Better When It Hurts Read online

  Better When It Hurts

  Skye Warren

  Better When It Hurts

  A forbidden romance about pain that binds us together…

  Five years ago we lived in the same house. He was the ultimate bad boy.

  And my foster brother.

  Now he’s back. Tougher, harder, meaner. All of it aimed at me, because I was the one who sent him away. It’s payback time. He wants his pound of flesh, and I am helpless to say no.

  Thank you for reading the first book in the Stripped series! You can join my Facebook group for fans to discuss the series here: Skye Warren’s Dark Room. And you can sign up for my newsletter to find out about new releases at skyewarren.com/newsletter.

  Enjoy the story…

  There are all kinds of love in this world

  but never the same love twice.

  —F. Scott Fitzgerald

  Chapter One

  I try not to scan the floor when I enter. There’s already a buzz in the air, the hunger and desperation of a strip club on Saturday night. I’m ready to earn money, ready to move my body.

  Ready to pretend Blue doesn’t bother me.

  He’s nowhere in sight, and I breathe a sigh of relief. A group of men are still gathered near the railing. They’d tipped me pretty well while I was up there, so I figure I have a good shot at a lap dance. I saunter over, my breasts barely contained in the red bikini top, my skin coated in sweat and glitter and the thick smoke of this place.

  “Nice set,” says a low voice from behind me.

  I turn to see Blue standing there, arms crossed so his muscles bulge, lids lowered in that intense way of his. Shit. “Thanks,” I say, but the only thing I’m really thankful for is that my voice doesn’t shake.

  He’s the head of security at the Grand, which should make me feel safe. Except we have a history. And he hates my guts. So there’s no affection in his eyes when they scan me up and down. No kindness in his voice when he adds, “You look great.”

  The way he says it, it sounds like a threat. He makes me feel like the scared little girl I used to be when I knew him before. And him? He’s like the big bad wolf, sizing me up before he swallows me whole.

  I force myself to shrug at him, to toss my hair. “Thanks, sweetie.”

  He circles me, surrounding me. “But then, you always look great. That’s what you like, isn’t it? Having men panting after you? Leading us along by our dicks?”

  My throat gets tight. I know that’s what people think of me. They take one look at my lipstick and my short skirt and assume the worst. God, they’re right. But it’s worse to hear it from him. Worse because he once believed in me. “Do you expect me to apologize for earning a living?”

  His lids lower. “Not for that.”

  I can’t meet his eyes. I know exactly what he wants me to apologize for. And he’ll never believe me. Even showing weakness in this game is enough to get me killed. “I don’t apologize to anyone.”

  “Of course you don’t,” he says, his voice full of loathing. “But I don’t want your words.”

  I can’t help but whisper, “What do you want?”

  That makes him smile. It’s not a nice smile. “I think you know the answer to that.”

  He wants to hurt me, to use me. He wants to fuck me. I swallow hard. “That isn’t for sale.”

  “I wasn’t planning to pay you.”

  This should be easy. Tell him no. Make him believe it. I’ve done this for a thousand men before. Somehow he’s different. Maybe because I don’t really believe it myself.

  I know he’s watching me. I know he’s hatching his plans. My heart speeds up every time I turn away from him, wondering if this is the time he’ll pounce. One of these times, he’s going to dig into me with his teeth and his claws. He’s going to hurt me, and I’m not sure I’ll survive it.

  Not tonight, though. Not now.

  I take a step away from him. “If you aren’t going to pay for my time, I think I’ll find someone who will.”

  His eyes darken. “Your call, gorgeous.”

  I hear the unspoken message beneath his words, steel under velvet. For now.

  * * *

  From the stage, the men seem small. It’s a form of power, dancing above them, light where they are dark, being thrown money just to show myself. I know that what I do is sordid and degrading. I feel sordid most of the time. I feel degraded. It’s just a natural state for me, as easy as breathing.

  But there are a few seconds when the entire room is looking at me, panting over me, desiring me—and I feel like a goddess. Those seconds make what’s about to happen bearable.

  Then I’m on the ground again, mortal and low.

  The men turn as I approach, already catcalling the way they did when I was onstage.

  “Hey, there’s our sexy girl, come to give us a kiss.”

  “What a hot bitch. Look at those tits bounce.”

  “How much for a night, baby?”

  There’s no power left in me, no goddess in sight. The men loom over me now, crowding me as I stand between them. I cock my hip and thrust my breasts in front of me, the picture of female sexuality. I am a lamb in a pack of lions. I wear my confidence like a mask. It’s the only way I’ve survived. But their smiles, cocky and sure, say they can smell the real me underneath. They can smell their prey.

  Two of them step aside for another man, one with a sloppy drunk smile and a cruel glint in his eyes. I hear one of them call him Travis.

  My throat squeezes tight. No, no. My gut is too good at picking out the genuinely violent guys from the generic asshole. Except I’m not paid to say no.

  “Let’s get a private room,” Travis says, the slur scraping down my spine. “Do I get a discount? It’s my party. I’m getting married tomorrow.”

  It’ll be a miracle if he’s even conscious tomorrow, but that’s not my problem. My problem right now is with a mean drunk who wants to buy my time. I have a lot of experience with mean drunks. I know that no amount of pleading or negotiating or fighting back will work.

  But all that knowledge, all that experience doesn’t stop me from trying.

  “I’ll give you a dance right here,” I say, drawing myself up close to him. Even if I could turn away a customer, I can’t lose out on the money he can give me. I’m already a few hundred bucks in the hole when I start the night, after my house fee and tip outs. And I know exactly how much I need to make, especially on a Saturday night, to pay the bills. And there are a lot of bills.

  He grabs my ass and squeezes hard, pulling me flush to a small, hard erection. “Your ears broken or something? I said let’s get a fucking VIP room.”

  Panic beats in my chest, and it’s familiar, almost soothing. If I’m not half-terrified, I don’t even know what to feel. My gaze scan the room, searching—always searching. What am I looking for? And then I meet Blue’s eyes. His eyes narrow. He must have been watching me.

  I could call him over. I could get him to help me, tell him this guy is being rough.

  Except that would be a lie. Technically all he’s done is put his hands on me, and I haven’t even told him to stop yet. I’d give a courtesy warning—or two or three—before getting security involved. So I make myself smile, both for Blue’s benefit and the man right in front of me.

  “Mmm, whatever you say. I’m going to show you a great time wherever you are.”

  “That’s right,” he says. “You’re damn right about that for what this shit is gonna cost me.”

  Not going to be a great tipper, obviously. But then I could have already guessed that. At least security will make sure he pays me the hourly rate. As long as I come out with my fake smile in place and not too many bruises, I’ll consider it a win.

  His buddies clap
him on the back with send-offs like “cop a feel for me” and “this is your last night of freedom, don’t waste it.”

  Charming.

  The Grand used to be a nice theater before the city’s economy tanked and they ripped out the seats. Now there’s just a stage for us to dance on and gilded balconies that are kept dark. The VIP rooms are the old ticket booths with the front walls ripped off, replaced only by musky velvet curtains that don’t cover the small space.

  We stumble our way across the floor toward the VIP rooms in the corner. He can’t walk straight, and apparently I’m his crutch. I pretend not to notice Blue’s gaze following us as we go.

  Chapter Two

  A lap dance may seem like a broad, blunt stroke—twisting my body right in his face, shaking my ass against his erection, almost dry humping when the rhythm is right. But really it’s a fine line. I want them worked up enough that they’ll pay for more time, but not so intense that they demand things I can’t give them.

  I don’t fuck for money.

  It’s not a question of right or wrong, of being a whore or a goddamn angel. I’ve known exactly what I was since I turned fourteen, and that’s not going to change because he puts the tip inside or not. I don’t fuck because it’s not safe, for a lot of reasons. I don’t fuck because I don’t have to. I make enough money through stripping to cover Mrs. Owens’s bills—even the medical ones.

  I start the dance off slow with the soon-to-be groom. I sit him down in the creaky wooden chair and step back as far as the hollow gray walls will let me. He’s already more tripped out than I can handle, so I spend a lot of time against the wall, posing and touching myself and hoping that’ll be enough.

  “Stop wasting time,” he says.

  In the end I’ll have to grind up against him. That’s the promise our bodies make when we shake our asses on the stage. That’s all we are in this building, a warm body to rub against. But I just give him my practiced sultry smile and continue to dance.

  There’s a tight feeling in my gut. Every time I’ve felt it, I end up getting hurt. It’s a little like falling, though. Knowing doesn’t help you stop. There’s no way I can avoid getting close to him. I’m already close to him. There’s no way I can avoid shoving my ass against his dick, dry humping him for a handful of bills.

  That’s when he grabs my wrist. I freeze.

  “No touching,” I say, my voice low in case one of the bouncers is walking by. They keep a pretty tight watch on the VIP rooms. That’s what I like about this club—at least, I did before Blue became head of security here.

  It doesn’t matter that I tried to keep it down, because his voice booms in the small space. “What the fuck do you mean, no touching? What’s the fucking room for if not touching?”

  It’s true I’m more likely to let a little groping slide when we’re in private. Especially if I know the tip is going to be nice. But I don’t let anyone grab me. I don’t let anyone hold me down. I’m not a scared foster kid with nowhere to go.

  “No touching,” I say again. “Or you can take it up with one of the bouncers.”

  Of course that only makes him hold me tighter. He yanks me off balance, and on these heels, I don’t stand a chance. I fall right into his lap, into his arms, in a sick parody of a romantic embrace.

  Then his hands are on my breasts, squeezing, twisting, pinching.

  I gasp in shock—and then pain. Other than that, I don’t make a sound. My brain is shutting down on me. My body too. I know he’s touching me, hurting me, pinning me in place.

  But I also know how to block it out. My body does that automatically now, almost against my will. I could shout and scream. I could fight. But when has that ever helped me?

  Not ever.

  Some part of me is made of steel—a small, dark part. I’m a metal pipe covered in blood at my core. My arms are pinned, but I can still reach down. I reach for his lap, and it makes me laugh, almost, the way he moans when I touch him. As if he thinks this will get better for him. As if he thinks I will give in. I grip his dick through the cloth of his pants and then squeeze as hard as I can.

  He yelps and jumps up, knocking me to the floor. I land hard on my ass, my head knocking against the wall. The chair hits the other wall with a thud.

  “You stupid bitch,” he snarls. He’s coming at me.

  With one hand on my throat he drags me up the wall.

  That’s how Blue finds us. The look on his face is pure rage.

  He slams Travis back, pushing his elbow against the man’s windpipe. There’s hardly room for two people in these tiny rooms—and not three. Definitely not three when one of them is bellowing breaths like a bull, when his muscles are bulging and he looks like he’s about to charge.

  Without a hand on my throat, I slide to the ground, sitting my bare ass flush against the cold concrete floor. I’m trembling. How am I trembling? I have enough experience for this not to affect me.

  There will never be enough experience.

  This is my life, but I’m still not used to it. I’m still afraid.

  “Let’s get one thing straight,” Blue says, his voice deadly even, belying the wild look in his eyes. “If it were up to me, you’d leave this club crawling on your fucking hands because I’d have taken a bat to your knees. Understand?”

  He waits until the guy gives a quick, wide-eyed nod. The sound of his choked gasps fill the space.

  “Instead I’m going to let you walk out of here. Your ass. On the street. Got it?”

  There is a pause where I imagined the guy arguing with him. No way. It’s not fair. It’s my fucking party. I’ve heard every one of those excuses. I know Blue has too. Maybe that’s why he seems to lean in, pressing his forearm harder on the guy’s throat until he chokes and sputters and nods his head.

  “Good.” Blue steps back, and the guy slumps against the wall. “Now get out your fucking wallet.”

  Now the guy does argue, his voice thin and wheezy. “I’m not paying her. She didn’t finish the fucking dance.”

  “You should’ve thought of that before you put her in a choke hold. Now pay up.”

  The guy must realize he’s lost, especially when Blue looms in the opening, the only way out. A handful of bills are tossed around me like confetti. I watch one land on my knees with a sense of unreality. It’s all so strange—being hurt, being used. And Blue coming to save me. So strange and yet familiar too.

  Blue drags the guy outside and disappears for long minutes. Only when Candy appears to help me up do I realize he’s not coming back.

  * * *

  Candy leads me through the floor, ignoring the curious stares of the customers.

  She’s one of my fellow strippers at the Grand—and my only friend. When we started here, we were both young and hustled hard. On top of the fucking world. Just a few years can change all that. Maybe I was still young in years, but it felt like I’d been dancing and fucking and fighting off men all my life. And really, I had been.

  She knows almost everything about my past, more than I know about hers. So she wasn’t surprised to find me practically catatonic on the floor of a VIP room. It didn’t used to bother me—when men grabbed my wrist, when they forced me. They’d have to really hurt me to get a rise. But lately I’ve been getting more sensitive. In this profession, that could be dangerous.

  Because the Grand had once been a fancy theater, there’s an enclave with a musty sofa between the dressing room and the showers. Candy settles me there and covers me with some kind of blanket. I don’t even know where she got a blanket—maybe it’s a cape from someone’s outfit.

  She leaves my side for a minute, and in her absence, I hear the chatter from the girls.

  What’s wrong with her?

  She think she’s too good to work?

  Someone fucked her up.

  They know better than to talk about us where Candy can hear. She’s the queen bee, and I wouldn’t exactly call her a benevolent ruler. But I can’t blame them for wondering. Yeah, someone fucked
me up. It shouldn’t matter if a customer touches me. If they rough me up. I should be able to shake it off, but I can’t. So I guess I do think I’m too good to work. At the very least, I’m too broken.

  And as for what’s wrong with me? That list is too fucking long.

  Candy returns with a glass of something that’s definitely not water. “Drink,” she says, pushing it into my hands.

  It burns on the way down. “Shit. What is this?”

  Then she puts something else in my hand—a small white pill. “Swallow.”

  “I charge extra for that.”

  She gives me a faint smile. “Come on. You’ll feel better.”

  “That’s what they all say,” I grumble. But I take the pill, swallowing it down with whatever liquid’s in the cup. I don’t know what either of them are, and it doesn’t really matter. Candy always has the good shit. That’s what I need right now—good shit to make me feel human again. To make me forget.

  I feel the warmth spread through me almost immediately. It’s like she’s taking care of me, giving me milk and cookies in the form of alcohol and drugs.

  The girls in the dressing room are quiet again, only murmuring to each other or back out on the floor. After all, we’re here to work. And even if they wanted to gossip, Candy remains by my side.

  “You can go,” I tell her.

  She shakes her head. “For what? The crowd’s too fucked-up tonight. It’s not worth it.”

  That’s a lie. It’s always worth the money to work a crowd that’s hot. Even if it’s a little dangerous. Fuck, this job is always dangerous. That’s why we show up night after night, because it’s worth it.

  She’s staying for me, because she knows I don’t want to be alone right now. How does she know that? Why does she care? Even though I know we’re friends, it’s hard to trust that. It’s hard to believe in it.

  “How’d you know to come find me there?”

  I can’t read the look she gives me. “Blue.”

  “Oh.” I shiver. “He handled the guy who messed with me. Can you give him a tip out from my stash?”