Page 95 of By A Thread

“I do,” I whispered.

“I can’t hear you.”

“I do,” I said again.

“That’s right. You do. So, you’re going to go out there and shake that talented ass of yours. And then you know what you’re going to do?”

“Burn these clothes and get drunk?”

“No. Well, maybe. But first, you’re going to collect the money you earned, and then you’re going to come have a drink with me at the bar and explain to me just how bad things really are.”

I winced.

I knew I could ask her for the money. And I knew she’d give it to me. No questions asked. No expectation of repayment. But I’d promised Dad. It was the only way I hadn’t let him down yet.

I’d sworn that we would handle this the way we’d handled everything else: together. A two-man team against a disease that we both knew would eventually win.

My father was a proud man, and he’d instilled that particular value in me. If I accepted money from someone to help pay for his care, he wouldn’t just be disappointed. He’d be devastated. I promised him he’d never be a burden, and I promised myself that he would never have the opportunity to feel like a burden.

Which was why I’d been lying to him on his good days, telling him his insurance was covering everything.

I made a promise.

And I’d do whatever it took to fix this on my own. Even if it involved pasties. My Morales pride would keep me warm on that stage.

“So, what should my dancer name be?” I asked, changing the subject before Faith could demand a full accounting of my monthly bills.

“Hmm,” she mused, popping a blue raspberry lollipop in her mouth and studying me.

She grinned. “Candie Couture.”

“Oh, God,” I groaned. “Can I at least spell it with a ‘Y?’”

“Nope. It’s ‘IE.’” Faith smirked. “Now close your mouth.”

“Wh—” My choking and gasping after eating the first spray of body glitter she aimed at me interrupted the question.

32

Dominic

Iwas going to fucking kill her. Drag her off the stage and into the alley and murder Little Miss Candie Fucking Couture with a Dirty Secret. But first, I was going to kill every son of a bitch in this room who dared to look at her. Starting with that greasy, gold-toothed dipshit in the corner who was grabbing his junk through his track pants. He’d be first.

When I overheard… okay, fine. When I eavesdropped on her call on the roof, I thought I was hallucinating. My wholesome, untouchable admin wasn’t really planning to take off her fucking clothes in front of a crowd of perverted strangers for money.

Yet here I was, sitting in a black vinyl booth with a table tent advertising two for one splits of champagne to share with your “favorite dancer.” And there she was. On the stage in shorts so short I didn’t think they qualified as clothing in front of at least a hundred and fifty assholes—myself included. She was squinting into the lights as a bunch of soon-to-be dead men—and women—whistled and catcalled.

If I were feeling more charitable, I’d say I couldn’t blame them. She looked unbelievably tempting.

But she also looked terrified.

I’d had enough. I started to slide out of the booth with the intent of getting her off that stage. She didn’t belong there, and it was beyond fucking time that she came clean about everything.

But the music was starting, and the crowd was leaning closer. When she wrapped a hand around that brass pole, I forgot what I was doing and dropped back down into the booth.

The song was slow, dirty, tortured. I liked it. It reminded me of me.

She hooked a leg around the pole and spun, dropping lower and lower circling toward the stage. Her hair whipped out behind her, and when she stood again, it covered one smoky eye. My fingers itched to push it back, to hook it behind her ear, and drag her in for a kiss.