The Perfect Stroke (Lucas Brothers #1)(85)

I know the way by heart, which is good, because my vision is limited. My eyes are hidden behind my dark sunglasses. It doesn’t matter that I’m inside. I play a role, wrapping myself in a package that makes me a mystery, all designed to make men interested. They see something unobtainable.

In truth, the sunglasses hide the bags under my eyes until I get in the dressing room so Joyce can cover them in makeup. Not being able to sleep is a bitch.

I sit down at the makeup table with a heavy sigh, letting my overnight bag I keep my shit in fall to the floor. Joyce immediately comes over and starts the major tease job she always does on my hair. I hate it. I usually wear my hair simple and straight. Hell, most of the time I tie it in a messy knot and go on. But I make money off of being the Ice Queen who every man wants to melt, so I let Joyce have her way.

“You’re late,” she chastises.

“Been out looking for Allen.”

“Still no luck?”

“None. I’m starting to lose hope, J.”

I hate having this conversation. I like Joyce. She’s been good to me, and talking about this stuff with her seems wrong. When she squeezes my shoulder tight in response, our eyes meet in the makeup mirror. We’re so different, but she’s like the mom I’ve never had. She’s fifty-two but looks to be in her early forties. She has this brown curly hair that she always has styled and teased yet clipped up out of her way. Joyce has these pretty green eyes with flecks of gold in them and they see far more than people give her credit for.

“If you don’t start sleeping, it’s going to affect your show, Ana.”

“I know. I tried.”

“Might have worked if you’d quit crying over that damn brother of yours.”

She’s not wrong. Still, I can’t seem to stop the tears. I lost Allen a year ago in every way that mattered. That doesn’t mean that having him missing is any easier. He’s been gone for over a month now. He’s disappeared before, but never this long.

“He’s my responsibility,” I tell her, the truth of that lodging in my stomach.

“Yeah, but he’s killing you.”

“I can’t help it.”

“I know, doll. I know. Let’s see what magic ol’ Joyce can work to hide those bags,” she says with a sigh, going to work on my face.

Twenty minutes later, Joyce manages to pull off a minor miracle and make me look good. I go to the wings of the stage and wait for my cue. Once I’m out there, I do my best to let everything go. I let the music take over and go through my routine like a well-seasoned veteran. I should be; I’ve been dancing for nine years now. I started before I was legal. It’s amazing what fake IDs and bosses who don’t give a f*ck will get you. I can work the pole and I can shake the ass. I can do everything needed to make men horny and women beg for more. I can even look like I’m enjoying it when inside I’m slowly withering away. My set ends with yelling for more. I never give them that. Isn’t that an age old adage? Always leave them wanting more? I blow them a kiss and walk off, appearing unconcerned that my breasts are completely bare as my ass, except for a small string of material. Big Joe puts the white silk robe around me and I lean up to kiss his cheek.

“Thanks, big guy,” I tell him. He knows I hate being nude. In fact, I hate everything about dancing. I did it for a few months when I hit sixteen. I needed the money to keep a roof over our heads because our strung-out mother was spending every dime she could on her next hit. You have to do what you have to do. When mom almost overdosed and did permanent damage to herself, I got free of her, in a way, and found new paths. Allen never bothered, instead following in mom’s footsteps. So here I am, dancing and trying to save my brother who is already too far gone.

“Another great show as always, Ana.”

I squeeze his arm like I always do and disappear to my dressing room. I have one more set to do tonight, and then I can leave. I need to try and search for Allen some more, or try old contacts I haven’t used in years. I can’t remember the last time I’ve slept. My mind churns through all the chaos that is my life and just won’t shut down long enough to allow sleep.

I sit down at the chair in front of my dressing table. Joyce hands me a cigarette and a light, which I gratefully take. It’s a routine of mine. I always have a smoke after I dance. The nicotine helps me to calm. It’s the only crutch I allow myself. I take a drag and my head goes back, eyes closing, and I try my best to squash down the panic over Allen. I’ve tuned out the room, so when a large hand wearing one lone insignia ring on his finger reaches over and takes away the cigarette, I’m unprepared.

“Sorry, you’re not supposed to be back here,” I say, annoyed, and look around for Joyce to signal for Joe. “And can I please have my cigarette back?”

“No.”

“No?” I ask the big tall mountain of a man. He’s easily six foot five, but he’s broad as a house. He’s got dark hair that’s cut close to his head in the back and a little longer on top, dark eyes, and he wears a suit that probably cost more than my entire budget for food did the last two months combined. He screams money. Worse, he screams danger.

“My woman doesn’t smoke. That was your last one.”

“Your woman?” I ask. Something about the way he says that seems like it’s a done deal in his mind and my heart speeds up against my chest. Fuck. Where is Joe? “Listen, I don’t know who you think you are, but—”