Page 6 of Dance for Me

One thousand dollars.

Enough to pay the rent on her tiny home for another month, with enough to cover some of the utilities and food. Enough to ease the stress of living for a few more weeks until...

No.

The money might as well have turned to ash on the carpet.

Relying on other people was no longer acceptable. Taking bribes or whatever the hell this bounty was...she couldn’t do it. Not to mention, if she spent it, who knew what conditions came with it.

Mr. Mysterious could turn up on her doorstep and demand...anything in return for his generosity. She’d be beholden to him, wouldn’t she? Because she knew damn well she wouldn’t have sufficient cash to pay him back. And what if he asked for interest? He’d literally have her over a barrel.

No one was going to have that power over her ever again.

Goddamn it.

As visions of food and keeping a roof over her head blipped out of existence, Bodie slammed her fist down on the arm of her chair, relishing the surge of pain spiking up her arm. It washed through the thin fog of distress, cleared her head enough for her to see what she needed to do.

Time to get her big girl panties on, if she had any left, and go back to that fucking club. Hopefully she had enough gas left in the tank to get her home. But she’d return to the place where her world crumbled with the roll of money and the bracelet, with her head held high, and she’d give it back.

Every. Last. Bill.

That’s what she was going to do, she decided as her stomach vehemently disagreed with her choice. Then she was casting aside any notion of continuing with the stupid idealistic dreams of dancing for a living—because major fail so far—and she’d look for a job that at least made her enough of a wage to keep the shitty roof over her head, her angry belly full, and maybe reclaim some sense of dignity in the shape of furniture.

Ripping her soul out might be easier than giving up music and rhythm.

Starving to death in a cardboard box in the middle of winter didn’t sound wonderful either. The rut she was in was going to drive her crazy.

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Chapter Two

“That face of yours is gonna drive my customers away, boy.”

Braun Fitzpatrick drummed his fingers on the polished oak of his bar and sipped his soda as he studied his friend’s face. He preferred his drinks a little stiffer but at three in the afternoon, it was too early to indulge in his usual whisky. “You gotten in touch with the root of your upset?”

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