Page 19 of Ravaged and Ruined
I flick ash to the ground.
Surge exhales slowly. “I talked to Emery.”
My jaw ticks, but I don’t look at him. “Yeah?”
“Did you know Lacey lined up a job?”
My stomach knots, but I force my voice to stay level. “What kind of job?”
Surge glances over. “At the damn casino, man. Il Ritorno.”
I don’t react. Can’t. Not until I know more.
“Garett Ricci offered her a job personally. She went down there right after we left the clubhouse. Emery said she’s been gone all day and won’t answer her phone.”
I drop my cigarette to the gravel and grind it under my boot.
“She say why?” I ask, though I already fucking know the answer.
“Something about feeling like she doesn’t belong. Like she needs to take care of herself.” He pauses. “Said something about being Emery’s friend.”
He shrugs and I swallow hard. That hits harder than I want to admit. I’m the one who said those words like a blade I buried in her on purpose.
Emery's friend. Not my woman. I let my fear win. I told myself that keeping her at arm’s length would protect her. I convinced myself she didn’t belong in this life when the truth is, she’s the only thing that’s felt right in it for a long damn time.
Surge watches me. He’s quiet for a beat, then adds, “Em’s got that feeling, you know? That sixth-sense shit women get. She said something feels off.”
Surge lets that sit for a beat, watching me like he’s clocking my reaction. I grind my teeth, slow and deliberate. My gut’s already twisting. I stare off into the dark, my fists clenched at my sides.
“Fuck,” I mutter.
“You gonna go get her?” Surge asks.
I look up at the sky. It’s black, no stars in sight, like the universe closed its eyes on me.
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m going.”
Chapter Eight
Lacey
The next few hours pass in a blur, like someone else has taken over my body and turned me into a walking fantasy. By the time Marco reappears, I’m barely recognizable, even to myself. My makeup is flawless, artfully dramatic without being overdone. My hair’s pinned up in a style that looks effortless but clearly took skill, with a few soft curls left loose to trail down my back and frame my face just right.
I take one last look in the mirror, trying to hold on to the girl underneath all this polish, and swallow the nerves rising in my throat. No backing out now.
Marco calls for us with a clipped nod, and I fall into step beside the other dancers. He doesn’t say much, just turns and starts walking. The hallway is long, winding slightly as it slopes upward, and with every step, the muffled music pulses louder through the walls. The other girls chatter quietly behind me, their heels clicking in sync across the polished floor. But Marco doesn’t glance back at them, he hoovers close to me the entirewalk, like he’s personally responsible to make sure I don’t get cold feet and back out.
We pass through a set of ornate double doors and step into the VIP lounge. The air here is heavy, laced with cologne, cigar smoke, and money. The lighting is low, gold-toned and sultry, glinting off chandeliers that drip crystal like melting ice. Velvet booths circle the room, tucked into shadowy alcoves, and high-rollers lounge in them like kings, nursing aged whiskey while others sit around poker tables scattered across the floor.
Five raised platforms circle the room like altars. Each about waist-high and draped in deep crimson velvet, their edges trimmed in gold with dim lighting that flickers like candle light at the base. Dancers are already on a few of them, their bodies fluid under the amber lights, graceful and magnetic. A DJ booth is nestled in the far corner, and the rhythm spilling from it is slow and seductive, like a heartbeat just below a moan.
Marco stops beside an empty platform in the center of the room and nods. “This one’s yours.”
The girls behind me scatter toward their own stages as the current dancers step down, but I hesitate for a second. Not because I’m afraid, I’ve danced in rooms thicker with testosterone than this but because Garett is watching.
He’s standing near the back wall, one hand around a crystal glass, the other tucked casually in his pocket. He’s not watching the room, he’s watching me. He nods in my direction and Marco’s hand wraps around my arm, tighter than needed to help me onto the platform. I wince from the bite of his fingers on my skin.
The lights catch on the crimson of my corset as I step up. The music pulses through me, grounding my nerves and I let it flow through me until I’ve convinced myself that I can do this. I’ve performed before but somehow this feels different. Like I don’t have a choice, all though I did. I choose to be here with mystubbornness to prove to Aero that I don’t need him. I don’t need anyone but God, I wish I had been smarter.
