Chapter 5: You’re joking
The door to her studio apartment clicked shut, and the deadbolt slid home with a sound like a final judgment. Mya stood with her back against it for a long moment, then let her legs give out. She flopped onto the bed, the cheap mattress springs groaning in protest.
What the hell did I do?
The thought wasn’t even a question, just a flat, looping statement of disaster. The fluorescent lights of the CVS bathroom seemed branded on the back of her eyelids. The cold tile. The heat of his mouth. The shocking, undeniable feel of his hands on her skin, his tongue tracing a path that made her entire body convulse. She pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes, as if she could push the memory back in.
Derek was her first boyfriend. Yes, he had issues—the rules, the temper, the way his grip could tighten just a little too much on her arm. But this… this was a line crossed. She had kissed another man. She had let him touch her, had wanted him to touch her, had fallen apart against him in a public restroom while her boyfriend’s texts lit up her silent phone. That made her… what? As bad as him? Worse?
Sure, Craig was the most attractive guy she’d ever seen. There was a raw magnetism to him that felt like a physical force. And in his moments, he was sweet in a rough, unpolished way, seeming genuinely interested in her words, not just her silence. But there was no way. No way this ended anywhere but in flames.
She groaned, rolling over to bury her face in the pillow. It smelled like laundry soap and faintly of Derek’s cologne from his last visit. She shoved it off the bed.
Forcing herself up, she moved on autopilot to the kitchenette. The ritual of making chicken noodle soup from a can was soothing. The click of the stove, the steady bubble. She ate it standing at the counter, tasting nothing, and went through her nighttime routine with military precision. Brush teeth.Wash face. Put on the oversized sleep shirt. She was in bed by 8:30 PM, the room dark, listening to the sirens weave through the city streets.
Her phone rang at 9:07. Derek’s name glowed in the darkness.
She let it go to voicemail. It rang again immediately. Sighing, she swiped to answer, bringing the phone to her ear without a word.
“Mya. Hey.” His voice was softer than usual, layered with a careful, practiced concern. “Listen, about earlier… I overreacted. I’m sorry. I’m going to try harder. Work on myself. This break… it’s a wake-up call.”
She closed her eyes. “Derek…”
“No, I mean it. I love you. I want to make this right.” He paused, letting the sentiment hang. “Look, how about we start fresh tomorrow? I’ve got a quick business meeting tomorrow night at this club, but it’ll be fast. We could go together. Get drinks after. Have a real night, just us. You never let me take you out anymore.”
She almost laughed. Let him. As if she’d ever been in charge of their social calendar. “I don’t know…”
“Please, Mya. It’ll be fun. You’ll see. I’ll be on my best behavior. A nice night out.”
The exhaustion was bone-deep. Arguuing required energy she didn’t have. The path of least resistance stretched out before her, familiar and worn smooth. “Okay,” she whispered.
“Great! I’ll pick you up at six. Dress nice, yeah? It’s a classy place.” His voice was bright now, the victory clear.
The next day was a blur of steam and coffee grounds. She worked her shift in a fog, the memory of Craig’s touch flashing at her at random moments, making her fumble a milk pitcher. She went home and stared at her closet. ‘Dress nice’ from Derek meant conservative, covered. She pulled out a long-sleeved black dress she’d bought for a funeral the year before. It hugged her ribs and flared at the hips, stopping at the middle of her thighs. She paired it with opaque tights and low boots.
When Derek pulled up exactly at six, his eyes scanned her from the curb. His smile tightened at the corners. “The dress is a bit… tight, isn’t it?” he said, his tone light but with an edge.
“It’s what I have,” she said, sliding into the passenger seat. She caught the faint, familiar scent of his leather cleaner and mint gum.
He hesitated, then nodded, forcing a smile. “It’s fine. You look beautiful. Let’s go.”
The club, Velvet & Steel, was a monolithic slab of dark glass and throbbing bass in the meatpacking district. The line snaked around the block, a river of sequins and preened hair. Derek marched them past it all, giving a name to a mountainous bouncer who unhooked the velvet rope. The sound hit her first—a deep, subsonic pulse that vibrated in her molars. Then the smell: cloying perfume, sweat, spilled liquor, and the underlying tang of cigarette smoke clinging to velvet drapery.
She’d never really been a club person. The noise felt invasive. She really only drank sweet wine, and she did not dance. The idea of moving her body in front of strangers sent a chill of anxiety down her spine.
A man emerged from the shifting shadows of the entryway. He was big, broad-shouldered, with dark, straight hair and a calm face that scanned Derek with a look of pure, unvarnished annoyance. Then his gaze flicked to her. Something changed. His eyes—sharp and perceptive—widened just a fraction. A mischievous, knowing expression crossed his features, a smirk playing on his lips as if he’d just heard the best joke in the world.
“Derek,” the man said, his voice cutting through the thrum. He didn’t offer a hand.
“Marco. This is Mya.” Derek’s introduction was stiff, proprietary, his hand landing possessively on the small of her back.
Marco’s eyes stayed on her face, that knowing look deepening. “Ah. Yes.Mya. Nice to meet you.” The way he said it implied they’d already been introduced, many times, in stories he found deeply amusing.
She managed a small, confused smile. “Nice to meet you, too.”
“Right this way. He’s waiting in VIP.” Marco turned and led them through the chaos. The main floor was a sea of undulating bodies under cascading lasers. He guided them up a discreet staircase guarded by another impassive man, and the world shifted. Up here, the music was a muted heartbeat. The air was cooler, scented with aged whiskey and fine cigars. Plush booths of black leather were backed by velvet curtains, arranged around low tables of polished mahogany. It was a fortress overlooking the frenzy below.
Her heart began a frantic, irregular drumbeat against her ribs. She leaned closer to Derek as they followed Marco past curious, well-dressed onlookers. “Who exactly is this meeting with again?”
“A guy named Craig. He owns the place, too. You’ll be fine. I can do all the talking.” Derek patted her back, his confidence brittle.
Craig.
New York was a big city. What were the chances? It was a common name. It had to be a different Craig. The alternative was too ludicrous, too perfectly horrifying to consider.
Marco stopped at the mouth of the most secluded booth, a semicircular throne overlooking the entire club. He gestured with an open hand, that infuriating, cheeky grin firmly in place.
Her eyes followed the gesture.
And the bottom dropped out of the world.
Lounge in the center of the booth, one arm draped along the velvet backrest, was Craig. A Craig she hadn’t seen before. Gone was the leather jacket. He wore a tailored black suit that fit him like a second skin, a crisp white shirt open at the collar. A glass of amber whiskey sat on the table before him. His sharp, dark features were illuminated by the soft glow of a pendant light above, his charismatic smirk not just present but sharpened, deliberate. He looked like royalty in a den of thieves. And his eyes—dark, intent, and utterly unsurprised—were locked directly on hers.
It is the same Craig.
God damn it.
The noise of the club faded into a distant, hollow roar. Time seemed to slow, thick as syrup. She saw his gaze travel from her face down the length of the black dress, a slow, possessive appraisal that felt more intimate than his hands in the CVS bathroom. His smirk didn’t waver, but something ignited in the depth of his eyes—a flash of pure, unadulterated triumph.
Derek, oblivious, stepped forward, clearing his throat. “Craig. Thanks for meeting us. This is Mya.”
Craig’s eyes finally, reluctantly, slid from hers to Derek. The warmth vanished, replaced by a cool, businesslike detachment. “Derek.” He gave a slight nod. Then his attention returned to her, and his voice changed, dropping into a smoother, richer register that seemed to vibrate in her bones. “Mya. A pleasure.” He unfolded himself from the booth and stood, extending a hand toward the empty space beside him. “Why don’t you both have a seat?”
He was looking right at her as he said it. The command was gentle, but it wasn’t a request. It was the first move in a game she never agreed to play. Marco, leaning against a nearby pillar, caught her eye and winked.
Marco, leaning against a nearby pillar, caught her eye and winked.
The gesture was a spark to dry tinder, igniting a flush of humiliation that crawled up her neck. She looked away quickly, her gaze darting to the empty space on the leather couch Craig had indicated. It was a trap, every inch of it, but the only way out was through.
She walked next to Derek, her steps mechanically even on the plush carpet. He guided her to sit on the very end of the curved couch, the cool leather sighing under her weight. He settled heavily beside her, immediately crossing one ankle over his knee in a show of ease that didn’t reach his eyes. His right hand came to rest, casual and possessive, on her knee. The weight of it was familiar, a branding iron.
She decided her best bet was to just look out at the club, to play dumb girlfriend. She fixed her eyes on the swirling lights of the dance floor below, a chaotic galaxy of strangers. If she didn’t look at Craig, maybe he would become part of the scenery, just another piece of expensive furniture. The alternative was acknowledging the heat of his stare from across the table, which felt like a physical touch on her skin.
“Can I get you a drink, Mya?” Craig’s voice cut through her fragile focus. It was polite, host-like, and entirely for Derek’s benefit.
She forced herself to turn her head just slightly. “No, thank you.”
“Nothing at all? Water? Coffee?” He hadn’t moved from his dominant position in the center, just swirled his whiskey. His gaze was a dark, patient hunter’s gaze. “I hear you’re a fan of coffee.”
The reference to the diner, to their first meeting, was a grenade rolled gently across the mahogany. Derek’s fingers tensed on her knee. She felt the subtle dig of his fingertips through the fabric of her dress.
“I’m fine,” she said, her voice barely audible over the muffled bass.
“Suit yourself.” Craig leaned forward, the movement fluid and predatory, to address Derek. His polite mask shifted into something colder, more transactional. “So. Thirty-two thousand. You’re two weeks late on the vig. That’s a problem that compounds.”
Derek cleared his throat, his body stiffening. “I know. I’ve had some cash flow issues with the landscaping business. The early frost…”
“I don’t care about the frost,” Craig said, his tone conversational yet utterly devoid of warmth. He took a slow sip of his drink, his eyes never leaving Derek’s face. “I care about the principle. A debt is a debt. You took the money knowing the terms.”
“I’m good for it. I just need more time.” Derek’s voice took on a pleading edge he probably thought was negotiating. His thumb began to rub small, anxious circles on her kneecap.
“Time is expensive.” Craig set his glass down with a soft, definitive click. “What are you offering as collateral to buy this expensive time? The business is already leveraged. Your truck isn’t worth the rust.”
Mya kept her eyes on the dancing crowd, but she was screaming inside. This was the meeting. This was the debt. This was the reality of the man whose hand was on her leg. She could feel Derek’s nervous energy radiating off him, a sour, panicked scent cutting through the cigar smoke.
“I… I have assets,” Derek stammered.
“Do you.” It wasn’t a question. Craig’s eyes slid from Derek, over to her profile, and then back. The silence that followed was heavy, intentional, filling the booth with unspeakable implication.
Derek followed his gaze. Mya felt the exact moment Derek understood the predatory interest in Craig’s eyes, saw the way it lingered on her. She could practically hear the gears grinding in his head, the furious calculation. His hand tightened on her knee, a warning squeeze.
“Mya isn’t an asset,” Derek said, his voice tightening with a mix of indignation and a new, greasy fear. “She’s my girlfriend.”
“I can see that.” Craig’s lips twitched. He finally moved, shifting his posture to lounge back again, but his focus was now a laser on Derek’s crumbling composure. “The point is, you came here with nothing to negotiate. That’s disrespectful. It wastes my time.”
“I said I’d get it!”
“You said a lot of things.” Craig’s voice dropped, becoming dangerously soft. “You also said you’d control your temper. But I hear you had a little incident recently. Left a mark.”
The air vanished from the booth. Mya’s breath hitched. She couldn’t stop herself; she glanced at Craig. His expression was icy, a stark contrast to the man who had kissed her senseless. He was looking directly at the faint, yellowing shadow near her hairline, visible even in the dim light.
He was looking directly at the faint, yellowing shadow near her hairline, visible even in the dim light.
Derek’s hand flew off her knee as if scalded. “That was an accident,” he blurted, his voice too high. “She startled me. It was a complete misunderstanding.”
“I understand perfectly.” Craig’s words were chips of ice. He shifted his gaze to Mya, and the intensity softened into something more complex, a silent question. You see him now? it seemed to ask. The protective fury she saw there was more destabilizing than any smirk. She looked away, heat flooding her cheeks, focusing on a smudge on the polished table.
The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. Derek fidgeted, his confidence now a visible puddle around him. Mya watched his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed. This man, who dictated her clothing and her curfew, was crumbling before a sharper, harder predator. A strange, reckless clarity cut through her panic.
She took a breath, then tapped Derek’s hand where it now white-knuckled the edge of the couch. “You own your car outright now,” she said, her voice surprisingly steady. “It’s worth like $16,000. That takes out nearly half the debt.”
Derek’s head snapped toward her. His glare was instant, venomous, stripping away the ‘trying harder’ facade in a millisecond. “And how do you think I’d get to work, hmm?” he hissed, the words meant only for her.
She wanted to scream that he could take the bus like the rest of the stupid people who take out loans they can’t pay back. The retort burned the tip of her tongue. But years of conditioning—of swallowed words and negotiated peace—acted like a reflex. She swallowed it down, the taste bitter as ash, and nodded. “Forgot about that. I’m sorry.”
She turned around and faced the club again, her vision blurring. She wanted a drink. She should’ve taken the wine offer earlier and maybe asked for the whole bottle.
A low, rich chuckle came from across the table. Craig was watching the entire exchange, his eyes alight with a dark appreciation. “She’s quick with numbers,” he remarked to no one in particular. “A problem-solver. And she’s right. A clean title on a late-model F-150? That’s a serious offer.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his focus now entirely on Derek, dismissing Mya’s retracted suggestion as if it were his own. “So. The truck. Today’s title. We call it fifteen even, for speed. That leaves seventeen outstanding. What else have you got?”
“I’m not giving you my truck!” Derek sputtered, outrage and terror wrestling in his voice.
“You’re not giving it. You’re leveraging an asset to service a debt. This is Finance 101, Derek.” Craig’s tone was chillingly reasonable. “Unless you have seventeen thousand in cash in your pocket. Or another… asset… of equivalent value.”
His gaze flicked to Mya for a fraction of a second, long enough to ignite a new kind of fire in Derek’s eyes. This wasn’t just about money anymore. It was a primal contest, and Derek was losing on all fronts, in front of the very person he needed to control.
“You stay the hell away from her,” Derek snarled, his composure snapping. He stood up, looming over the seated Craig, his fists clenched. The performative ease was gone, replaced by the rigid, trembling anger she knew too well.
Marco pushed off the pillar, his movement casual but his posture now alert, a guard dog ready. Craig, however, didn’t even flinch. He just took another slow sip of his whiskey, looking up at Derek with utter, bored disdain.
“Sit down, Derek.” The command was quiet. It wasn’t a suggestion. “You’re making a scene in my house. And you’re upsetting your date.”
The humiliation was a living thing on Derek’s face. He stood there, caught between the urge to swing and the certain, violent consequence he saw in Marco’s calm stare. He slowly, deflatedly, sank back onto the couch. The leather sighed beneath him like a defeated thing.
“The truck,” Craig repeated, finality in the words. “Marco will go with you to get the title. Now. We’ll hold the booth for your… lovely companion.” He finally looked fully at Mya, his expression unreadable. “Unless you’d like to go with them? I imagine it’s a quick trip to his place.”
I imagine it’s a quick trip to his place.”
Derek’s jaw worked. He looked from Craig’s impassive face to Mya’s rigid profile, then back to Marco, who waited with an air of infinite patience. The math was done in his head, the ugly calculus of pride versus consequence. His shoulders slumped in defeat.
He stood. “Fine. Let’s go.” He turned to Mya, his expression hardening into something brittle and resentful. “You stay here. And don’t order any drinks.” It was less a concern for her and more a final, petty stamp of ownership.
He leaned down suddenly, cupping her face in both hands. The grip was too tight, his thumbs digging into her cheeks. He kissed her, a hard, dry press of lips that felt like a seal. Then his mouth moved to her ear, his whisper a venomous hiss meant only for her. “You’re paying me back for the truck, just to be clear.”
He pulled back, gave Craig one last, searing glare, and followed Marco out of the VIP section toward the staircase. Mya sat frozen, the imprint of his fingers lingering on her skin, the words echoing in her skull like a curse. She watched his back retreat, watched Marco’s broad form guide him away, watched them disappear down the steps.
The hidden door to the VIP lounge sighed shut behind them, muffling the club’s heartbeat to a dull throb.
Silence descended over the booth, thick and charged. It was just the two of them now, perched above the chaos. The weight of Craig’s gaze was a physical pressure on the side of her face. She could feel him watching her, waiting. The sickening reality of the last five minutes crystallized, sharp and cutting.
She turned her head slowly toward him. He hadn’t moved, still lounging in his kingly spot, one arm draped over the back of the couch. His eyes were dark pools, unreadable.
“What,” she said, her voice low and trembling, “the actual fuck is going on?”