Chapter 16 #2
My chest aches unexpectedly, but suspicion itches my mind. “How did you know that would make a difference?”
His fingers tighten imperceptibly. His nostrils flare. “The bouncer suggested it.”
“X?” I ask, unable to stop myself from smiling.
“Yup,” he says crisply.
Interesting… do they know each other? If so, why didn’t X mention it to me? Or Castle? Castle would’ve told me this information, since it’s potentially something to use and it implies that Hatter isn’t such a stranger after all.
But none of those questions come out, because why would my mind conjure up something useful at this point? Instead, I find myself asking in a softer voice than I intend.
“Why did you do that? Spend all that money on me? Care? You don’t even know me.”
The seriousness in his gaze makes me falter.
“I knew enough to know you deserved protecting,” he admits, making me stutter to a full stop.
“And I hated that he made you uncomfortable onstage. I couldn’t stand the thought of him making you uncomfortable in private.
” He huffs wryly and waves his hand in a gesture of defeat.
“And in the end, I did that to you anyway.”
I frown, shaking my head. “You didn’t make me uncomfortable.”
“You know I did, Alice. With the syringe?” A frisson of panic zips through me, and it takes everything inside me not to make a face.
Hatter bends forward in the throne, resting his elbows on his knees as he becomes smaller. “Why’d you freak out about it?” I open my mouth and he tuts. “Don’t give me some nothingburger bullshit. That wasn’t a normal reaction, and you know I know it.”
Hey, I’m the ones who’s supposed to be asking questions here. Okay, girl, use it.
My fingers toy nervously with the lace on my skirt. My heart hammers in my chest. He can’t know everything but maybe knowing something will get some answers out of him too, kind of like with Castle.
“My dad was an addict before he got married to my mom,” I hear words fall freely before I can stop them.
It’s good my parents are open about their sobriety because I’m just singing like a canary over here on Wander Isle.
“He quit drinking—and everything else—before I was born. My mom went through a lot too, but once they finally got together, they went through different programs to help them beat their demons together. My Gramps was a huge help too.”
Hatter’s head tilts as he analyzes me. “And the syringe?”
“I’ve heard all my life about how drugs make things worse,” I kind of lie. It’s true, but not relevant to this. “I don’t want to be anywhere around them, that’s all.”
“That’s all,” he repeats, drumming his fingers on the throne. The words drip with suspicion so thick I can almost taste it in the silence that develops after.
That quiet should make things easier. Silence means all I have to do is just quit talking and wait for him to fill the space. Spy 101.
Instead, I’m the one still talking nonstop like I’m telling Chessy his bedtime story—barely remembering to filter myself.
“I don’t know why I’m telling you all this,” I finally admit softly.
His voice lowers to a thoughtful murmur. “Maybe nobody’s asked about you in a long time.”
I snort. “Plenty of patrons ask—”
“The real you.”
My lips part, and I swallow. The real me? What does that mean?
His intense focus is so heavy I can’t move, a boulder holding me in place.
“And maybe you haven’t felt safe enough to trust someone with the answers.”
My hands fidget, and I’ve lost all pretense of dancing. But Hatter’s leaning back, almost like he’s come to ask the questions—to say what he wanted to say—and now that he’s done, he can relax again.
What the heck?
His eyes dart from my hands to my face. “You’re nervous again.”
I shake my head. “No. I-I’m not.”
“That wasn’t a question, bunny.” He chuckles low, and my lower belly flips so wildly I press my hands over it. “You’re fidgeting. Distracted. You’re hardly looking at me. The real question is why.”
My fuzzy mind filters through all the tips and tricks I’m usually so good at. But just being in his presence again has made me lose all control in front of him.
Mirroring. Smoke. Silence. Trauma filtering. Diversion—
Yes, that one will work. My mind is scattered with nerves over him as it is—and he said it himself. I’m distracted. Might as well use that flaw to my advantage.
“Why do you call me bunny? My friends called me it back home. But why do you do it?”
He starts, then straightens to sit back upright in the chair. Finally he shrugs.
“You’re remind me of one.”
“I look like a rabbit?” I ask slowly, and he snorts.
“No, you’re all woman, Alice.” My blush burns my cheeks, but thankfully he keeps going, and even his voice is smiling as he answers.
“But you’re skittish. And gorgeous, stunning, but also adorable.
Plus, there’s a rabbit in Alice in Wonderland.
” He gestures to the Flower Room. “Not exactly a difficult leap.”
I squirm under his gaze once again.
“So bunny suits you,” he finishes.
“Interesting logic.” I smile. My stomach flips hard enough to annoy me, so I try to ignore the feeling by dancing again and racking my brain for an actual question to ask him.
But all I’m getting is giddy fuzziness. Geez, it’s embarrassing how affected I am by him, and he’s cool as a freaking cucumber right now.
“But you never answered my question,” he reminds me, even as I have trouble remembering what his question was in the first place. “Why are you so nervous?”
“Dance for me, Lucy girl…”
“Because this is what I had to do for him.” The second the words leave my mouth, we both go completely still.
“What?” Hatter’s voice is deathly low, but it makes me shiver with something completely different than fear.
OhmyGodohmyGodohmyGod, why did I say that?
No one knows what happened back then. Not a soul. I think my parents suspect, but they’ve never pried because when they tried to understand, I ran away every time.
God, I have to get whatever’s going on with me around him under control.
“No—I meant—”
Hatter begins to stand. “Someone made you dance? Who?”
“Dance for me—”
“No!” I shout, lunging toward him to press my hands against his chest.
There’s no way I’m actually strong enough to make Hatter do anything, but he stops mid-rise and allows me to push him back into the seat. I don’t let him up as I quickly lie—explain.
“I was talking about the routine. Having to dance on men is different than having to dance for them, you know? I’ve had to do the routine a million times and I’m sick of it even though I’ve never actually performed it.
” I laugh awkwardly. “It’s one of those things that if you work on it too much, it feels harder than it ever was. ”
Hatter’s gaze narrows, and I’m sure I’ve lost him for good tonight. But maybe I can rope him in again?
Which means I have to salvage what I can now. What was it Tweetie said? I danced so good I had him hooked?
Well, if I didn’t before, that’s what I’m going to have to do now. Hopefully I can try to get some actual information from him, but if not…
Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it.
I blow out a breath, and keep talking, quicker now to bulldoze over whatever Hatter thinks he might know.
“Duchess is amazing at this stuff and Tweetie makes everything look easy and I just…” I shrug helplessly. “I haven’t done it yet, so… I don’t know. It’s daunting.”
That part at least is true. Sort of.
He watches me for another long second, and then thankfully, mercifully he lets it go, leaning back and placing his hands on the armrests again.
“What can I do to make you less nervous?” he asks, and my chest squeezes. I don’t get nervous at The Rabbit Hole, but I used to get nervous before every single show. No one’s ever asked me that, though.
“Well…” I shift awkwardly beneath his stare, until something finally comes to me. “You said you’ve been to clubs before? So you’ve had lap dances and stuff?”
His jaw tics, and I’m such a mess right now, I can’t even begin to guess why.
Where is the finesse? And how does someone get so terrible overnight at something they’ve basically been taught since birth?
“A few,” he says finally, voice rough.
“Okay! Good! Perfect.” I latch onto the answer, ignoring any other silly feelings that can come up with it. “Then tell me how.”
One dark brow lifts. “Tell you how to… what?”
“To give a lap dance. Talk me through it.” I gesture vaguely at myself.
“I know how to dance. I’ve literally went to a school for the arts.
” The words leave my mouth and immediate regret follows.
Why did I admit that? That’s not so hard to trace isn’t it?
Why do I keep just giving information without him even asking?
“I just mean—” I wave a hand awkwardly. “The girls have taught me what to do, but maybe you can tell me what guys actually like.”
Something tightens in his expression. I can’t quite decipher it.
“Teach you what guys like?” he sounds out slowly.
I nod and prop my hands on my hips. “Yeah.”
He shifts in the throne-like chair, visibly uncomfortable now. Even I can tell that much. Finally, he shakes his head once.
“I won’t teach you what guys like.” His voice drops rougher. “But I’ll teach you what I want.”