Page 12 of Cold Foot Revenge (Wreck’s Mountains #7)

Usually, she and the bartender were good. He was part of the Grit-Bron Crew, but wasn’t super high in the ranks, and had just been Turned last year. He was kind of a sleeper member, like her.

It was weird that the guys had sent him in here to get them moving. Usually it was Reeves, the DJ, who kept them on task through the intercom so they didn’t miss his music cues.

Fuck, she felt like she was in trouble.

Roxy looked at the bite mark in the mirror again, and it looked so obvious to her, even with all the make-up packed onto it.

Dylan! What the hell had he done?

Her phone vibrated in her purse, and she scrambled to take it out. The text was from Dylan. Simply, it said, I really do give a damn. Have a good shift tonight, Yote. Let me know when you get home safe.

Aw, he cared.

No, no, no, she was trying to be angry with him, not getting butterflies in her stomach over the nice things he said.

“You have zero percent make-up on,” Gretchen pointed out.

“And no offense but you are a dog without it. None of those men out there are going to pay for that.” She circled her finger at her face.

“You owe me twenty-bucks, princess to-good-for-all-this. Glue some fuckin’ false eyelashes on, and let’s go. ”

Twat Face was right. Roxy wasn’t anywhere near ready.

In a rush, she stripped out of her clothes, and into a thong, then pulled the ripped-up bodysuit over it and carefully positioned the high neck as tucked up under her chin as she could.

She shoved her feet into a pair of black platform heels and left her legs bare except for a few squirts of glitter spray.

She pulled on her wig and rushed through her make-up job, hands shaking by the end of it.

Why did the guys want to talk to her? Why?

The girls all left to take their places up on their stages, and as the last shift filtered in through the door, smelling like sweat and perfume, she said her hellos quickly.

She finished tying her bejeweled coyote mask onto her face and made her way to the office.

She lifted her fist to knock, blew out three quick breaths, and… was yanked inside.

She yelped, but there was a hand over her mouth. The lights were off, and her shifter vision kicked in quickly. She smelled Nick, and they were alone in here. She shoved him off her and parted her lips to let him have it.

“Shhh,” he said, and the desperation in his eyes quieted the lecture in her throat.

What? She mouthed, looking around frantically. They weren’t allowed to be in here.

He held one finger up, and then made his way behind the desk, and arched his eyebrows at her as he opened the minifridge that was hidden under it. He pulled out a plastic bag, and what she saw in there shocked her.

There were both parts of the Turn Dose in there. He lifted up another. And another. Then put them back.

What the fuck? she mouthed. Wait. There were Turn Doses here? Not in Grave’s house anymore? Or were there more there? Why were they here? The Crew hadn’t stored Turn Doses here since the Garret days.

Nick stepped around the desk, and there was a folder in his hand. He leaned against her ear as he placed the folder in her hand. “Our alcohol vendor went down, so I came in here and looked through our old vendors to try and find a Band-Aid. This was in there. Take it somewhere quiet. Go.”

What was happening? Why was Nick showing her any of this?

Nick shoved the door open and looked out, then gestured for her to follow.

She filed out of there and hugged the folder to her chest as she headed for the one place she knew no one would bother her. Roxy made her way into the dressing room and right past the chattering dancers and back into the last bathroom stall and closed the door, then locked it behind her.

She read the tab on the folder. Coyote.

What she found inside that folder made no sense.

No sense at all.

Roxy lowered the lid of the toilet and sank down onto it in shock. She rifled through the resumes, faster and faster. They were hers. It was the resumes she’d turned in around town when she’d been searching so hard for a job. Who had done this? Who had tracked all of these down?

And the answer was so obvious, even before she got to the last damning page.

Grave.

Control was his thing.

So many of the things he’d told her flashed through her mind in this moment.

I can give you a job.

I’ll give you the main stage.

You’ll make bags of money.

Anything you want, you just ask, and you can have it.

I’ll take care of you.

Sure, I can lend you the money.

Don’t worry about it.

I told you I’ll take care of you.

How much do you need?

Yeah, I get it, the Changes are hard to manage at first.

No one is able to work for a while after a Turn.

Your bills piled up, it’s okay.

How much?

Five thousand? Easy. I’ve got you.

You just have to dance for a little while.

You’ll pay it off easily.

I’ll keep the guys off you.

You can work for me.

You can pay me back when you want.

You’re making me angry with this.

You’re acting like the coyote isn’t a gift.

You’re welcome.

Oh, you think you’re going to break it off with me?

Interest kicks in then. Fifty percent.

You’re moving to stage two tonight, in the middle.

You’ll need to do more lap dances to pay me this month.

You owe me ten thousand now.

You are falling behind, pretty girl.

This would be easier if you stopped fighting me.

You’re moving to stage three tonight, in the back.

If you fuck anyone, I’ll kill them.

You don’t dance well. You need to try harder.

You need to wear less.

You need to pay me for the month by the end of the day.

I don’t give a shit if you can’t make rent.

Your debt to me comes first.

Pick up shifts then.

Well, stop fighting.

You can stop this whenever you want.

All you have to do is come back home.

That bastard.

He’d gone behind her and talked to every place she had tried to get a job, and he’d convinced them to give him her resumes.

She hadn’t been ignored for job offers because she wasn’t worth a chance.

She’d been ignored because Grave had bullied the businesses into ignoring her. Into making her feel invisible.

That’s what men like him needed.

Her lip trembled as she picked up the final page by the corner.

It was an official Crew registration page.

Her name was at the top. Grave had registered her officially to the Grit-Bron Crew just three months ago, without her knowledge.

Also without her knowledge? He’d listed himself as her mate.

It would be on all the official paperwork for the government.

Her eyes burned with angry tears, and she slapped the folder closed, her mind racing.

How dare him.

How fucking dare him!

He hadn’t given her an opportunity here. It wasn’t a job he had offered her.

It was shackles. He’d known he was losing her, and he’d Turned her, and indebted her, and left her no option but to dance. He really had trapped her here.

Anger dried her tears. Rage boiled her blood. Fury set fire to her skin.

With a snarl in her chest, she gripped the folder and could just imagine throwing it in Grave’s face.

He would be here after the earlier Crew meeting, drinking with the guys, always watching her.

She would throw the folder in his face and deck him and ask him what the hell he had done.

She would do it in front of everyone, so they could see what a shit-bag he was.

Blinded by her anger, she stormed out of the dressing room, ignoring the questions from the other dancers, but when she made it down the hallway and strode past the bar, Nick yanked the folder out of her hand, and pulled her behind the bar.

“She’ll be right there, Gary,” he called, pulling up a bottle of tequila. “She’s asked for a shot to get this party started.” Nick flashed a warning look at her. “Not now.”

“Do you know what this is?”

“Yes. Why do you think I gave it to you?”

He eased her head back and poured a shot of tequila down the back of her throat, then allowed her back up. “Give me time to think.”

“Why did you give this to me?”

“Because they mentioned the Hoffman brothers tonight.”

“W-what?” she stammered.

“And I saw you with him. That was Dylan in here last night. I didn’t recognize him at first. You’re getting in too deep.” He graced her neck with a knowing look, then dragged his glowing eyes back to hers. “Gonna get yourself killed little yote.”

She shoved the folder under the bar, hiding it. “Don’t call me that.”

Only Dylan was allowed to call her that.

“We’ll talk later.”

“What the fuck is the hold up?” Grave yelled across the Rabbit Hole.

Roxy inhaled deeply, praying for patience not to rip that motherfucker’s throat out.

“Go easy tonight.” Nick offered her another shot from the bottle. “Give me time to think,” he said again.

“Roxy!” Grave roared.

Normally she would startle and scurry over to make sure he had everything he needed. Not tonight though. Tonight, she realized just how much she hated him.

She realized how unacceptable his behavior had been.

Hers wasn’t the only life he’d ruined. She was just one of many.

Grave did whatever Grave wanted to do and screw the consequences. He didn’t care.

She turned to him slowly, canted her head, and narrowed her eyes. Then, slowly, she made her way to stage three, in the back, and climbed the stairs.

Reeves, the DJ, was ready, and dropped a hard beat the second she leapt through the air and hooked her legs around the pole.

The memory of Dylan’s arm over her thigh was her companion as she danced for the men gawking at her. The memory of Pamela’s genuine laugh echoed through her mind as she slid to the ground and allowed Gary and his friends to hook dollar bills in the holes at her hips of her ripped up bodysuit.

The clear sound of the tink of their shot glasses hitting each other as she did a toast with normal, good-to-the-bone people sounded in her mind as she dropped to her hands and knees and moved her body just like dirty men craved.

And she could feel the mood of the room shift.

She could see the other customers leaving the other stages and filtering to hers.

She could see them standing three rows deep to watch her, and cheer for her, and say the most disgusting things to her.

And the dollars piled up on her stage, and rained down on her, and the emptiness grew in her chest, and the want for something more felt like a canyon inside of her by the end of the first song.

Behind the crowd, Grave had settled into a seat at an empty table, and he was watching her, his eyes sparking with intensity.

She hadn’t felt this kind of power since the first few weeks she’d started working here, after her pole dancing lessons, after she’d mastered the tricks and figured out how to use her body to entice men into emptying their bottomless pockets.

Now she was forming a plan, and the anger that was boiling inside of her was to blame for that.

By the end of the second song, she felt nothing at all.

Nothing but the complete acceptance of what she would do next.