Chapter 3

　　Red. That's what everyone called her here. It should have made her feel safe and anonymous, but the way Miguel said it made her skin prickle.

　　The music in the room was softer than on the main floor. Slower and sexier. It wrapped around her like smoke.

　　You can do this. Just dance and keep the mask on. Don't let him get too close.

　　Inés forced herself to move. She swayed her hips to the beat, running her hands down her sides. This was her job. She'd done this a hundred times before with a hundred different men.

　　But none of them were Miguel.

　　"You're tense." His voice cut through the music. "Relax. I don't bite."

　　Liar.

　　She turned her back to him and bent forward slowly, looking at him over her shoulder. The move usually drove men crazy. Miguel just watched her with those dark eyes. He didn't smile, he just watched.

　　It was worse than if he'd been grabbing at her like the other guys.

　　"Come closer," he said.

　　Her heart jumped. "House rules. I have to keep some distance."

　　"Your boss said everything goes in the VIP room." Miguel leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Or was he lying?"

　　"She wasn't lying. Uncle Clifford likes to be addressed as a she." Her voice came out too defensive. She had to be careful. Red wouldn't sound defensive. Red would sound confident and flirty.

　　She walked toward him slowly, her hips moving side to side. When she was close enough, she turned and lowered herself toward his lap. Not touching. Just hovering close enough to feel his body heat.

　　Miguel's hands moved to her waist.

　　She froze.

　　"That's extra," she said quickly.

　　"I'll pay extra." His grip tightened. Not rough, but firm. Like he owned her.

　　His thumbs pressed against her bare skin just above her costume bottoms. His hands were warm. Too warm. She could feel every finger like a brand.

　　This is Miguel. Your stepbrother. The man whose house you live in. The man who ignores you at breakfast.

　　But right now, he wasn't ignoring her. Right now, his full attention was on her and it felt like being burned alive.

　　"Keep dancing," he murmured.

　　She did. She moved her hips in slow circles, her body brushing against him. His breath hitched just once. But she heard it.

　　He wants this. He wants me.

　　The thought should have disgusted her. Instead, something dark and shameful twisted in her stomach.

　　"You're good at this," Miguel said. His voice was lower now. Rougher. "How long have you been dancing?"

　　"Long enough." She kept her voice breathy. Different from her normal voice.

　　"You don't sound local. Where are you from?"

　　Her mind raced. "Does it matter?"

　　"I'm curious."

　　"Curiosity costs extra too."

　　Miguel laughed. The sound vibrated through his chest and into her back. "You're expensive."

　　"I'm worth it."

　　His hands slid higher. His fingers traced the curve of her ribs. She should stop him. Push his hands away. But she didn't.

　　"What's your name?" he asked.

　　Her blood went cold. "Red."

　　"That's not a real name."

　　"It's the only name you need."

　　His thumb brushed the underside of her breast. Just barely. Just enough to make her breath catch.

　　"Take off the top," he said.

　　"No."

　　"I'll pay…"

　　"No." She stood up quickly and turned to face him. "That's not part of the deal."

　　Miguel looked up at her. His eyes were hungry. Dark. Dangerous. "Everything has a price."

　　"Not everything."

　　They stared at each other. The music kept playing but it felt like the room had gone silent.

　　Then Miguel smiled. That same annoying smile from earlier. "You're interesting. Most girls here would have stripped naked by now for the right amount of money."

　　"I'm not most girls."

　　"Yes." He stood up slowly. He was taller than her even in her heels. "You are. You do have a price, just name it."

　　He stepped closer. She stepped back, and her shoulders hit the wall.

　　Trapped.

　　Miguel braced one hand on the wall beside her head. He leaned in close. So close she could smell the whiskey on his breath.

　　"You remind me of someone," he whispered.

　　Her heart stopped. "Who?"

　　"I can't quite place it." His eyes moved over her face. Over the mask. Over her red wig. "Something about your eyes. Are they naturally brown or are these contact lenses?"

　　No. No. No.

　　"Lots of girls have brown eyes," she said quickly, looking away.

　　"Not like yours." His free hand came up. His fingers touched her chin, tilting her face toward the light. "There's something familiar about you."

　　She couldn't breathe. She couldn't think. His face was so close. If he pulled the mask off now, if he saw her blonde hair underneath the wig, it was over.

　　Everything would be over.

　　"Maybe I just have one of those faces," she tried.

　　"Maybe." But he didn't sound convinced.

　　His thumb brushed her bottom lip.

　　The touch sent electricity shooting through her entire body. She hated it. Hated how her body reacted to him. Hated the heat pooling low in her stomach.

　　This was wrong. This was so wrong.

　　But she couldn't move.

　　"Your time's almost up, sir." She forced the words out.

　　Miguel's eyes flicked to hers. For a second, disappointment flickered across his face. Then it was gone.

　　He stepped back and pulled out his wallet. He counted out several hundred-dollar bills and tucked them into the strap of her bra.

　　"Same time tomorrow," he said.

　　"What?"

　　"I'll be back tomorrow night. I want you again."

　　"I might not be available..."

　　"Make yourself available." It wasn't a request. It was a command.

　　He walked to the door and paused with his hand on the handle. He looked back at her over his shoulder.

　　"Don't disappoint me, Red."

　　Then he was gone. The door clicked shut.

　　Inés slid down the wall until she was sitting on the floor. Her legs wouldn't hold her anymore.

　　He's coming back tomorrow.

　　She pulled the bills out of her costume and counted them with shaking hands.

　　One thousand dollars. For one dance.

　　Back in the dressing room, her phone buzzed in her locker. She already knew what it was. Another message from the gang. Another reminder that time was running out.

　　She looked at the money in her hand.

　　He's coming back tomorrow.

　　And the worst part?

　　A small, terrible part of her wanted him to.