Page 32 of Cold Foot Revenge
You owe me ten thousand now.
You are falling behind, pretty girl.
This would be easier if you stopped fighting me.
You’re moving to stage three tonight, in the back.
If you fuck anyone, I’ll kill them.
You don’t dance well. You need to try harder.
You need to wear less.
You need to pay me for the month by the end of the day.
I don’t give a shit if you can’t make rent.
Your debt to me comes first.
Pick up shifts then.
Well, stop fighting.
You can stop this whenever you want.
All you have to do is come back home.
That bastard.
He’d gone behind her and talked to every place she had tried to get a job, and he’d convinced them to give him her resumes. She hadn’t been ignored for job offers because she wasn’t worth a chance. She’d been ignored because Grave had bullied the businesses into ignoring her. Into making her feel invisible.
That’s what men like him needed.
Her lip trembled as she picked up the final page by the corner. It was an official Crew registration page. Her name was at the top. Grave had registered her officially to the Grit-Bron Crew just three months ago, without her knowledge. Also without her knowledge? He’d listed himself as her mate. It would be on all the official paperwork for the government.
Her eyes burned with angry tears, and she slapped the folder closed, her mind racing.
How dare him.
How fucking dare him!
He hadn’t given her an opportunity here. It wasn’t a job he had offered her.
It was shackles. He’d known he was losing her, and he’d Turned her, and indebted her, and left her no option but to dance. He really had trapped her here.
Anger dried her tears. Rage boiled her blood. Fury set fire to her skin.
With a snarl in her chest, she gripped the folder and could just imagine throwing it in Grave’s face. He would be here after the earlier Crew meeting, drinking with the guys, always watching her. She would throw the folder in his face and deck him and ask him what the hell he had done. She would do it in front of everyone, so they could see what a shit-bag he was.
Blinded by her anger, she stormed out of the dressing room, ignoring the questions from the other dancers, but when shemade it down the hallway and strode past the bar, Nick yanked the folder out of her hand, and pulled her behind the bar.
“She’ll be right there, Gary,” he called, pulling up a bottle of tequila. “She’s asked for a shot to get this party started.” Nick flashed a warning look at her. “Not now.”
“Do you know what this is?”
“Yes. Why do you think I gave it to you?”
He eased her head back and poured a shot of tequila down the back of her throat, then allowed her back up. “Give me time to think.”
