Page 6 of Hitch
I check the mailbox, pulling out a few bills and junk envelopes, but then I find a coarse, cardboard envelope without a return address. My name and address are handwritten on it in capital letters. It’s personal. I press my lips together as I tear open the envelope and read the writing on the square napkin inside, the ink messy, as if the writer is trying to hide their identity. All caps with those letters too.
I scan the area to see if Braden is around. If Todd happened to drop by after leaving the strip club. If any of our sellers are out here, waiting to see my reaction.
But I’m alone.
I grit my teeth and read the note again:I KNOW WHERE YOU KEEP THE BODIES. SELL YOUR BUSINESS NOW, BEFORE I END YOU.
The threat of violence lingers on the napkin, like the writer actually thinks they’ll get me. Blackmail with the intent on getting every last penny of mine.
Except this blackmailer isn’t asking for money. They want me toendmy business.
Shit.
It could be anyone. Maybe it’s another one of Braden’s crushes. Or maybe it’s a random seller who can’t shut the fuck up. Or hell, it could be Todd or Braden. But Todd likes the product I sell him, and Bradenknowsthat he’d be just as incriminated as I am with all he’s done for the business.
Which leaves just one person.
My little Hitch.
It’s not just confidence that’s keeping my pistol tucked in her nightstand these days, is it? Maybe Hitch is so sure of herself that she’s willing to blackmail me.
Perhaps it’s time I made my presence known. Perhaps it’s time to show her that I’ve been near her for months now, waiting for the right time to crush her under my fingertip.
Chapter3
Reggie
A restless tensionrolls through my stomach as our eyes meet. I know that face. Eyes so blue they can drown you in an ocean. Stubble covering his jaw and cheekbones. Tattoos poking up his neck, the sleeves of his flannel shirt rolled up and exposing his muscular arms. His entire body brawny and muscular like he does manual labor. Tanned skin. Stiff posture. Broad shoulders. The core of my body heats, bringing me back to that night in the glory hole, in the cornfield, the night I ran away from my old life. How helpless I was underneath him, and yet, how power rose inside of me like water in a sinking ship, ready to drown everything inside of it.
How he needed to fuck me more than he needed to live.
My arms shake, but I grab the stage pole, steadying myself. Then, using my thighs and ankles as leverage, I climb up to the top, as if that height difference will give me some power over him, but it’s like running away from a bear. I’m already caught, and my skin is sensitive and tingly, like my instincts are warning me that I’m about to die.
Is he here to finally kill me?
It’s not normal for someone to go to a glory hole. And it’s also not normal for someone towantto become a stripper. But after years of lying on my back and faking it—I just wanted power over a man. To be in control for once. I needed something that night, and that monster took everything I had.
And now, he’s back to finish what we started.
He inches forward, his fingers tucked in his belt loops, his eyes all-knowing, like this is exactly where he expected me to be. Like he’s known where I’ve been this entire time.
A charge of fear runs up my spine as I arch my back. I couldn’t find my gun this morning—his gun,actually. I knew it was a bad omen, but now, I realize it was more than that. It was a warning. A red flag. I bite my bottom lip, then slide down the pole like normal, hiding my nerves.
Maybe it’s not the same guy. Maybe it’s just a coincidence. Maybe I’m freaking out over nothing.
But then his palm slides from his belt loop to another holster, carrying another shiny gun clipped to his side.
Why did the bouncers let him inwith a gun?
I open my mouth to scream, but the man removes his wallet and places a hundred-dollar bill at the edge of the stage.
My stage. A tip.For me.
Is this a trap?
A war wages inside of me, wanting to hide that money before a customer or a stripper steals it,andwanting to shove it back in the man’s face and shout that I’ve kept my mouth shut for six months. Six grueling months of trying to start over again, to forget that I saw a body in the back of his truck. Six months of trying to forget the way he made me desperate and ashamed.
Six months of trying to forget that I liked it.
