Page 80 of Single Mom's Daddies
After, I don’t move. Neither does she. I stroke her side. She sighs into my chest. Outside, the wind rustles the trees. But in here, everything is quiet. Everything is finally still.
And for now, that’s enough.
20
NIKOLAI
The ballet studiolooks like it hasn’t changed since the eighties—flat roof, peach stucco, and a banner that’s seen too many Wisconsin winters. Rust stains curl down from the bolts that hold it in place, like old blood. A pair of solar lights flank the entrance, but they’re not on, and dusk is already creeping in, the shadows getting longer, heavier.
Max grunts from the passenger seat, the springs in his seat squealing under his weight. “They let kids come here after dark?”
“Most of the girls are picked up by parents. Some drive. It’s not the building that’s the problem.”
He snorts, leaning forward to scan the lot. “The sidewalk’s the problem,” he mutters, squinting through the windshield. “Too many blind spots.”
He’s right about that. The side alley is choked with trash bins and rotting pallets, one of the dumpsters half-collapsed. A warped fence droops behind the lot, its boards missing like gapped teeth.
You could hide a whole ambush squad back there without breaking a sweat. And that’s exactly where Costello’s little punks have been camping out—just close enough to make the girls uneasy, just far enough to stay out of reach.
Harassing the dancers. Following them to their cars. Taunting the owner. Not laying hands. But waiting. Waiting for the moment they’re sure no one’s watching.
Except someone is watching now. Me.
This isn’t the kind of thing we normally handle ourselves. We’ve got guys for this. But with Ruger and Costello sniffing around, Victor thinks we should take care of business personally.
I step out of the car and stretch my back, bones cracking from time behind the wheel. The cold bites at my neck. Max lumbers out after me, boots crunching over grit, coat flapping open to show the butt of his revolver, not even pretending to conceal it.
I nod toward the door. “Lily said she’d be here.”
“Her mother was a good woman,” Max says, eyes narrowing as he takes in the faded facade. “Tough. Smart. Hell of a leg.”
“Don’t,” I say. “I can’t take another story about your conquests.” But then I pause. After finding out about Ivy, my mind’s been wandering to dangerous territory. “You sure Lily isn’t your kid?”
He snorts a laugh. “Lily’s mother was a saint. Too good for me.”
On that, we can agree.
Inside, the lobby smells like cheap cleaner and chalk dust. The floor’s been mopped recently—wet patches still gleam beneath the overhead fluorescents. A row of folding chairs lines one wall. Scuffed toe marks pattern the wood floors like ghosts of pastroutines. I hear the squeak of ballet shoes on hardwood through the studio doors, light classical music leaking under the crack.
Lily’s already at the counter when we walk in, leaning against it with her arms crossed, mouth pulled into a tight line. Her black zip-up clings to her dancer’s frame, and there’s a dark smudge on her jaw where she’s probably been resting her hand too hard. “Nikolai. Heard you were sending someone. Didn’t think it’d be you.”
“You called the Garcías,” I say. “They called Victor. He called me.”
Her eyes flick past me to Max, and she scowls. “Why’s he here?”
“For decoration.”
“I’m not in the mood.”
“Neither am I,” I tell her, resting my forearms on the counter. The surface is worn, the laminate cracked near the edge. “Talk to me.”
Lily doesn’t bother sugarcoating. “Four nights this week. Three of my girls followed. One of them found a note on her windshield that said ‘come out and play.’ No signature. Just smeared ink.”
“You report it?”
“Cops say it’s not a threat unless someone gets touched.” She laughs bitterly, but there’s no humor in it. “Gotta wait for one of them to end up bleeding before they’ll act. Bastards.”
“They won’t need to,” I say.
