-of-a-bitch.”

“Of course I haven’t reported it. He made it pretty clear that he doesn’t dick around. He was waiting outside my building—he knows where I live. I don’t really have a choice; I need to come up with the cash to get him to go away.”

“Shit, Robyn!”

“I know!”

“I hope someone rips Daniel’s vocal chords out and feeds them to him via his ass!”

I can’t help but laugh. It’s a sad and pitiful noise. “Harsh, but I wouldn’t mind that happening right about now. So, I don’t suppose you know of any high-paying cash gigs that need a dancer?”

“Honey, I wish I did. Unless you want to try your hand at stripping and shake what your mama gave ya, your options are highly limited. Then, of course, you need to factor in the competition. Every job I’ve seen posted on Backstage recently has had hundreds of applicants for each audition. It’s a nightmare right now.”

“At this point Lu, stripping doesn’t sound like the worst thing.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah, seriously…these guys, they’re not the type that give extensions. I need to make some money and quick.” I sigh and immediately wish I hadn’t. I’m so sick of sighing. I don’t want to be that girl, the one who feels sorry for herself. My shoulders round out as my head sinks and I study the floor. The realization that I am that girl is a tough pill to swallow. I do feel sorry for myself. I do feel hard done to. I’ve been betrayed, and I’m mad.

“Okay, so I may know of something.”

“What? Stripping?”

“Not exactly, but close. My friend Annie works at a little club off Broadway. It’s burlesque—classy stripping! You want me to call her and see if there’s anything going?”

“Yes! I’ll do anything, dance, wait tables, tend bar. Anything to make this nightmare stop.”

“Okay, honey, let me go grab my bag and we’ll try figure something out.”

I take a deep breath as I lie back and study the lighting rig in the studio. It seems a lifetime ago that my mom was taking me to my first dance class. I remember returning home that night so excited I couldn’t make myself stand still; my whole body trembled in sheer elation. The hour-long wait until dinner was the longest of my existence. I wanted to tell my dad all about how wonderful my dance teacher was, how pretty the other girls danced, and that I’d figured out what I wanted to be when I was older. I was six. Not once from that day forward did I ever contemplate that I would be anything other than a dancer.

My parents have sacrificed so much to get me here, ferrying me to recitals, competitions, and auditions. They wanted me to realize my dream, the same one I’ve had my whole life: to be dancing under a spotlight, gracing a stage with all eyes trained on me…moving effortlessly while casting a spell over my audience. Never in that dream did I imagine taking my clothes off. Yeah, it’s dancing, but my stomach flip-flops at the mere prospect of it. I need to pay these vultures, though, so I guess I’ll sell my soul to the devil and pray for redemption later. Right now, I just need the cash.

“Here you go,” Lucy smiles, walking back into the studio thrusting a piece of paper towards me with a name, address and number scribbled messily across it.

“Call tonight, after ten. Annie said you should ask for Mr. Speight or Mr. Lector, and make sure you mention her.”

“Wow, thanks, Lu. You work fast!”

“It ain’t what you know in this world, honey; it’s who you know. Now grab your bag, I’m taking you for a drink—on me. Heaven knows I need one just listening to you! Girl, you must be desperate for one.”

“It’s barely 1:00 pm.” I raise my eyebrows but she’s right, I could really use a drink or three right now.

“If it’s suffixed with a p.m., honey, it’s wine o’clock in my book. Get your butt into gear. Let’s go and put the world to rights one glass at a time.”

I smile and throw my bag over my shoulder. If only it were that easy.