Four Seconds to Lose (Ten Tiny Breaths #3)(69)
Bitterness slithers through my body and, try as I might, I can’t help but feel the tension coiling tighter. “My dad dealt coke and pot. My mother . . .” I heave a defeated sigh. “ . . . dealt sex. They were scum. If they knew what Lizzy was doing, they didn’t care. Fuck, for all I know, my mother was somehow getting a cut. Lizzy had no one to protect her from them.”
Charlie’s body turns rigid against me, reminding me of what she’s probably had to deal with in her own life. Curling the arm stretched out along the back of the bench around her small frame, I pull her close to me.
The warm night air hangs silently around us as I wait for Charlie to say something. To tell me that it wasn’t my fault, that I couldn’t have known what would happen, that I shouldn’t let the guilt eat me up. All the standard things I’ve heard from Storm and Nate, that don’t ease my guilt. But she doesn’t say any of that. Instead, she lifts my hand up to her mouth to kiss it softly before bringing it back down to her lap, where her dress has climbed up even higher.
“It sounds like she’s not the only one who needed someone for protection.”
I don’t argue with her.
There’s a pause and then she asks, “So, how did you end up in Miami?”
“After Lizzy was killed, I lost myself in guilt for a while. I . . .” My mind drifts back to those months after, when I was fighting more than I wasn’t, and each fight was an all-or-nothing stakes, where I laid down every last dime to my name. It was high risk, high reward, and if I lost, I would lose everything. But I couldn’t be beaten, because all of my opponents had the same face—mine. The brother who turned his back on his little sister. Not the sister who cussed and sneered and dropped to her knees for fifty bucks. The little girl with hazel eyes, who sat quietly on that pier bench, eating her ice cream, gazing up at the brother who was supposed to always protect her. Lizzy became that little girl in my mind again. And it was that little girl who lay broken on the dirty, bloodstained shag rug in my parents’ living room.
I pounded the shit out of myself for months.
Swallowing to keep the hoarseness from my voice, I continue. “I made a lot of money fighting. A lot of money.” The hand I have curled around her shoulder flexes automatically, as it always does when I think of all those fights—all those ribs I cracked, noses I broke, guys I beat senseless. The guy I unintentionally killed the same night my family died. “Eventually, I got tired of it. I knew it wasn’t going to make me feel better. So I decided to do something more . . . positive. I can’t turn back time, but I thought if I could help other girls like Lizzy, maybe I’d feel like I’d be paying for my part. There’s always going to be a girl who thinks she has no other choice and there are always going to be dirtbags like Rick Cassidy, who feed off their desperation and turn them into drug addicts and whores. I figured I could do something productive with my money, like open my own club. I needed to get away from South Central, though. I needed a change.”
Charlie turns toward me, until I can feel her breath against my neck. As serious as the moment is, my blood instinctively flows downward. I don’t know how much longer I can be a decent human being with my hand resting on her thigh like that and the swirl of raw emotion hammering in my chest.
“But why Miami?”
“Miami is known for its open-minded laws in the adult entertainment district. A lot of cities out there restrict nudity, or alcohol with nudity, or the types of dances you can get. Not Miami, though. In Miami, you can have a burger in one hand, a beer in the other, and a completely naked woman in front of you. I figured a city like this—with such liberal laws—would breed a lot of Lizzys. It needed at least one club owner who was looking out for the girls. Someone to balance out the worst of them.
“So, I opened up a small club called The Bank. It wasn’t anything flashy or huge. I was just learning about the industry. Hell, I was too young to be opening up a club to begin with. But it did well because I put no restrictions on the girls, as much as I hated it. I still do. I let the girls do anything that is legal but nothing more, and I make sure they’re safe.” Damn, was there ever a painfully steep learning curve over those first few months of owning The Bank! Luckily, I’m a fast learner and I had a great source of information—a Vegas strip club owner. In exchange for one arranged fight—which I won and he made a boatload of money from—he let me essentially live in his club for a month, learning the ropes. He wanted to partner up with me when I left for Miami but I declined. Instead, John fronted the business as the owner, on paper, until I turned twenty-one. I knew I could trust him.
“So I try to do right by my employees, at least. Like I didn’t do right by my little sister.”
“So this is all about a second chance?”
“No. It’s about trying to balance out the good with the bad. I don’t believe in second chances, Charlie.”
There’s a long moment of silence and then she asks, “China reminds you of your sister, doesn’t she?”
I nod slowly. “I get so much grief for keeping her around.” With a sidelong glance, I admit with what I’d imagine is a sheepish smile, “I know she probably hasn’t been great with you.”
“That’s an understatement.” Charlie chuckles.
It’s probably time I let her relax and stop slamming her with my shit. I know I can be intense. In one night, she has learned that I was bred and raised by criminals, that I’m no stranger to brutal violence, that I lie to women and then f**k them, and that I was the world’s shittiest brother.