Page 7 of Razor's Property

“What kind of shit?” It’s not like he’s going to tell me. He wouldn’t tell me anything before.

“Lost one of my closest brothers in a raid, and watched another get his legs blown off.”

I stop in place, shuddering. He’s not just caught up with a bunch of criminals, but he could get killed.

“I’m sorry, Sean. But it doesn’t surprise me. When you mess with drugs and criminals, you put yourself at risk for bad shit happening.”

“Like I said, we don’t deal in drugs. We were trying to put an end to the fuckers.” He glares me down. “Fuckers were sellingbad shit that was killing people, so we stepped in. But things went south. Damn…” He shakes his head. “You still think we’re a bunch of gangster thugs.”Well, if the shoe fits.

“Now, answer my question. How come you’re working at that club?”

Isn’t the answer obvious?

“To pay the bills.”

“Really?” His chin locks up. “You couldn’t find a job with that college degree to pay the bills? What was the point in going then?”

That’s the problem. I don’t have a degree.

“I didn’t get to finish college. Mom got sick and I had to drop out to come back and take care of her. Spent three years taking her to chemo appointments and to doctors across the country. Then after she passed...”

“Shit, babe. You serious? Fuck.” He moves in close, horror, sadness, and shock blanching his handsome face. “I’m so sorry. Had no fucking clue. Your mom was such a good woman.”

He reaches out as if he’s going to hug me, but I step back. I don’t want his pity or condolences. It’s too late. My stupid heart had held out hope that he’d show up at the funeral. That he’d come back and be there for me during the darkest period of my life, like I was for him, but he didn’t. He never showed, and now I know he never even knew she was sick. Guess he was too busy with his “brothers,” getting fucked by all those sweetbutts, to give a shit about me. I had to bear it all alone.

“I spent another three years trying to figure out how to pay for all those appointments,” I continue, ignoring his apology. “I was working three jobs and barely scratching the surface of the debt. Then a few weeks ago, Kitty showed up at the gas station where I was working the night shift.”

His jaw tightens, and I watch his fists clench by his sides. “You shouldn’t have been working the night shift. It’s not fucking safe.”

Yeah, well, desperate times called for desperate measures.

“Kitty said the same thing. She was horrified that I was running the cash register alone while the manager was asleep in his office. That’s when she told me that she could get me a job that was safe, and I could make a minimum of a grand a night.” I did the calculation in my head and figured out that I’d be debt free in eight months. I decided in that moment that if I could survive eight years of hell, I could survive eight months being a stripper. So, I sold my soul to the devil and took the job.

I may not like it, but it’s a hell of a lot easier, and I don’t have to work as hard. I no longer have to get up at the ass crack of dawn to go stand on the corner of the street as a crossing guard. Then go hang my sign for a few hours while I drive around the city and scrub floors, cleaning houses until my body was so sore I could barely stand. Only to come home, get four hours of sleep, and then go in for the night shift at the station.

All I have to do now is show up at seven p.m., strut around the room serving drinks, then I get up on stage to do a dance and I’m done. And minimum—until tonight that is—I’d walk out with almost two grand in tax-free bills. Which means I’m even closer to getting out of debt than I expected. I still plan on committing for the full eight months, because beyond paying off the bills, I’d like to save enough money to pay for my last two years of college.

“So, I took the job and have been there for three weeks.” And though it’s not what I imagined I’d be doing, it’s easier. And as proven tonight with all the bouncers who protected me, it’s safer.

“I’m so fucking sorry, babe.” His voice is softer, gentle. Reminding me of the boy I once knew.

I look up and it’s in his eyes. The remorse. The sadness. But I don’t want it from him. It hurts too much as is; add in his kindness, he reminds me of the boy I once fell head over heels in love with, and the pain throbs deeper.

“I should’ve been there.”

Yeah, but he was too busy being a gangster, trying to grow hair on his chest with his criminal endeavors.

“How much debt you got, babe?”

I don’t want to have this conversation with him. It’s none of his business.

“Nothing I can’t handle.” Now. If you’d asked me a few weeks ago, I was a sinking ship, my entire life about to capsize. If I lose my mother’s house, I’m not sure I’ll survive. “The new job pays very well.”

“I’m sure it fucking does.” His sharp tone is back. “But you’re done.”

And here he goes trying to boss me around again. It almost makes me want to laugh.

“You rode off with your ‘brothers’ and your whores, Sean. You don’t get to tell me what I can and can’t do. My life is my prerogative. Now, you can take me back home. This little reunion is over.”

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