Page 2 of Painkiller (Sin Records #3)

L ife sucks, and then you die.

Maybe I’m being dramatic. Maybe not. Ask again tomorrow, and we’ll see if the answer has changed.

Okay. Fine.

Life isn’t all endless troubles and sorrow. There are wonderful moments that you cherish. Days that you want to keep forever.

Are you happy now?

I really do recognize it’s all a balancing act. Without sorrow, you’d never appreciate joy. Without suffering, you’d never understand comfort.

Darkness is necessary to recognize the light.

But lately, it feels like it’s dark all the fucking time.

I lean back in the cream-colored chair in my go-to coffee shop with my laptop on the table in front of me. The flavor of mocha and peppermint bursts along my palate. My favorite coziness in a cup. Too bad it can’t fix my life.

A mouthwatering aroma of cinnamon and brown sugar causes a loud rumble to erupt from my belly, reprimanding me for not eating since last night’s sandwich. Yet another daunting reminder of my current situation.

But this is one of my favorite places to be when I’m not dancing, which is almost always. It makes me nostalgic, imbuing me with warmth and comfort from my childhood, but the numbers on the spreadsheet rob me of the benefits I seek.

I rake both hands through my hair, trying to shake the panic clawing at me. I never expected to find myself in debt like this. If something doesn’t give soon, I’ll be freaking homeless.

The huge tip I got last night should’ve been a relief. It was much more than the standard twenty percent, and for a split second, I considered refusing. The thought lasted less than a breath, as I stared into the green eyes of a familiar face.

He had no idea who I was. We’ve never met officially, but I knew him. Even if I hadn’t seen his name once or twice on celebrity gossip sites, I would’ve recognized him as my friend Casey’s stepbrother.

Son of a former music label owner and brother of a billionaire, Jagger Davis can afford the six-hundred-dollar tip without blinking. He’d never understand what it means to choose between heating and food.

But it’s not even a Band-Aid on my bleeding finances. Nope, the carotid has been severed, and without a major intervention, I will bleed out soon.

I dig into my pocket. My fingers brush the heavy cardstock, and a spark flickers. Guilt? Shame? A warning dressed as a lifeline?

Shaking my head, I jerk my hand out of my pocket. No. I’m not that desperate. Something else will come along. It has to.

***

I left the coffee shop with what little optimism I had. Hours later, I sit on a bench in Central Park under threatening clouds and in blistering cold, trying to cling to hope like it owes me rent. I wish it owed me rent.

The noise of the city and the chatter of the passersby behind me barely register. Anger fuels my fingers as I swipe under my eyes, wanting to blame the cold. But I know better.

Desperation doesn’t cry. It bleeds. And my blood is frozen drops, shattering my hope against the concrete.

But I am not this girl. I don’t cry in parks. I don’t freeze on benches, wallowing in self-pity.

I fix. I hustle. I survive. I don’t have time to cry.

And yet…Here I am.

I glance at my watch for the time. Rehearsal doesn’t start for another two hours. I have enough time, maybe.

With a deep breath, my eyes lift toward the sky, silently asking forgiveness for the choices I have to make now, then push off the bench and head for the subway.

Twenty minutes later, the wind cuts through me like a knife despite my thick wool coat as I stand outside the white-painted brick building in Midtown.

The grim sky opened up just as I stepped out of the subway.

Snow pours down in thick, cold sheets, covering the awning until only a hint of pink can be seen peeking beneath the blanket of white.

An unlit, pink neon sign that says Inferno hangs on the building.

As cold as I am, I hope it’s true.

“They’re closed,” a deep voice says, interrupting my thoughts.

“Aww. Thanks so much. I would’ve never known if you hadn’t told me.

It’s not like I can read the business hours on the window or anything.

” I turn to face Mr. Obvious and nearly swallow my tongue when I take in the dark dress pants and expensive coat, and I realize this guy could very well be the owner.

He chuckles as he strokes his jaw with a knuckle. “Well, if you know they’re closed, you must have other reasons for being here.” His eyes rake over me, scrutinizing me. “You don’t seem the type.”

“And what type is that?” I grind, the cold burrowing into my bones as another blast of wind hits me, and I pray he doesn’t think it’s an attitude.

It is, but not at him, because while I might be a wee bit unfiltered at times, I’m not stupid.

But the damn cold and my situation are at war, determined to turn me into a twat.

His shoulders lift as he rocks back on his heels, eyes running from the tops of my ivory knitted hat to the snow boots on my feet. “You look like a nice girl.”

“Looks can be deceiving,” I laugh. I’m not a nice girl. I’m not a bad girl either. I’m just me, and the idea that the world has that you must be one or the other is annoying.

He grins and walks past me toward the door. Glove-covered fingers wrap around the handle, pulling the glass door open. He steps aside, holding the glass open, and jerks his head. “I’m guessing you’re the two o’clock audition.”

“Yep, that’s me.” I scratch the tip of my nose.

It doesn’t feel like luck. Just bad timing—hers, not mine.

Whoever this girl may be probably needs the money as badly as I do, and who knows how long she’s waited for that call.

But I’m not about to pass up the opportunity.

She should’ve shown. Now, I just need to convince him I’m whoever it is he was expecting and to give me a job.

He gestures for me to stop just inside the entrance and disappears. Suddenly, lights illuminate the space. I suck in a deep breath and take a minute to let the place soak in.

I’ve been to strip clubs before, but never to this one. It was out of my price range with its six-figure membership fee.

A bar to the left gleams like obsidian, lined with top-quality liquors against a beautiful, modern mirror, and guarantees you will leave here with a lighter wallet and fewer morals.

A few small tables and booths are scattered throughout the room.

I’m assuming waiting spaces for when the main room is open.

“Follow me.” I jump when his deep voice cuts through the silence, my nerves getting to me.

I trail behind him, heels clicking over black marble veined with silver.

He pushes through massive double doors, revealing a space five times the size of the bar.

Black seating circles several large tables that, if the poles positioned in the center of them mean anything, also serve as smaller stages, and even without touching the seats, I can tell luxurious leather feels like butter.

It’s sleek. Expensive. The kind of place that doesn’t just serve drinks. It serves fantasies. And I’m about to offer myself on a platter.

The price tag on the place makes sense now. I just hope the money is as good as I was told because I wouldn’t be here otherwise.

I don’t judge strippers or anyone else trying to survive. It’s honest money. Kind of. I’m also not modest or shy. But my ballet company? They would judge. Hard. And the sacrifices my family made to get me here would mean nothing.

But I’m out of options.

I expect to go to an office like a na?ve jackass, so when we stop at a set of seats in front of one of the main stages, I fail to hide my surprise.

His brow lifts, almost as if he’s saying I told you so.

My eyes narrow as I march to the stage, but he stops me before I get there.

“Not yet. Sit.” He nods at the spot next to him.

I don’t want to sit. I want to get this over with.

Keeping my expression neutral is a challenge I’m sure I fail as I return to the seat and take my place beside him.

I’m embarrassed to be here. In some ways, it’s no different from appearing at open auditions, but this extremely intimate setting with just him and me…

It’s awkward, sitting on the curved black leather sofa while he continues to stare at me as if he knows something I don’t.

The quiet begins to bother me, and I struggle not to squirm—or yell at him to speak. “Harmony.” He tilts his head to the side. As if he’s waiting for a reaction. “Is it Harmony?”

“Yep. Harmony. Just like on the paper,” I squeak.

“Okay. Why do you want to work here?”

“I figured that would be obvious. I need a job.” I press my lips together, instant regret over the smart comment.

“And the New York Ballet isn’t paying enough?” My eyes double. Shit. He recognizes me.

“What? Someone in my line of work can’t appreciate the ballet?” I wince, awkward and busted.

He laughs as he waves a hand in the air and shakes his head. “Want to tell me why you lied?”

“I really need the work because, no, the ballet doesn’t pay that much.

Twenty grand a year isn’t very sustainable in New York,” I tell him honestly.

The only reason I’ve survived as long as I have is because I lived with my Nana and worked at the restaurant as much as I could.

But so much has happened in a short period, and when I say I’m desperate for money, it’s not an exaggeration.

He shakes his head, a disgusted sound rumbling from him. “Not enough anywhere. Why did you pretend to be Harmony?” He raises a brow. “That was ballsy for you to assume I didn’t know what she looked like.”

I cringe hard. “Not ballsy. The thought never occurred to me. I…The truth is a co-worker slipped your business card in my pocket last night, and I…I need the money. A lot more than I make working at a restaurant part-time and dancing in the ballet.”

“Can you even dance the way we need you to? There aren’t many here that care if you can pirouette, you know?”

I’ve spent twenty years dancing, and I’m only twenty-two.

I spend hours every day honing my skills in ballet because it was my mother’s dream.

From the time I could walk, she had me in every class she could get me into.

When she died, I doubled down on that, but somewhere along the way, as I worked to fulfill her dream for me, I discovered other styles I loved.

Modern contemporary was one of my favorites, along with hip-hop.

I developed a passion for competitive dancing, both solo and teams.

But I stay with ballet—pursue it for her. For my grandmother, too.

“Do you assume because I’m a ballerina, I can’t be sexual? Ballet taught me discipline. Control. Sexy just has a different rhythm,” I argue without allowing him to respond as I stand from the seat and start for the stage again. “Do you have any music in this place?”

“That’s not necessary. I don’t need you to dance.”

Guess I’ll have to do it myself. I grab my phone and scroll through my music until I find something I like. Before I can hit play, he grabs the phone from me. “You’re not going to dance.”

My cheeks flame, and my eyes sting. I fight back the frustration and desperation threatening to spill down my face. “Please let me show you what I can do.”

He shakes his head, a deep chuckle vibrating through him. “You’re a relentless little thing, aren’t you?”

“I have to be. So am I hired?”

“No.” My shoulders drop. I open my mouth to continue pitching myself to him, but he holds up a hand, halting me. He studies me for a beat too long. Something unreadable glimmers in his eyes. “But you do get to come back tonight. Nine o’clock, and don’t be late.”

I barely refrain from throwing myself around him.

Eager to be a stripper. Who woulda thunk it?

But pride is a luxury I can’t afford when survival is on the menu .