Page 93 of Steel

I just hope I can help her find it before it’s too late and she loses the relationship with our daughter completely. Because I won’t allow her to continue to treat my girl like shit when all she wants is to be loved.

Chapter twenty-five

Spiders.

Thousands of them.

That’s what I’ve felt crawling over my skin constantly tonight as I work, their tiny little legs slinking along my body when I move.

It’s coming from the eyes that are on me. I know that. It doesn’t lessen the creepiness of it or the way the fear ensnares me by the throat.

One move.

That’s all it would take.

I witnessed it in the woods that day when I saw Killer shoot Swirly. It only took one bullet for him to die. The same can be done to me.

So, why am I still breathing? Why hasn’t he taken me out yet? Why do I feel like he’s toying with me?

Some days, I wish he’d just freaking get it over with already.

Steel said that Killer doesn’t toy with his food, but it sure seems like it. I know they found me. There’s no way that message I got wasn’t from them. At least I don’t think so. It’s possible it’sconnected to the girls and the stuff here at the club. It’s the same message, but it just doesn’t feel right.

Peek-a-boo, I found you.

No, that’s too personal. That was for me, and the only person looking for me has been Killer.

This game of cat and mouse is more terrifying than facing him head-on. At least then I’d know what was coming for me. Killer playing this way leaves me on edge. I’m looking over my shoulder anytime I’m outside the apartment—hell, sometimes even when I’m in there—waiting for him to make his move.

I freaking hate it, but I understand it. It also tells me that he’s not a stupid man. Steel may have said Killer doesn’t play games, that he’d rather deal with his problems straight out, but I think Killer is smart enough to know the psychological impact his games have.

If I was a psychopathic killer, I think I’d find more pleasure in drawing out the hunt. Build the fear high enough that when I finally confront my victim and take their life, I get maximum gratification from the kill.

That’s just me, though.

Seems it’s what he’s going for too, and now that I’ve worked that out, I need to make sure I minimize the reactions I allow him to see.

The past with my father taught me a lot of useful things. One of them is how to shut out anything I don’t want to have to face. So, even if I’m freaking the hell out on the inside, Killer or whoever he has watching me isn’t going to know it. There’s no way I’m going to give him that satisfaction. If he wants that from me, he’s going to have to come out into the open and take it.

I log each customer’s face into my memory, taking stock of their interactions with me. The way they smile. Is it too eager? Too malicious? Too leering? The way they look at me. Are their eyes hard? Are they evil? Are they void of any life?

A couple customers send that flurry of spiders hurrying over my skin again when I come into contact with them, but none of them are Killer, and none of them do anything out of the way for me to specifically say they’re part of his people either. Still, they’re the ones I stay clear of for the rest of the night after swapping a few tables with Jazzy, one of the other waitresses.

“Hey, Lee. Have you seen Miranda?” Reva asks.

I think about the last time I saw a dancer with long black hair. “Uh, I saw her after her last set. She was changing out of her stage clothes. I need some air, so I’m about to step out for a quick break. I’ll check and see if I can find her anywhere.”

Sweat rolls down my back from the constant fight of hiding my emotions. It’s making me sick to my stomach and some fresh air will do me good. Is it smart to go out by myself? Probably not, but they’ve had a guy on both exits lately, so I’m sure I’ll be safe enough.

Reva waves me on when a customer draws her attention. Sitting my drink tray under the bar, I grab a bottle of water from the cooler and head down the hall, keeping an eye out for Miranda along the way.

The pressure in my skull and the tension in my shoulders loosen the farther I get from the main area of the strip club. I’m no longer under watchful eyes, and I blow out a heavy breath before twisting off the cap and bringing the bottle to my lips.

Miranda must have gone home because I don’t find any sign of her by the time I hit the exit door.

Pushing through, I step out into the cool night air, taking a deep breath. The cloying scents of body sweat, stale beer, and a nauseating amount of perfume fade out as I begin to pick up new smells.

Underneath the pungent and dusty scents in the alleyway, there’s an odor that’s familiar yet I’m unable to place.

---