22. Chapter 22

22

Wren

I feel like I'm smack in the middle of this clusterfuck.

Candy's still eyeing me like I'm about to sprout a second head. "Wren, seriously. What the hell is going on?"

I shrug, aiming for nonchalant and probably missing by a mile. "Told you, it's nothing. Probably just some misunderstanding about a lap dance or something."

Trixie snorts. "Yeah, because mobsters always show up looking for lap dance refunds. Pull the other one, it's got bells on."

"Fuck off, both of you," I snap, pushing myself off the couch. My legs feel like jelly, but I'll be damned if I let it show.

I need to get out of here. Now. Whatever this is, I want no part of it. I make my way to my locker, trying to look casual as I grab my street clothes.

"What, you're leaving?" Candy asks, her voice rising an octave. "In the middle of your shift?"

I yank on my jeans, not bothering to take off my stage outfit first. "Got a family thing. Em's not feeling well."

It's bullshit, and they probably know it, but I don't care. I just need to be anywhere but here.

I'm pulling my top over my head when Jojo's voice filters through the thin walls of her office. She sounds… scared. And Jojo doesn't do scared.

"Look, we don't want any trouble with the Skull Collectors, alright?" Her voice is higher than usual, like she's trying to project. "I'm telling you, Wren wouldn't have anything to do with your man. She's just a dancer, for Christ's sake!"

Skull Collectors? What the fuck kind of name is that? Sounds like a metal band reject.

I glance around, desperate for an escape route. The main door's blocked by Brick. The back exit's on the other side of the room, past the Russians.

Trixie must see the panic in my eyes because she suddenly steps forward, arms outstretched. "Oh, my God!" she shrieks, stumbling toward Scarface. "I don't feel so good…"

And then she pukes. All over his expensive shoes.

The room erupts into chaos. Scarface is yelling in Russian, Jojo's cursing up a storm, and the other girls are either laughing or making exaggerated gagging noises.

I don't waste a second. I duck behind the couch, crawling on my hands and knees toward the back exit. The carpet's sticky and smells like spilled beer and God knows what else, but I don't care.

I'm almost there when a hand grabs my ankle. I look back to see Punching Bag, his face twisted in a snarl.

"Going somewhere?" he growls.

I kick out, my heel connecting with his nose. There's a satisfying crunch, and he lets go, howling in pain.

I scramble to my feet and bolt for the door. I can hear shouting behind me, but I don't look back. I burst out into the alley behind the club, the cold night air hitting me like a slap to the face.

Where to go? Home's out—that's the first place they'll look. Dickshit, is this just my fucking luck?

I run, my feet pounding the pavement as I weave through back alleys and side streets. My lungs are burning, and I can taste blood in the back of my throat, but I don't stop.

After what feels like hours but is probably only minutes, I duck into the doorway of a closed pawn shop, trying to catch my breath. My hands are shaking as I pat my pockets, looking for my phone.

It's not there. Fuck . I must have left it in my locker.

I lean against the grimy glass of the shop window, my mind racing. What the hell do I do now? I've got no phone, no money, and a bunch of Russian psychos after me.

And the worst part? I've got no idea why.

I close my eyes, taking a deep breath.

Think, Wren. Think.

A car engine rumbles nearby, and I tense. Is it them? Have they found me already?

I peer around the edge of the doorway, my heart in my throat. A black SUV crawls down the street, its tinted windows gleaming in the streetlights.

I press myself back into the shadows, holding my breath. The SUV passes slowly like it's searching for something. Or someone.

As it disappears around the corner, I let out a shaky breath. That was too close.

I need a plan. I need help. But who can I trust?

The neon sign of a 24-hour diner flickers across the street. My stomach growls, reminding me I haven't eaten since… I can't even remember.

Food. A phone. A chance to think. It's not much of a plan, but it's all I've got right now.

I take one last look around, then dart across the street. As I push open the diner door, the bell jingling overhead, I can't shake the feeling that I'm walking into something I can't walk away from.

A handful of night owls are scattered around, nursing cups of coffee and picking at plates of runny eggs. Nobody looks up as I stumble in, which is just fine by me.

"Sit anywhere you like, hon," a waitress calls out. She's older, with faded red hair and the kind of tired eyes that have seen it all.

I slide into a booth near the back, my eyes darting between the door and the grimy windows. Every car that passes makes my heart skip a beat.

The waitress shuffles over, notepad in hand. "What can I get you, sweetheart?"

"Just… just water for now," I manage, my throat dry as sandpaper.

She frowns, taking in my disheveled appearance. "You alright there? You look like you've seen a ghost."

I force a smile that feels more like a grimace. "Long night. I'm fine."

She doesn't look convinced, but before she can say anything else, headlights sweep across the windows. The black SUV cruises by again, slow as molasses.

Fuck. They're still looking.

I duck down, nearly knocking over the sugar dispenser in my panic.

"Hey, now," the waitress says, her voice low and concerned. "What's going on? You in some kind of trouble?"

I peek up, watching the SUV disappear around the corner. "It's… complicated."

She sighs, setting down her notepad. "Ain't it always? Look, you need help? I can call someone for you."

I shake my head. "No, I just… I could really use some food. But I left my wallet at work. I swear I'll come back tomorrow and pay, I just—"

"Don't you worry about that now," she cuts me off. "Come on, let's get you in the back. Kitchen's quiet this time of night."

Before I can protest, she's ushering me through a swinging door into a cramped, steamy kitchen. The smell of grease is even stronger back here, mixed with the sharp scent of industrial cleaner.

"Sit," she orders, pointing to a rickety stool in the corner. "I'll whip you up something quick."

I perch on the stool, my legs bouncing with nervous energy as she busies herself at the grill. Every sound from the dining room makes me flinch.

A plate appears in front of me, piled high with scrambled eggs and toast. My stomach growls loud enough to wake the dead.

"Eat," the waitress—her nametag says "Dottie"—commands. "You look about ready to fall over."

I don't need to be told twice. I shovel food into my mouth like I haven't eaten in days. For all I know, maybe I haven't.

The bell over the front door dings, and I freeze mid-chew.

"I'll check it out," Dottie says, patting my shoulder. "You just keep eating."

She disappears through the swinging door. I strain to hear, fork clutched in my hand like a weapon.

"…looking for someone," a deep voice rumbles, the Russian accent thick as cement. "Young woman, dark hair. Might have come in here."

Shit. Shit. Shit.

I'm on my feet before I realize it, looking for another way out. There's a back door half-hidden behind a rack of pots and pans.

I creep toward it, my heart pounding so loud I'm sure they can hear it in the next county.

I sneak out the back door, the rusty hinges squealing like a dying cat. The alley's dark and narrow, reeking of piss and rotting garbage. A rat scurries across my path, beady eyes gleaming in the dim light.

"Story of my fucking life," I mutter. "From one rat's nest to another."

I'm about to make a break for it when the door behind me slams open. The two goons burst out, their heavy breathing echoing off the brick walls.

"There she is!" Scarface shouts.

Fuck. No way out but through.

I grab the nearest thing—a broken bottle—and swing it at Punching Bag as he lunges for me. Glass shatters against his face, and he howls in pain.

Scarface is on me in a second, meaty hands reaching for my throat. I duck, ramming my shoulder into his gut. He grunts, stumbling back.

I snatch up a trash can lid, wielding it like the world's shittiest shield. "Come on, dickheads. I've dealt with worse than you in the fucking McDonald's playground."

Punching Bag recovers, blood streaming down his face. He charges, but I sidestep, bringing the lid down on his head with a satisfying clang.

For a second, I think I might actually win this. Then Scarface gets his arms around me from behind, squeezing the air from my lungs.

"Fuck off, asshole," I snarl, trying to slam my head back into his face. But he jerks away, tightening his grip.

"Such a nasty mouth on you," Scarface growls. "Maybe we should find a better use for it."

I grit my teeth, fingers digging into his arms. "What the hell do you want from me?"

Scarface chuckles, his breath hot on my neck. "Oh, we just need a little favor. You're gonna help us send a message to your boyfriend."

Boyfriend? What the fuck?

He's talking about D?

"He's not my—" I start, but he cuts me off.

"Doesn't matter what you call him. You're coming with us, and if you're smart, you'll do it quietly."

"No!" I struggle, kicking and clawing, but it's no use. He's dragging me toward a car idling at the end of the alley.

Just as I'm thinking this is it, game over, a shadow detaches itself from the darkness. It moves fast, silent as death, and for a split second, I wonder if Gotham City's favorite son decided to take a vacation in our shitty little town.

There's a sickening crunch, and suddenly, Scarface's arms go slack. I stumble forward, gasping for air, and spin around.

D stands there, backlit by a flickering streetlight, looking like every wet dream and nightmare rolled into one. Scarface is on the ground, not moving. Punching Bag takes one look at D and bolts, tripping over garbage cans in his haste to get away.

D's eyes lock onto mine, blazing with an anger that makes my stomach clench. "Why is it," he growls, stalking toward me, "that every time I turn around, you're neck-deep in shit?"

I open my mouth to snark back, but the words die in my throat as he gets closer. There's blood on his knuckles, a wild look in his eyes that's equal parts terrifying and… something else.

He reaches out, his hand cupping my face with a gentleness that belies the violence I just witnessed. "Are you hurt?"

I slap his hand away, my anger bubbling over like a pot of water left too long on the stove.

"Do I look hurt? Jesus fucking Christ, D. I had it under control until you decided to play Russian Batman and bring the whole goddamn Bratva down on my head!"

I'm fuming, pacing back and forth like a caged animal. The Bratva, Christ. They're like the world's worst glitter—once you get mixed up in their shit, you never get clean. And now, thanks to Mr. Tall, Dark, and Homicidal here, I'm covered in the stuff.

"You know what? I was doing just fine before you swaggered into my life with your brooding looks and your stupid accent. Now I've got mobsters trying to turn me into a flesh pi?ata in my own goddamn alley!"

I jab a finger into his chest, ignoring how solid it feels. "This is your fault, you hear me? I didn't ask for this bullshit. I didn't ask for you to come ‘rescue' me. And I sure as hell didn't ask to be caught in the middle of your pissing contest with every lowlife in a three-state radius!"

For a split second, I see something that looks suspiciously like guilt flash across Dimitri's face. But he shoves it aside faster than I can blink, his features hardening back into that infuriating mask of indifference.

"Good," he says, his thumb brushing over my cheek in a way that makes me want to bite it. Or maybe just bite him. "Because we need to have a long talk, krasotka . And you're not going to like what I have to say."