Page 33 of Cold Foot Revenge
“Why did you give this to me?”
“Because they mentioned the Hoffman brothers tonight.”
“W-what?” she stammered.
“And I saw you with him. That was Dylan in here last night. I didn’t recognize him at first. You’re getting in too deep.” He graced her neck with a knowing look, then dragged his glowing eyes back to hers. “Gonna get yourself killed little yote.”
She shoved the folder under the bar, hiding it. “Don’t call me that.”
Only Dylan was allowed to call her that.
“We’ll talk later.”
“What the fuck is the hold up?” Grave yelled across the Rabbit Hole.
Roxy inhaled deeply, praying for patience not to rip that motherfucker’s throat out.
“Go easy tonight.” Nick offered her another shot from the bottle. “Give me time to think,” he said again.
“Roxy!” Grave roared.
Normally she would startle and scurry over to make sure he had everything he needed. Not tonight though. Tonight, she realized just how much she hated him.
She realized how unacceptable his behavior had been.
Hers wasn’t the only life he’d ruined. She was just one of many.
Grave did whatever Grave wanted to do and screw the consequences. He didn’t care.
She turned to him slowly, canted her head, and narrowed her eyes. Then, slowly, she made her way to stage three, in the back, and climbed the stairs.
Reeves, the DJ, was ready, and dropped a hard beat the second she leapt through the air and hooked her legs around the pole.
The memory of Dylan’s arm over her thigh was her companion as she danced for the men gawking at her. The memory of Pamela’s genuine laugh echoed through her mind as she slid to the ground and allowed Gary and his friends to hook dollar bills in the holes at her hips of her ripped up bodysuit.
The clear sound of the tink of their shot glasses hitting each other as she did a toast with normal, good-to-the-bone people sounded in her mind as she dropped to her hands and knees and moved her body just like dirty men craved.
And she could feel the mood of the room shift.
She could see the other customers leaving the other stages and filtering to hers. She could see them standing three rows deep to watch her, and cheer for her, and say the most disgusting things to her. And the dollars piled up on her stage, and rained down on her, and the emptiness grew in her chest, and the want for something more felt like a canyon inside of her by the end of the first song.
Behind the crowd, Grave had settled into a seat at an empty table, and he was watching her, his eyes sparking with intensity.
She hadn’t felt this kind of power since the first few weeks she’d started working here, after her pole dancing lessons, after she’d mastered the tricks and figured out how to use her body to entice men into emptying their bottomless pockets. Now she wasforming a plan, and the anger that was boiling inside of her was to blame for that.
By the end of the second song, she felt nothing at all.
Nothing but the complete acceptance of what she would do next.
Chapter Eight
Dylan hated this. Hated it. Hated the thought of where she was right now.
He’d told himself a dozen times tonight that this was her livelihood, and he couldn’t be the controlling asshole who told her to quit her job because he had a problem with it.
He didn’t want those guys staring at her tits. Didn’t want them thinking they owned a part of her.
This life caused damage, and she was taking on damage with each shift she worked, and he couldn’t wrap his head around being okay with this.
