Page 7 of Stripped

Chapter 5

Wraith sat in a dark corner at the back of the bar, watching as Primrose laughed with the man from the ballet. She was drunk. The bastard kept plying her with shots and she didn't have the sense to say no. She looked different, no longer the fragile and beautiful white swan from the ballet. This swan had transformed. This was a seductress playing a thrilling game. Every man in the pub had noticed her. Beauty aside, she was still nothing more than a spoiled lass. The stupid girl was going to get herself in trouble. She flipped her brown hair over her shoulder as she walked to the bathroom, her tight black dress just covering her rear end, and stopped when she saw him.

"It's you." Her eyes narrowed. "From the ballet last night."

"So," he said, bent over his drink.

"So?" She rubbed her middle finger along her thumb unconsciously, swaying slightly on her feet. "Why are you here? Are you following me?"

"I was here first. How could I be following you?" he asked, brushing her off.

"So, it's just a coincidence?" she challenged.

Wraith's attention was on the ballet director. He had ordered two more drinks, and he watched as the bastard dropped something in one of them.

"I asked you if it's just a coincidence, or are you trying to pick me up, creep?"

Wraith shook his head. "I don't pick up little girls. It's not my thing."

"But you kiss them," she said then added defensively, "and I'm not a little girl."

"You've had too much to drink. You should go home."

"Fucking cunt." She walked off toward the bathroom.

Damn. He was going to have to get involved. He picked up his drink. Walking over to where the ballet director stood at the counter, he finished the last of it and set his empty glass down. "I'll take another," he said to the bartender. The woman behind the counter nodded.

He looked at the director. "Did you see that piece of ass back there?" He motioned with his head to a pretty woman with red hair by the pool table. The ballet director looked over. Wraith switched the two glasses on the counter.

"Not my type," the middle-aged man said, running his hand through his long hair.

"Too old?" Wraith asked, not trying to hide the disgust in his voice.

The director laughed. "Too big. I like mine a bit more petite."

Arsehole. The bartender handed him his drink. Wraith laid a twenty-pound note on the counter and walked away, returning to his spot in the corner.

Primrose came back to the bar. She let her hand brush across the director's back before he handed her the shot. She glanced back to where Wraith sat, her eyes hardening before she lifted the glass to her lips and downed the contents. He shook his head. He was here to find out who killed McNeil, not to babysit his reckless granddaughter. The lassie was a fool. The clock on the wall read one. He finished his drink before he noticed any changes in the director's demeanor. The man began to stagger, and sitting down hard in a chair, he grabbed his head. Pim knelt before him and pulled out her phone, typing in several things as she talked to him in a hushed voice. Then she got up and helped him stand, walking him out. Wraith followed close behind. He stopped her before she got in an Uber with the man.

"Let him go," he said, grabbing her arm.

"He's drunk. I need to make sure he gets home safely." She tried pulling away from him but she, herself, was too drunk to struggle.

"He'll get home but not with you." He leaned in the front window and spoke with the driver then watched as he sped off with his pathetic cargo.

"Let go of me," she said.

"Look, he tried to drug you. I watched him put something in your drink."

"No, he didn't. He wouldn't do that."

"Well, he did."

The girl began to sway on her feet as the color drained from her face. Wraith caught her before she fell over. Her lithe body was nothing more than a limp weight in his arms. He picked her up and carried her to his car, putting her in the passenger seat and praying she wouldn't vomit on the Nappa leather seats. Then he drove the short distance to her flat. She was easier to deal with passed out, and at least he didn't need to listen to her smart mouth. It was Alex's intention to punish him and the bastard was doing a good job. He carried her up the three flights of stairs to her place, the muscles in his bad leg aching from the effort, and found her keys in her purse. He unlocked the door and entered. Flicking on a light, the room lit up, the white walls and furniture a haven after the chaotic club. Wraith found the bedroom and set her down on the king-sized bed, removing her boots. She curled up on her side in the fetal position, covering her head with her arm, and let out a low moan. He covered her up with a blanket and closed the door. If she thought she felt bad now, wait until morning. His stomach let out its own rumble as he had yet to eat dinner. The fridge was practically empty; a withered pack of blueberries and a lone cucumber was all it contained. He shut the door and picked up the bottle of wine on the counter, pouring himself a glass. As least, it would stave off his hunger. He took off his suit jacket and made himself comfortable on the white couch, and kicking his feet up on a plush ottoman, he rubbed his sore thigh. Well, he did what he was told to do. He was now involved with Primrose McNeil.

* * *

Pim looked at the clock with one eye. It was going on seven. She needed to get up and get moving but the pounding in her head said otherwise. She couldn't remember how she got home last night and was thankful to find that Peter was not in her bed. A faint image of him in a car, driving off, flitted through her mind. She sat up. She still wore her dress but had managed at least to get her shoes off. She hadn't been this hungover in a long time. Not since she was a teenager, when she would stay out all night partying. The sound of a car horn honked outside. It would be her neighbor's carpool ride, letting him know they'd arrived. Every day, like clockwork.

Pim chucked the blanket off and made her way to the bathroom. She turned the water on and stood under the lukewarm stream, hoping to wash off last night. It had been a mistake. While it had provided her with a reprieve from her grief, she was embarrassed with her actions. When she was sixteen and told her grandfather she was quitting ballet, she used alcohol and sex to numb the pain she was really feeling. At the time, she was still trying to grapple with her father's death and her mother's apparent abandonment. Ballet dominated her whole life and she felt like she had missed out on a normal childhood. Missed out on time she could have spent with her father. The resentment she felt toward dance consumed her and she blamed it for everything. Partying and one-night stands became her only reprieve.

She turned the water off and dried herself with a towel. The cool morning air caused goosebumps to appear on her skin as she shivered, and her warm bed called out to her to lie back down. Enticing as it was, she couldn't. She put on a pair of baggy gray sweats and a black wrap-around ballet sweater and made her way to the other bedroom. It had been converted to a small studio where she could practice. Full length mirrors lined two of the walls and a marley floating floor had been installed. She sat down and grabbed a roll of tape and a pair of pointe shoes. Her feet were a mess. Swan Lake was a demanding ballet. The constant pirourettes, pas de bourrés, and the thirty-two fouetté turns had taken their toll. She tore off what remained of her big toenail, wrapping it in tape. The rest of her nails were black from repeated injury. Her other foot sported a huge blister across her metatarsals. It was still raw from the friction of her shoes. She covered it with a plaster then taped the whole thing up before putting both her shoes on and tying the ribbons. She stood up and pulled the barre away from the wall, then placing her hands on it for support, she began to warm up her feet. The pounding in her head hadn't subsided and she felt her stomach roll. She pushed it aside. It was going on seven-thirty and it would take her thirty minutes to warm up her feet before she had to leave for class. Something popped in her hip, relieving the pain, as she positioned her feet in a wide second position, and she slowly began to relevé, going up on her toes. Her ankles cracked in angry protest. She repeated the move, again and again, stretching the tight tendons and getting used to the pressure at her toes.

A thud from the other room made her look up. The man from the orchestra, who was at the bar last night, stood in the doorway. She froze. Her mouth opened, but nothing came out. She was rendered speechless, shock etched across her face.

"I thought you'd still be asleep." He looked at her nonchalantly.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" she said, finally finding her voice.