Текст книги "Pretty When You Cry "

Автор книги: Skye Warren

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 22 страниц)

Chapter Twenty-One

It’s like being locked in a tower. There are no windows in my room, no mirrors. Only a stack of leftover books that I’ve read a hundred times. Nothing dirty, of course. Ivan would never have allowed that when I was sixteen and living under his roof. He never cleared out this room. I suppose he didn’t need the space. Or maybe he always knew I’d end up back here.

At least I have my clothes and things from my apartment. I pick up a lacy thong and eye it critically. So much ribbons and wrappings. I love them. I can’t deny that. I love being a present; I loved being unwrapped. By my own hands, though. The men at the club were not allowed to touch. And Ivan… I never convinced him to unwrap me. Not really.

He didn’t want to.

It settles over me, half decision, half trance. I take off my tank top and jeans and put on the thong.

Immediately I start to feel like myself again—like Candy.

I add layer after layer, swirling myself in silks. A pink bustier striped with black. A frill of short lace instead of a skirt. I put on makeup next, thick strokes of glitter and gloss. I brush my hair until it shines, pinning it away from my face. Long pink gloves that cover my arms, leaving my pale chest and shoulders bare. Thigh-high stockings that flash a bit of skin.

The final step is a pair of black stilettos.

The tiny mirror in my makeup bag barely lets me see my face, much less my body. I make my way downstairs to the main floor, and then to the basement. The gym is down here—weights and treadmills. There’s also a wide-open space with mats for Ivan to practice grappling and fighting with Luca.

And a wall of mirrors on one side. The first glimpse of myself in those mirrors makes my heart skip a beat. I look like a stranger, like someone pretty and confident and sharp. I want to be this woman. Dressing like her doesn’t make it true, but it’s the closest I can come.

And dressing like her does something. Even walking in these shoes changes my gait, my height, the sway of my hips. I feel sexy and powerful, the way I sometimes do onstage. In this basement there is no one to see me, but I still feel sexy and powerful.

Walking is like dancing, when I move slow and sensual. When I cross the floor in long strides, made longer by the four-inch heels. And then I am dancing, swaying my body to music that I can only hear in my head.

I swing myself down low and rise back up, letting my chest lead and my ass flex. I sway and kick and rock my body, with no one to impress. It’s about being sexy, but not about a man. It’s about feeling sexy, alone in the room.

Minutes pass. Hours. I’m covered in a sheen of sweat, breathless, exhilarated.

Dancing like this is almost like being free. Almost like being able to leave this house. Almost.

A throat clears, and I wobble on my shoes, barely catching myself from falling. I whirl, half expecting to see Luca. He’d make fun of me or pull my hair, but it’s not Luca standing behind me. Ivan leans against the brick interior wall.

My mouth goes dry. He isn’t wearing a shirt. The way his arms cross over his chest makes his muscles bulge. And God, those forearms. Blunt strength combined with precision. My gaze takes in the line of pale hair down his taut stomach. Black sweatpants hang low on his hips.

Jesus.

“Were you watching me?” I ask, even though he was. He’s not turning away or looking abashed like another man might. He’s just looking right at me, a bemused expression on his face.

“What was that?” He doesn’t sound accusatory. Just curious.

It takes me a second to realize what he means. “The dancing?”

“It’s different.”

Different than stripping. Different even than Honor’s ballet. A bastardization of both of them—both sexy and elegant, flashy and demure. “It’s burlesque. I’ve been practicing. Do you like it?”

I’ve been thinking we could start doing it at the Grand. It’s more suited to the space anyway. Still sexy. Just a little more…fun.

He is silent a moment. “I need this room.”

He doesn’t like it. My heart drops, but I try not to let it show. Blowing out a breath, I walk over to him, putting every ounce of sexy into my step. It’s strange being with him like this, sweaty and sultry while he is half-naked. Usually he is the one covered up by a suit.

“Maybe I’ll watch you,” I tell him.

He shakes his head. “Get some rest.”

My gaze drops to his chest. It’s magnificent…and heartbreaking. Up close I can see the scars again. Old cuts of unknown origin. The burns hurt me the worst. There’s a kind of careless malevolence in them, someone who wanted to make him hurt, who knew no one would ever see or ever care.

My finger touches a scar on his abs, and he tenses. My father left often, for long periods, drinking binges and gambling, shacking up with someone. It was always a relief when he was gone.

“Do they hurt?” I ask softly.

His voice is cold. “Does it matter?”

More than anything. “If you’re hurting, it matters to me.”

His eyes lock straight ahead of him. He’s looking at someplace above my head. No, he’s really looking into the past. So long ago. The scars are faded, but they’ll never go away.

“Did you ever see her again?” I ask softly. “Your grandmother?”

“She passed away while I was… A year after I left.”

The grief in his voice cuts like raw glass, that while he was enduring unspeakable things, his grandmother died. The jagged edges are sharp with resentment—that she had turned a blind eye to his father’s abuse, even that she had been unable to care for the wild boy he became. Resentment and love. Only love can hurt that deeply.

“Did you ever go back to her house?”

His eyes darken. “There’s nothing for me there.”

Her house, the land… it’s a beautiful place. Peaceful.

There’s no beauty for him? No peace?

“But—”

“Don’t ask me again.”

And the way he says it, it feels like a lash. As if there’s nothing for him there—or here, standing in front of him. As if my very presence here is an affront to him. No, less than that. An inconvenience. He’s punishing me for pushing him too hard, for making him feel too much.

The silence spins out, making the hair on the back of my neck rise. He doesn’t want me here. He doesn’t trust me. He won’t ever love me. My chest squeezes tight.

I step around him.

He grabs my arm. His eyes are still facing straight ahead. “Don’t mistake me for one of the girls at the club. I’m not going to tell you how I’m feeling or open my heart. There’s nothing left to open.”

My breath catches. “Then why don’t you let me go?”

His gaze flicks to me, as cold and cutting as a blade. His hand falls, and I immediately miss his bruising grip on my arm. Without another word, I walk up the stairs to the main floor, feeling his gaze on me the whole way.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Ivan spends most of the next day at the Grand. Luca guards me at the house, under strict instructions not to let me out of his sight. I might fuck with him just for fun, but I’m too distracted. Too nervous about what is happening tomorrow. Ivan is getting an update from Blue and the police department on the investigation, but no matter what, Ivan is going to Harmony Hills tomorrow morning. He’s still not letting me go with him.

It’s the place where I was born. Where I spent the first sixteen years of my life. I’d once been content with never going back, but now that feels impossible. Something is calling me there. And I feel like I could watch over Ivan, protect him—as crazy as that sounds.

He has dealt with a lot of violent assholes over his lifetime, but there’s still something different about the self-righteous, religious, violent assholes like Leader Allen.

And most of all, I’d be able to see my mother again.

Would she even want to see me? I already know she wouldn’t be proud of me. Maybe she’d feel like her sacrifice was a waste, when she sees what I’ve become. Maybe it’s best that I’m not going back, so she doesn’t have to find out.

“Moved,” Luca says.

I scrunch my nose at him. “Did not.”

“The pink one,” he says, sounding smug. “It moved when you touched it with the green one.”

I study the colorful pile of sticks, trying to see where I could have messed up. I’d been so careful. Damn his sharp eyes. “You’re lying,” I say, pointing the thin pink stick at him. “This was nowhere near the green one.”

He rolls his eyes. “You always say that.”

“Because you’re always lying.” And because that’s kind of the point of the game. If we wanted a game with actual rules, we’d play Scrabble. Bickering is what makes Pick-Up Sticks fun.

“Fine,” he says. “Do it over again.”

“Fine.” I slide the pink one back where I got it from. Of course this moves the sticks around it, but that’s okay since I’m putting it back.

Luca studies the position. Then nudges the green stick so it’s on top of the pink one. “There.”

Oh no no no. “Excuse me? No. The green one was not like that when I started.”

“Yes, it was.” He pauses. “And that’s why you moved it.”

I open my mouth to object but a knock at the door startles us both. Luca has his gun out of its holster in two seconds flat. He shoves me behind the couch with a rough, “Stay here.”

My heart pounds as I stare at the carpet, imagining Luca silently stalking closer to the door and looking out the peephole. Whatever he sees must not have freaked him out too much, because the lock turns. Then the second lock. And then the third lock, because Ivan is a paranoid motherfucker.

Then the door opens. “What?” Luca asks, harsh enough that whoever it is stammers.

“Uh…there’s a package for a Ms…Candace Rosalie Toussaint. She has to sign for it.”

A shiver runs through me. It’s been years since I heard that name spoken aloud. And I know neither Luca nor Ivan have ever heard it, because I never told them. I peek around the edge of the sofa to see Luca’s body blocking the doorway. I can only see a little of the terrified-looking post-office deliveryman outside.

“I’m Candace,” Luca says coldly.

“Uh…” The delivery man fidgets. Facing off with an ex-mob enforcer really isn’t part of his job description, but he doesn’t look ready to hand over whatever it is.

With a sigh, I stand up. “I’m Candace.”

Luca gives me a scathing look but doesn’t stop me from meeting them at the door. A quivering deliveryman hands me a black plastic box with a tiny screen. I sign and hand it back. Luca glowers like he might rip the guy’s head off for doing his job.

The delivery man can’t quite meet my eyes as he holds out a shaking envelope. Luca snatches the envelope from his hand and slams the door in his face.

I reach for it while he’s busy with the locks, but he just holds it higher. “Hey,” I say, “That’s mine.”

He doesn’t even acknowledge me while he peers through the peephole, presumably to watch the guy drive away. And he’s still holding the envelope up where I can’t reach it. What an ass.

I lean against the wall and cross my arms. May as well; there’s no way I can get the envelope unless he lets me have it. “You know what we should get? One of those guns that pops out of the wall when someone comes up. Then they’d have ten seconds to make their case before it shoots them.”

Luca glares. “Don’t think I won’t.”

“Ugh, it’s ridiculous how good of a guard dog you are. Does Ivan give you treats?”

He ignores that. “All I have to do is tell him that you’re in danger and he’ll pick up this entire house as is and move it to Iceland.”

It’s a pretty funny mental picture, I have to admit. My lips quirk. “Even people in Iceland are entitled to mail. Can I have my letter now?”

“No.” He scowls. “It could be dangerous.”

I eye the letter with more doubt than suspicion. It’s one of those document mailers made of thin cardboard—and definitely flat. “Is there a bomb in there? Ooh, I know. A rocket launcher.”

Luca is over six feet of brawn and tattoos and experienced malevolence. And he sticks his tongue out at me. “I’m calling Ivan. He’ll definitely want to open it first.”

“What. An. Ass.”

He returns to the living room to grab his phone off the floor. The entire time he holds the envelope over his head, knowing I’ll go for it if I get the chance.

“It’s me,” he says, his voice low and serious. “Some kind of letter showed up for Candy. Yeah, she had to sign for it.”

He’s distracted. This is my chance.

I hop onto the sofa arm, and as he’s turning around to spot me, I snatch the envelope from his hand. He swears under his breath as he lunges for me. The lamp crashes to the floor, but I’m already halfway up the stairs. Luca turned into my surrogate big brother for the year that I lived here—which means I’m fast on my feet. I bypass my own room, which does not have a lock on it, and race to the third floor.

The third floor, which I had always avoided before. Now I know exactly which room is Ivan’s, and I know it has a lock. I close myself in and turn the key.

Luca bangs on the door. “Let me in. Now.”

“How about no?” Okay, so maybe I’m taunting a little. It’s not very often I get to best him.

“This isn’t a game. Open the door.”

“Of course it’s not a game,” I call through the door. “I know why you don’t want me to open it. But it’s my letter, and I’m opening it.”

“I will tear down this fucking door,” he yells.

“Good luck with that,” I mutter. I have no doubt the lock is steel enforced or something equally ridiculous. Ivan would have insisted on that. Luca can probably bust inside, but not before I open this letter.

If it’s some creepy note from the person vandalizing the club—or from Leader Allen—I would have shown it to Luca and Ivan. It’s not like I want to protect the bastard sending it. But I want the chance to open it myself. I know they’d never let me. They’d open it for me, dissect every part of it, and only give me the information they want me to see. It’s what they did about the note on my mirror and the one in blood. I’m tired of being in the dark.

Besides, the letter was addressed to me. Candace Rosalie Toussaint. I have lived for years as Candy, just one name, a bastardization of the one my mother gave me. To hear my real name, to see it in typed letters…I can’t ignore the siren call even if it brings me to my death.

There’s a little tab meant to tear open the envelope. I do so and then take a deep breath. Inside is a single type-written sheet of paper and a smaller, regular-sized envelope.

I look at the typed paper first. It’s on some kind of stationery for a lawyer. It looks very official, but I’ve never heard of them. And then I begin to read…

…your mother’s lawyer and the executor of her estate…

…all funds donated to the Church of Harmony Hills…

…she entrusted me with this letter to her only child in the event of her death…

The room had seemed so big before, but it’s closing in on me. I can’t seem to get any air. My hands are trembling as I pick up the envelope.

This one also has the law firm’s name and address in the return label—as if she wrote the note in the office. My full name is scrawled across the front. Candace Rosalia Toussaint. I didn’t see her write that much. There wasn’t exactly a stash of paper and pens in our room. That was reserved for Leader Allen and the elders and the boys in school. I still recognize her handwriting, though. I could never forget. She drew the letters into the dirt when she first taught me to read—or tried. Without any books or practice it never went very far.

Only here, with Ivan, have I learned to understand.

Dear Candace,

If you’re reading this, it means my time as a sinner has come to an end. Don’t be sad for me, because it means I am at peace. I don’t know if this letter will find you or if you will want to read it. Of all the sins I committed in my life, what I did to you is the most unforgivable.

If it is any consolation, I brought you to Harmony Hills believing it was for your own good—that sunshine and grass would do for you what streetlamps and sidewalks had not done for me. I discovered too late that it’s not the bars that make a jail, but the jailor. And wherever the Good Lord sees fit to send me, I will be at peace because I know that you are free.

Her name is signed at the bottom: Rosalie Toussaint.

I slide to the floor, the letter half crumpling in my hand. I can’t take in a full breath, can’t do anything but shake in the middle of the floor, my knees pulled to my chest. Tears make the room blurry, and that’s a relief. I don’t want to see anything. Not even Ivan’s bed and his big sparse room—normally a comfort. Now it just reminds me of how much I’ve lost.

That’s how Luca finds me when he finally busts the door open. I hear wood splinter behind me, but I can’t move. I don’t care. At least he doesn’t try to touch me, either in comfort or anger.

It’s Ivan who does that, when he gets home a few minutes later. Ivan who rips the letter from my hand to read what I could never say aloud. Ivan who drops to his knees next to me to cradle me close.

Chapter Twenty-Three

I think I might black out for a few minutes. Or maybe longer than a few. The sun has set by the time I come awake in Ivan’s arms in the middle of the bed.

“I’ll leave tomorrow morning,” Ivan is telling Luca, who goes to make arrangements.

“Where?” I mumble. I shouldn’t need him. I can’t need him. After reading my mother’s letter, I know that I was right to try to leave here, leave him. But the thought of being away from him right now feels like knives in my skin.

Ivan just gives a short shake of his head, eyes strangely dark. They’re usually a pale gray, like an iceberg floating in the middle of the ocean.

Right now they seem dark, like deep waters.

“Don’t leave,” I whisper. If he leaves now, I’ll have to find a way to leave too. I’d never see him again, and I can’t bear that thought. Not when I’m so raw.

“I have to go.” He presses his mouth to my forehead in a soundless kiss. “This letter proves that someone in Harmony Hills does know where you are. Which makes it a lot more likely that this—” He pauses, and my mind fills in the blank with what he’d say. Fuckhead. Religious nut job. “That this person is involved,” he finishes quietly.

“I’m coming with you.”

“Absolutely not. We’ve discussed this.”

“Ivan, I…I need to go. I wasn’t there for her when she was alive, and now she’s—” My voice breaks, and I force myself to go on. “This is the least I can do for her.”

His eyes turn to ice. “It won’t bring her back.”

My breath shudders in my chest. “I know that.”

It’s the only kind of closure I’ll be able to find. They would have already had the funeral, if the lawyer is just now sending me a letter. Funerals happen quickly at Harmony Hills. I have no idea how she managed to even see a lawyer and get that letter stowed away for me, but that won’t change anything. I won’t ever see her plain wood casket or her unmarked grave. All I’ll ever see is that house, without her in it.

It’s the only way I can believe that she’s gone. Why doesn’t he understand?

My voice is just a whisper. “I can’t be like you, cutting out the past because it hurts.”

“Is that what you think I’m doing?” That mocking voice again.

I know it is. “Then why didn’t you ever go back to your grandmother’s house?”

“That was a different life,” he says, sounding more tired than anything. “Made for a little boy. Not a shell of a man. I’ll never go back there. I can’t.”

I stare at him, realizing he means it.

He picks up the letter and reads it again, his expression severe.

From here I can see something scribbled on the back, something I didn’t see before. I take the sheet from his hands gently and tilt it, reading aloud.

And you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free. John 8:32.

Ivan’s eyebrows rise. “Even I’ve heard of that one.”

“Why is it on the back like this? It’s in her handwriting.”

Ivan just strokes my hair, content to let me fall apart in his arms. I push myself up so I’m sitting on my own. “I’m serious,” I tell him. “I need to go there and see for myself. That’s what she’s telling me. The truth will set me free.”

He looks dubious, and okay, I admit the logic is fuzzy. But the pieces are there. I can’t ignore them. Her writing that Bible verse, scribbled on the back—like an afterthought. But why did she have it? And how did she die? The letter from the lawyer didn’t say. She wouldn’t be the first person to go missing from Harmony Hills under mysterious circumstances. Of course I won’t find out the truth just from looking at an empty room, but I can’t ignore her. I can’t ignore her final plea.

I clasp Ivan’s hands in mine. “Please, take me with you. I need to go.”

He frowns. “Why do I get the impression that if I say no, you’ll find some other way to go.”

My head lowers, eyes closed. This is the closest I can come to prayer anymore. “I left her in that place, in that hell, for years. I thought she wanted to be there. I thought she chose to stay.”

I always thought she picked Leader Allen over me. After all, she could have gone with me. Or she could have made plans to meet up with me later. She hadn’t.

Leave, Candace. Leave and don’t ever look back.

Ivan’s voice is softer than before, his voice almost gentle. “She’s gone, Candace.”

“I know that,” I say, broken but determined. “But I have to go there, to see for myself. I have to…pay my respects.”

She told me never to look back, but this letter is a window to a past I never saw clearly. I could only see her actions as a scared, hurt sixteen-year-old girl. Now I have to wonder what else was happening…

I lean down over Ivan’s hands and kiss his knuckles. It’s a sign of devotion, a sign of his dominance. His hands tighten around mine briefly before he releases me.

“We leave early in the morning,” he says.

Relief fills me. It’s clear he isn’t happy with me, but he’s letting me come.

Ivan closes his eyes and swears under his breath. “One condition. You will not interfere while we’re there. It will be dangerous, even with protection. You will not speak. Understand?”

“Thank you,” I whisper.

He moves to stand. “I have a lot to prepare before then. You should rest. Not here.”

Then he’s lifting me, carrying me over the carnage of the broken door and down the stairs. He lays me in the middle of my old bed. My eyes are half-closed as I sink into the pillow. He pulls the sheet up and tucks it around me. I’m already drifting as he flicks off the light and closes the door behind him.

Exhaustion has its claws in me, making it hard to keep my eyes open—and ironically, making it hard to sleep. My thoughts are stuck on a wheel, spinning endlessly.

My mother sacrificed everything so that I could live a normal life. And what do I do with it?

Ivan. The Grand. A life of sin.

I didn’t have much choice as a naive sixteen-year-old with twenty dollars to my name. It was inevitable that I would have had to sell myself in some form or another to survive. Ivan spared me from the worst of it, feeding and clothing me first, and then giving me safe haven at the Grand.

Now I’m grown and under his roof once again. He puts me on my knees and spanks me. Even when I lived alone, he watched me constantly.

I discovered too late that it’s not the bars that make a jail, but the jailor.

My mother sacrificed everything so I could be free.

The only way to do that is to leave Ivan for good.