Snare: Road Kill MC (A Novel) (3 page)

“I came to
you
because I knew with your military connections, you might find her. I have to know she's okay.”

“What about your dad?”

I jerk my chin back. “What about him?”

“He still give a fuck about Sara?”

I shake my head. “Hell if I know. I did my bit in college, didn't want to be a citizen, patched in. Don't talk to his sick ass anymore. Denny and Micah are in the system. Probably better off not being around him.”

Noose nods. “He's looking for her too, Snare.”

I step back. The movement is actually closer to a stagger, like a drunk righting himself. “What?”

“I have feelers out. But from the beginning, given your description and her shitty background, there's only a couple of things a chick can do that makes money.”

His pause is significant.

Fuck me running.
I should have thought about it. Should have known. My heartbeats spasm, tripping over each other in response to my panic. My pits tingle with nervous sweat.

“She's a stripper, Snare. Word on the street—a good one.”

My head feels hot. Like bursting-into-flames worthy.

A strong hand at my elbow jerks me to the couch where I just fucked Crystal. I land my ass on the cushion, and Noose puts my head between my knees.

I can't breathe. I suck air anyway, sounding like a whistling train.

“It's okay. I got Trainer tailing her naked ass.”

“Naked?” I squeak between my teeth, my eyes trained to my boots.

“Yeah, man, what part of
titty bar
didn't you get?”

The part where the only woman I've ever loved is taking her clothes off for strangers.

Sara

“Meow!”

High heels tap after me, and I roll my eyes. Lola is such a pain in the butt. But I love her.

“Kitty! Wait up, you demented pussy!” That gets me turning with a smile.

But I don't have an ass ton of time to chitchat. I gotta get Jaylin. My little girl's preschool is over in twenty. It's ten bucks every thirty minutes I'm late. I hate my hours. I barely get to share a meal with her and I'm back here at
The Crawl.

The Crawl used to be only a swank bar tucked in next to Pike Place market and the pier. Now it's got a high-class strip club attached to the original bar section of the old turn-of-the-last-century building.

Whatever, it took me three years to climb the strip ladder. I'm not blowing it. Pays the bills and then some. I barely made it when I was pregnant with Jaylin, and I'm not going to quickly forget those days.

I hike my huge purse on my shoulder, turning in her direction. “Lola—I can't talk, gotta get Jaylin.”

She hikes the extreme arch of her eyebrow, a very 1940s old-movie-star look. Actually, Lola is a little obsessed with anything from the era. Big band, Marilyn Monroe, she digs it.

I cross my arms. “What?”

“Can you feed Rex?”

I'm instantly suspicious. “Why?”

“I got a date. I told you about him, remember?”

I nod. I don't like Lola's dates very much.
Don't date the Dicks
. They can watch, they can give us the green, but don't date them. My voice is flat as a pancake. “You're dating a Dick.”

Lola pulls an offended face. “Uh-huh. But he's different.”

I lean forward. “They're all the same. It's a feather in their cap to date a dancer. Date a Penis, not a Dick.”

She covers her mouth, but giggles escape, her platinum-blond hair bouncing at her shoulders.

All the strippers call the clients Dicks. If they aren't patrons, they're Penises. It's easy. Same anatomy, different motivation.

It's simple to me, anyway. But Lola does a lot of VIP work. Small rooms in the back where we do private dances. It scares the tar out of me, but it's where the real money's at.

Money I might need.

Jaylin starts kindergarten this fall, and I got her on the list for an exclusive, foreign language immersion school. She's at the top of the list. Tested gifted
and
she's a minority. I hated to pull the race card, but as a single mom, I need every advantage for my baby girl. And Native American female hits a lot of privilege buttons.

I gulp down the pang of sadness. The lump of regret sticks in my throat. I need a moment to get over myself.

“I'll feed Rex,” I say. After all, Lola and I live in the same building. And if she doesn't have a guy over, I let her watch Jaylin when I have a date. I keep seeking other men. I don't find what I'm looking for. They’re all compared to Snare. And fall short.

I straighten. “When do you think you'll be home?”

“Jesus,
Mom
.” Lola winks, her hazel eyes sparkling. It's her best feature. Not as a dancer but as a human being. All her humor and interesting personality can be seen in those twin windows of amber and green. She's an open book.

Me, not so much.

She lifts a bony shoulder. “I don't know, ʼho.” She leans forward, her hand on my shoulder, and looms. Her height of five nine towers over my five foot three. “I have another blind date for you.” She squeezes my arm, expectant.

I begin to turn away, tipping my cell out of the front pocket of my jeans. I glance at the time.
Ten minutes.
“No,” I say with a laugh and start to walk toward the employeesʼ back entrance.

“You're going to wear out those batteries on that thing!” she yells loud enough that she announces my rub-out schedule to whoever's listening.
God.

I flip her off without turning around as I slam the glass door open with my palm.

Lola's laughter follows me into the cold early spring sunshine glinting off the cement sidewalk and warming the cobblestones beyond. Only a sliver of bright light slices between our cars lined up in the back alley. The buildings cause artificial shadow to darken the long, narrow space. We have permits to park here between the buildings, but service trucks have taken off two mirrors on my Fiat in the last year alone.

I don't bother to fix it anymore. Cars don't matter, living in downtown Seattle. The only reason I have one is so I can run Jaylin to ballet and preschool.

I ease into my car, wedged between the dumpster and the restaurants that line the street. Beyond them, Puget Sound sparkles in icy-gray glory, mirroring the glare of sunshine that can't bust the typical pewter overcast of late winter in the Pacific Northwest.

I'd do almost anything to have some actual sunshine.

I pull out in traffic so deep I have to wait for the kindness of someone to let me in. Takes awhile.

I glance at my cell twice. Late again. Another ten bucks I can't afford.

Lola's words come back to me.

“What's a blow job, Kitty? Just suck a guy off, get a few hundred. It makes all the difference. And—don't tell me you weren't sucking off every swinging dick with the other low-end clubs before you got The Crawl gig.”

“No,” I'd whispered, thinking of all the times I gave Snare a blow job. We'd tried so hard to keep our hands off each other. Tried so hard to do everything but sex. In the end, all it did was prime us to do it, and we ended up in that closet, his body owning mine and me letting it. “I didn't suck any of them off.”

Lola had narrowed her eyes to disbelieving slits. “Everyone does VIP. Nobody gets to The Crawl if they haven't been on their hands and knees.”

I nodded. That's usually true. That's why I was almost four years everywhere else. I could have been at The Crawl two years ago if I'd been willing to do VIP. “I was four years, working those dives before I got here. In a few years, I'll be too old.” Late twenties is ancient in this biz. Hell, at twenty-three, I've got maybe five more years of prime earning time.

Lola had cradled her breasts in her hands like a push-up bra. “Well, I'm working this gig until Thorn tosses me out.”

I smiled, she'd smiled.

It is what it is.

I already feel bad enough for leaving Snare. I can't accept pay to do sexual stuff. I work out almost two hours a day to stay in perfect shape. Eat next to nothing and choreograph my own dance routines. I'm good. And I know it. I rose through the ranks of the shit titty bars because I just work that hard.

I don't tell Lola why I don't have to do extras. It's not my role in this life to make people feel bad because they'll do something I won't. I'm saving everything for my baby. Snare's daughter.

Our daughter.

She deserves the best. I couldn't pay Snare back for everything he saved me from, but I can do right by Jaylin.

I'm just hoping the final price is something I can pay.

*

Schools always smell the same. Jaylin's doesn't smell any different than how I remember from when I was little.

Walking through the halls, I notice there aren't any kids. All the parents have picked up their children. I'm the only irresponsible one of the group.

I move through the classroom door, and Jaylin catches sight of me in the doorway. She squeals.

Looking at her squeezes my heart so painfully I can barely breathe. Jaylin looks achingly like Snare. Black hair, incredibly bright blue eyes, dusky skin. They could be twins.

But where he's rugged and broad—strong and tall—Jaylin is delicate, fine-boned. Of course, she's not five yet, but she's dainty like me. I'm small boned, but I'm toned.

Jaylin's got enough energy for us both. “Mommy!” she cries, running to me.

I sweep her into my arms as soon as she's within arm's reach. “Hey, monkey.” I cradle her against me. “How was your day?” I kiss the tip of her nose.

“Fabulous!” she says.

I wink. She has her daddy's brains too. Every word is used with enthusiasm.

Glancing up, I see the cool eyes of her teacher regarding me with at best, disdain, at worst, judgment. I've sure seen that a lot.

“Ms. Reynolds?” she calls out, her voice like frost on grass.

I let Jaylin slide down the front of me, and I tap her on her nose with my finger. It's pink because she's getting over a cold.
Dammit.

I stand, automatically straightening my maxi skirt over my legs. After digging around in my purse, I pull out
Twenty Yawns
. It's a little too young for her, but it’s Jaylin's favorite book. There are a few things I splurge on.

“Will you read this while Mommy talks to Teacher?”

Jaylin nods, her brilliant blue eyes big with wonder. When we drive to ballet, I'll hear all about her day.

“I have something for you, Ms. Reynolds.”

I nod. I know what's coming. A big, fat bill. There's been a bunch of tardiness this month. I can't make it here to pick Jaylin up on time. I'm still being trained at The Crawl. I have to pay my dues. I can't say, “Sorry, boss man, can't make the routine because I gotta pick up my kid.” We all have obligations.

Sometimes, mine seem like more.

“Yes, Ms. Cronin?” I keep my face blank when what I really want to do is cry.

She flips her palm out, and I frown. I know what the overage bills look like. This envelope is creamy, thick. Final.

I take it from her, and she folds her hands behind her back.

“What is this?”

“That is a dismissal notice.”

I jerk my face up from staring at the envelope. “What?” I ask. My head feels hot, and my palms dampen the expensive paper between my fingers.

“The contract for enrollment at our institution states that excessive late pickups is grounds for dismissal. After all, Ms. Reynolds, actions speak louder than words.”

The effort to hold tears back makes my chest tight. My throat burns. “I love my child, Ms. Cronin,” I choke out.

She lifts her hand, squeezing my arm. “I'm sure you do, Kitty, but your lifestyle disallows punctuality.”

I tear my arm from her grasp. “What does my work have to do with this?” I raise the thick envelope in my hand, wanting to smack her in the face with it. “I pay on time. I pay the overages. I've begun a new job...”

“Yes, I see from your updated file that you work at
The Crawl
now.”

Heat rushes to my face, and I know my fair skin reveals my shame. I don't need words. It's there, painted on me in red. I'm a stripper. I swallow my pride. “There's only two months left at school. I don't have any other arrangements for Jaylin.”

We turn and look at her. Her little rosebud mouth silently moves, sounding out the letters to make words.

I whip back to face Cronin.

She retreats a step. “I'm sorry. You should have considered that more closely when you were late to fetch her.”

Silent tears roll down my cheeks. I
can't
lose this job. I have a one-year lease on my apartment, and I just paid every bit of extra money to Jaylin's college IRA. If I dip into that, the penalties will take all the benefits of what I'm trying to do for her.

Cronin turns away, purposely signaling the end of our conversation.

My breath hitching, I spin and march to where Jaylin sits.

“Oh, and Ms. Reynolds?” Cronin calls out, using the false name I've given her. The one I've given everyone so I can never be found.

I don't speak. I just stare her down. “I've withdrawn my reference for Progressive People.”

My belly does a slow flip. “You can't do that,” I say.

Cronin folds the papers and slides them inside a slim laptop case. “I’m sorry. Though Jaylin is gifted, I’m afraid that is the sort of institution that aspires to fill its confines with children of parents who are forward thinking enough that punctuality is the most rudimentary consideration.”

“Pulling out four-dollar words doesn't mean you're smarter than me, Ms. Cronin.” My voice comes out bruised, and I can't help that. “It just means you're less kind.”

I take Jaylin's hand, and we walk out the door. My lip trembles, and I bite it, something I haven't done since I hid from Riker and bit it to stay quiet. I use the maneuver now to bottle the emotions threatening to overflow. 

I walk swiftly, passing car after car. We get to my beat-up Fiat, and Jaylin silently opens the back door and pops in.

“Why you cry, Mommy?” her small voice asks quietly.

We've moved a lot. Usually my crying signals something.

“We staying in our house, Mommy?” The voice is scared now. It causes my tears to become a blurry river. I hate that voice. The voice of my child not being secure because I can't provide what would make her feel that way.

I nod quickly, too quickly. “We're staying,” I manage.

“Why Mommy cry?”