Page 3 of Bullet

I’d been so stupid. A bottle of Cristal at a three-star Michelin restaurant, and I was drunk on possibilities.

Nine months later, I was sleeping with the enemy, trapped in a relationship with a man who’d made it clear I would never be free to leave. Discovering Emerson’s secrets, knowing what he’d planned to do to these girls, was a horror I couldn’t live with.

My plan, that I now recognize was flawed from the beginning, had been to get the girls out. Part of the plan worked. No one recognized me in jeans and a hoodie, but I hadn’t counted on so many guards being with the girls or that I’d end up mistaken as merchandise and be thrown into the back of the truck with them.

A hesitant touch rested on my back.

I heard it, too.

Sirens from the police cars grew louder. Clanging sounded from inside the warehouse.

“It’s okay,” I whispered.

The door of the trailer rolled open. Police swarmed the warehouse.

“You’re okay,” an officer said, holding up his hands. He clicked the radio at his shoulder. “I need a female officer.”

For now, the girls were safe, but I was fucked. My heart raced, and sweat soaked my shirt.

I didn’t trust cops.

Officers helped the girls from the trailer. I wished I could protect them, but we were all on our own. I couldn’t go home to Emerson. I never wanted his grimy hands on me again. He’d see my interference—my leaving—as a betrayal.

The cops wanted me to go to the station to give a statement. Either way, I was fucked. There was only one way to survive. Tonight, Madison had to disappear.

Chapter One

Four months later.

Stormy

“Make it rain for Stormy.” The DJ’s twang cut through the cheers, and the next song started. I was tired of the same cliché line.

This was me, standing on the edge of a steep and jagged cliff. Sometimes, I wondered if it would just be easier to jump and end it all. No one would miss me. I hoped the one person who would want to find me believed I was already dead. Because if he found me, I would be.

A toxic combination of fear, insecurity, and anxiety pumped through my veins, keeping tempo with the seductive beats ofI Feel Like I’m DrowningbyTwo Feet.

I had a secret way of getting through each song. I imagined dark, stormy gray eyes watching me, and I danced forhim. The stranger in my mind, the one I couldn’t forget.

The strap of my bra slipped off my shoulder—for him. I closed my eyes and focused on the music as Iskimmed a hand across my belly, over the small scrap of silk covering my pussy, and onto my inner thigh.

Slowly opening my eyes, I let my gaze roam over the men in the room. The only familiar faces were regulars of the gentleman’s club. Although I wouldn’t say the clientele were all that gentlemanly. The Landing Strip wasn’t one of the high-end clubs that attracted a wealthy clientele. Bikers, truckers, and blue-collar guys during the week. Frat boys and fuck boys on the weekends.

But it was far from Emerson and his bosses, which was exactly where I wanted to be.

A smile curled my lips as I reminded myself that these men didn’t know me. They knew the dancer called Stormy Knight. I was an illusory promise of sex. I feigned my interest, seduced with my eyes and body.

Here, no one knew the hell I’d escaped. Gone were the manicured French nails, Louboutin heels, and Louis Vuitton handbags. I was just a dancer working for the rent.

I unclipped the front of my sequined bra, letting the material slide down my arms, hang on the tips of my fingers, then flutter to the floor.

A ten-dollar bill joined the other dollars scattered on the stage in front of me. The crowd was small and quiet, mostly men on business lunches, but that was usual for the Friday afternoon shift at the Landing Strip. The tips were still good, and I needed money.

I was stuck in survival mode. No plan, no money, and no idea what I’d do from one moment to the next. I couldn’t worry about next week or nextmonth, not when I had to get through today. Survival mode was just surviving. Survival mode was trading my pointe shoes for stilettos, and a barre for a pole, and dancing for strangers instead of on stage at a theatre.Dancing for the man I couldn’t forget.

Turning my back to the men, I swiveled my hips, bent over, and slowly slid my panties down my thighs. Carefully balanced on my four-inch spikes, I stepped out of the scrap of silk, then turned, squatted deep, and spread my legs—for him.

I held my breath and counted.One. Two. Three.It was just body parts, and they were just looking…paying to look. Paying for a dance. Paying for a fantasy. In the months I’d been dancing, I learned what made money.

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