“Again!” Zayn snaps, striding across the studio in front of us.
He’s sweating, tiny beads of water forming on his forehead as he waits for us to drag our tired-arse bodies up off the floor. The arsehole has given us just five minutes to rest after two hours of dancing nonstop. Picked by Xeno as the choreographer for the group dance, Zayn has taken it upon himself to act as a tyrant whilst Xeno watches from the side lines.
We’ve been learning the steps for our group dance for almost two hours without a break and there’s not one of us who doesn’t look like they’re about to collapse. I’m strong and fit, but this is fucking ridiculous. It’s Friday afternoon and tonight I have to get ready for Jeb and whatever the fuck he has planned. I need this like a hole in the head.
“What the fuck’s got his goat?” River grumbles, casting a look at Clancy who shrugs.
“I’ve no idea. It’s not as if the show is any time soon. Maybe he needs to let off some steam. I could totally help him out in that department,” Sophie pipes up, butting into our conversation.
She can fuck right off in her skimpy dance outfit that shows of her tight figure and six pack.
“Never going to happen,” I respond, glaring at her over my shoulder.
She tips her head back and cackles, drawing everyone’s attention. I want to fucking scream that he was mine first. That he loved me first. I also want to fucking scratch her eyes out.
“Right, that’s enough!” Xeno gets up from the bench and saunters over, flicking me a dark look.
“I’m not finished,” Zayn grunts.
“Yeah, you are,” Xeno retorts, handing Zayn a bottle of water which he snatches out of his hand. I watch him unscrew the bottle top and down the whole thing. “It’s the weekend. Get some rest. We’ll start up rehearsals again next week. In the meantime, try not to fucking kill each other.” Xeno looks directly at me and I roll my eyes.
What the fuck ever.
Everyone disperses, gathering up their stuff. Clancy drops down on the bench, her creamy cheeks pink with exertion. She blows a strand of curly orange hair out of her eyes.
“Fuck, that was brutal. Was he always such a goddamn tyrant?” she asks, taking a deep glug of water from her bottle.
I give her a look that says, not here. No one bar Clancy and the Breakers actually know that we were old friends and I’d like to keep it that way.
“Sorry,” she mutters.
“I gotta run,” I say. Grabbing my bag and swinging it over my shoulder.
“You working tonight?” she asks.
“Yeah…” It’s not a lie per se, but I don’t want her to come to Rocks and find me not there.
She grimaces. “You don’t mind if I give it a miss, do you? Only I got my period and I’m bloated as fuck.”
“Of course I don’t mind. We’ll catch up Sunday,” I say, trying to hide the relief I feel.
“You not around tomorrow?”
“No, I’m going home to see my little sister.” Another lie. They seem to slip so effortlessly from my mouth today.
“Okay, cool. Catch you Sunday.”
“Yeah, Sunday,” I mutter, heading out of the studio, just as my phone starts vibrating in my bag. I snatch it up and answer. “Yes?”
“Penelope, that’s no way to greet me, now is it?”
Shit. It’s Jeb. That’ll teach me not to check the caller ID before answering. I push through the door leading into the flight of stairs that leads up to the flats.
“Hey, sorry. Just got out of a rehearsal,” I explain, forcing myself to be polite.
“Are you ready for tonight? Did you spend my money wisely?”
“Uh-huh. I got a cocktail dress like you asked. There’s money left over, I’ll bring it later.”
“Keep it,” he says.
“No. That’s okay…”
“I said, keep it, Penelope.”
Gritting my teeth, I bite back the response I want to say, and smile into the mouthpiece. For the most part I can convince myself that I’m just an employee of Jeb’s and nothing more, but on occasions like this I can’t hide the fact that I’m his property just like the rest of the Skins are. “Sure.”
“Good. I’ll send a car to pick you up from Rocks at eight. Don’t be late.”
“I won’t be.”
He clicks off and I jam my phone into my bag and take the stairs two at a time. I’ve got a couple hours to sort my head out and to make myself look presentable. I just wish there’s a pill I could take to make me forget what’s to come, because whatever Jeb has planned, it won’t be good.
Feeling uncomfortable and out of my comfort zone, I stand a little further along from the entrance of Rocks trying to avoid the occasional glances from Tommy, the bouncer. He’s in his late thirties, built, and covered head to toe in tattoos, but despite his reputation, is a good guy. At least he’s always been nice to me. I can’t say the same for the countless number of people he’s manhandled out of the club over the years and given a beating when the need arises.
Fortunately for me, there are only a few eager beavers lining up and Tommy ushers them through without so much as a glance. All of them were under sixteen, let alone eighteen.
Pulling at the hem of my off-the-shoulder, figure hugging, mid-thigh, black, cocktail dress, I wait for my lift to arrive. My hair is styled in soft waves that took me over an hour to perfect. Add to that a dash of mascara and cherry-red lipstick and pair it with killer, red, stiletto heels and I look nothing short of slutty. I’m the perfect dolly-bird, and I fucking hate it.
Eight o’clock on the dot, a black limousine with tinted windows and shiny silver hubcaps pulls up. Jeb couldn’t be anymore ostentatious if he tried. Internally I roll my eyes, externally I plaster on a fake smile and steel myself for the evening ahead, wondering whether this is the time I’ll pay off my debt and will be free to live.
The back passenger door opens, and picking up my overnight bag, I slide into the limousine as ladylike as I can, given my restrictive outfit. Expecting to see Jeb sitting next to the mini fridge, I’m shocked to come face-to-face with Zayn.
“What are you doing here?” I blurt out, pulling the door shut behind me. I place my overnight bag on the floor, trying to hide the surprise in my voice as I slide along the seat
“Jeb is otherwise engaged. He’s going to meet us at the venue. I’m your… chaperone,” Zayn replies, his eyes roving over my outfit. I see a flicker of surprise followed swiftly by disgust and I try not to react. Screw him. He doesn’t know why I’m doing this.
Clasped between his middle finger and thumb is a crystal glass filled a quarter of a way up with a deep amber liquid. He lifts it to his lips and takes a mouthful leaving a bead of liquid on his bottom lip. I watch with a pounding heart as his tongue snakes out between his lips, licking at the droplet in such a way that my skin warms.
“I see your tastes have changed,” I comment, unable to help myself.
Zayn was always a beer drinker and a Mary-J smoker, avoiding the hard liqueur that Xeno and Dax used to indulge in. He was also a jean, t-shirt and trainer wearing hip-hop dancer too, but right now he looks every inch the gangster with his perfectly fitted black suit and stark white shirt, unbuttoned to reveal the smattering of chest hair I used to love so much.
“Drink?” he asks me, ignoring my comment and looking at me with dark eyes that swallow me up. There’s a cool kind of calm about him and when he checks his gold Rolex watch on his wrist for the time, I realise this is a side to him I’ve never seen before. Zayn was never this closed-off, this guarded.
I swallow hard. I can deal with Zayn as an angrier version of the kid I used to know charging around a dance studio, but this, not so much. His mannerisms are more like his uncle than I’d like. In fact, they’re build is horrifyingly similar now that I think about it. I don’t want to see Zayn as a younger version of Jeb, but the way he’s looking at me now is testing my ability to ignore the fact they’re related.
“I’ll have whatever you’re having,” I respond tightly.
He raises a brow, but doesn’t question it. Knocking back the remains of his drink, Zayn deposits the glass on the tray with the decanter and pours me a generous shot into a clean glass.
“Here,” he says, placing the glass on a small side table that’s nearer to him than me before leaning back and watching me approach from his spot on the leather seat opposite.
Manoeuvring in a moving vehicle isn’t easy at the best of times, but in the outfit I’m wearing, almost impossible. But, just like the bad-bitch that I am, I do it without face-planting on the floor at his feet, and fold myself elegantly into the seat that runs perpendicular to his. I’m itching to pull the hem of my dress down, but that would signify that I’m not as comfortable or as confident as I’m making out to be. So, I don’t.
“Nice outfit,” he muses coldly, his gaze sliding up from my curved foot to my knee and the expanse of my thigh.
“I could say the same for you,” I retort back, flinching at the way he studies me. Sipping on my drink, brandy as it turns out, I wait for Zayn to speak up. When he doesn’t, I fill the silence with my own question.
“What are you up to Zayn? What has Jeb got you involved in now?”
Zayn chuckles darkly, meeting my gaze with his cold stare. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
“Not really, just making conversation,” I lie.
Again.
Deciding to go for a different tactic, I twist my body to face him. He mirrors me and I get a whiff of his delicious smelling cologne with its spicy top notes and zesty undertones, a luscious combination. I fight everything not to let my eyelids droop and breathe him in deeply. “Do you know where we’re going tonight?”
“Yeah.”
“And?” I press, feeling decidedly unnerved by the silent, almost calculating way he’s looking at me.
“You’ll see when we get there.” He taps on the blackout divider behind his head and it slides open to reveal the driver. “How long?” he asks.
“Five minutes, Scar,” the driver responds.
“Scar?” I question.
“That’s right. I’ve got a few of them.” He shrugs, like that’s no big deal.
“How? What happened to you?” I ask, remembering very clearly the jagged scars across his pecs that he bared in the dance studio a few days ago. He scowls, his eyes darkening to a black so bottomless that I wince.
“That is none of your damn business.”
For a moment, the air between us is fraught with the burden of our past hurts and I have an impulsive need to lean across the divide and press my fingers against the ridge of one the scars I see peeping out from beneath the open collar of his shirt. He looks down at where I’m staring, and his inked fingers come up and fix the button, hiding the scars once more. It’s only then that I notice a fresh tattoo on his inner wrist. I gasp at what I see.
“Zayn, is that a…?” I stare, reaching for his arm and tugging it towards me, forgetting the fact that we’re not friends and I can’t just grab him like this. “…A penny?”
My fingers pull back the sleeve of his shirt and suit jacket enough to get a good look at the tattoo on his wrist. It wasn’t there earlier today. He must’ve had this done between the end of our practice session in the studio and now. My heart squeezes painfully, and I look at him in confusion. “Why do you have this tattooed on your wrist?” His jaw muscle ticks, and I can hear his teeth grinding over one another as he looks at my finger gently moving over the gold one pound coin tattooed there. “Zayn?”
His eyes snap up to meet mine, and I’m shocked by the anguish I see there. “To remind me.”
“Remind you of what?”
“The price you pay for love,” he says bitterly.
