Deep Attraction (Deep Attraction #1)

Chapter One

Chloe

The background music blasted through the room illuminated by dim pink and purple lights.

The floor-to-ceiling metal poles on the stage were taken by the usual dancers, doing their usual performances, showing off their bodies in their almost nonexistent costumes.

Men of every age and appearance hollered, waving bills up in the air.

One by one, the private rooms filled, doors clicking shut.

For many, it was a night of pleasure.

To me, it was hell.

Behind the bar, I was nimbly preparing the next round of drinks when my eyes caught sight of silky blonde hair heading up toward the stage. The pink and purple lights highlighted her long legs as she took each stair onto the stage.

Her name wasn’t Leya, despite what everyone thought, and she wasn’t even a real blonde.

She was an illusion carefully created for the men who came here looking to escape reality and it didn’t really matter what was real or fake in a place like this, as long as we all gave them the attention they so desperately craved.

‘Leya’ wrapped herself around the metal pole, fluid as liquid gold, moving with slow, sensual rhythm that made men lean in their seats, unable to look away.

She slithered down, her body bending gracefully as she dropped to her knees, arching forward just enough for the nearest men to slide bills between her breasts or daringly underneath the straps of the thinnest cherry red thong.

As they slipped their fingers in, trying to explore, Leya snapped into motion, her hips darting away on beat, teasing, denying.

They didn’t even notice how skillfully she did it just to avoid their touch.

She looked like she enjoyed every second of what she was doing on that stage, but it was just another lie. None of us enjoyed this, we did it because we had no choice.

We did it because Bruce Gallagher owned us.

Literally.

And if we didn’t play our roles perfectly, we’d suffer the consequences.

“Pssst!”

A mouthing sound cut through the pulsing music. I glanced down to the table I was serving and was greeted with a cocky smile plastered on full lips.

“My friends and I can’t wait to watch you strip for us, sweetie pie.” The man said, nodding at the stage.

His friends already erupting in laughter, clinking glasses in a mocking toast as I sat down another drink sliding it over the table, refusing to meet his lustful stare again.

There were five of them, all in their early twenties, oozing that wannabe-bad-boy, too-rich-for-you energy.

With their designer clothes, expensive watches, and that air of entitlement, they could have had any girl they wanted, anywhere.

So why or how did they always end up in seedy places like this was beyond me.

I used to think strip clubs were just for the old and lonely, but I couldn’t have been more wrong. It wasn’t about age but about character.

I put down the last drink with more force than necessary, sending liquid spilling over the edge and turned to leave, but that was when everything in my body rooted me to the ground as a hand landed on my ass with a sharp slap. Hard enough to make heads turn, hard enough to make my blood boil.

“Get back here—” the original perpetrator snapped. “Climb up and give us a show already!”

He jabbed a finger down on the table, demanding as if I was his dog. Disgust and fury mixed together in my stomach and everything in me wanted to snatch the glass from his hand and slam it into his face.

Instead, I forced a tight smile at the group of idiots and turned on my heel, tugging at the hem of my skirt on my hurried way back behind the bar. On my way, another waitress passed, giving me a sympathetic yet pitying look through that dreadful lacy face mask.

It was like staring at yourself in the mirror in here. All the waitresses wore the same mask and the same preposterous two-piece costume covered by fringes and silver glitter, far too small for our bodies. The strappy heels to make our legs look longer weren’t an option either; they were mandatory.

We were his property, his brand, every detail easily recognizable to anyone familiar with Bruce or his business.

“You okay?” Rosita asked, her hands moving swiftly, mixing a cocktail. “Yeah, thanks. Bruce needs to work on the security around here though,” I muttered under my breath.

Rosita’s brown eyes met mine, eyebrows raising in agreement.

Reaching for another glass, I eyed the group of perverts again.

I had become somewhat used to it over the years—the constant flirtations and nasty comments, the unwelcome touches coming too fast to avoid, the stray dogs with no manners.

It was always all the same. From cocky college jocks celebrating graduations to the lonely and retired ones looking for attention.

From powerful businessmen sick of their boring, unattractive wives; to criminals sealing their deals.

No matter how different they each may have seemed, they all had one thing in common: They all came here to show their true, ugly selves. The monsters they wouldn’t dare to unleash at home upon their perfect little families.

And while I’d done my fair share of lap dances, I’d never been forced to have sex with any client.

Of course anything could happen in a place like this for the right price, but that wasn’t exactly the concept of the club.

This was Bruce’s show, and in this room each group of girls had a different role.

The stage girls were the main attraction, the ones men paid to watch, the ones who could be picked for “sessions” in the private rooms, and once those doors closed, there wasn’t much they were allowed to refuse.

But girls like me, the ones behind the bar, the ones walking close enough to be touched but never taken?

We were the bait. The forever forbidden fruit.

The part of the show meant to tempt and torment without ever giving.

All of us, a pretty little curtain to hide Bruce and his main business, something much darker happening every Tuesday in the basement.

The lights shift and change, signaling that Leya was towards the end of her performance on stage, when another girl—this time, a brunette—began walking up to take her place.

My eyes caught the number on her leg: 3.

She was one of the new girls, and if she was going on stage wearing a number, chances were we’d never see her again after tonight. My gut lurched, acid burning at the back of my throat. I was hardly ever willing to admit to myself what they did to us here. But didn’t we all know it?

The dance, the glitter, the expensive lace, it was all part of the presentation. An elaborate, sadistic way to display them to potential buyers waiting for the auction that would happen later tonight.

Everyone who’d been around long enough knew Bruce was tied to some underworld organization involving human trafficking and secret auctions, where a lot of those new girls, or those who misbehaved, would end up before vanishing without a trace.

It was reminiscent of the heinous old slave days in the deep South, where chained women paraded in front of slave masters before someone bid the highest price.

In the line-ups, if you happened to be lucky enough to be pulled out, you might end up here, behind the bar or on the stage, working for Bruce to pay your debt and grateful for the chance.

And you were simply not allowed to speak about what you saw.

Ever. And no one dared because in places like this, there were no second chances.

I knew it because I’d been ‘lucky’ to be pulled out, so they said, and I’d been working for Bruce ever since to pay that debt.

One that was never mine to pay.

After serving my last table, I rushed backstage, directly to Bruce’s office. It was payday, and I really needed the money badly. My sister needed it.

I knocked once, but before I could knock again, the door flew open and Trixie came storming out, her face red with anger. I didn’t ask, we’d all learned not to ask anything around here.

The office was dark and always a mess of shredded papers, empty boxes, and cans of energy drinks littered every surface, leaving barely any space to walk, let alone sit.

As I walked further in, cigarette smoke wafted into my nose, mixed with an odor as rancid as sewage.

I tried to stifle a cough, but the air was too toxic.

He was behind his desk counting money, like always, a cigarette dangling from his lips. His dark hair was slicked back with way too much gel, and I noticed he was wearing a new expensive suit.

I coughed again, entering the heavy cloud of smoke hanging over his desk.

He didn’t even look up when he handed me the money.

Eighty-five bucks. That’s all?

I counted it again, slower this time.

He always paid me less than he was supposed to with the excuse that the rest went toward my father’s debt, but it had never been this low.

“Where’s the rest?”

“Extra expenses,” he mumbled in his thick Irish accent, pressing the cigarette harder between his lips and waving his hand, shooing me to leave.

There was so much money lying around his desk that it made me think about my sister and how that amount of money would I finally set us free and change our lives completely. It made me sick and it had nothing to do with the odor in the room.

“What expenses?” My voice rose and that finally made him look up. Cold, brown eyes locking onto mine as he exhaled a stream of smoke before crushing the cigarette into the ashtray.

“I had to get you a new outfit because you couldn’t control that asshole last week. That costs money.”

“He grabbed me!” I snapped. “He ripped it because your guard dogs were too slow to intervene. That wasn’t my fault!”

My voice was rising, more than he usually allowed. Bruce leaned back, amusement flickering in his dark eyes as his lips curled into a vile smile. The deep wrinkles on his forehead and around his mouth stood out even more whenever he smiled, making him look even more grotesque.

“It’s your clothes,” he said with a shrug. “It’s your fault.”

I clenched my fists, feeling rage boiling under my skin.

“Look, Chloe, I like you, you know I do,” he continued smoothly, pushing himself up from his old leather chair, circling the desk, until he stood right in front of me. “But I’m sensing a little ungratefulness here…” He clicked his tongue. “And after all I did for you and your sister…”

I swallowed hard. Just the mention of her name in his mouth made it harder to breathe.

His gaze traveled down my exposed legs, then up, pausing at my chest, where the too-tight crop top pushed up my breasts painfully. My arms wrapped around myself instinctively, but it did nothing to block his grimy stare.

“How old is she now? Nineteen? Twenty?” he mused. “Not much older than you were when you started.”

He paused, a slow grin twisting on his mouth. “If she’s turned out half as beautiful as you, maybe I can knock some zeros off your debt.”

“Leave her out of this,” I snapped. “You gave me your word.”

“And I’ve kept it, haven’t I? But you’re not a kid anymore.” He stepped closer. “If you want to make a dint in your debt without getting your sister involved…” another step. “You better find a way to make me more money.”

His breath hit my face as he stood over me, and I forced down the grimace.

“The stage always has room for one more, Chloe,” he added.

The room suddenly felt smaller. My head turned away, needed air that didn’t belong to him, but he took the opportunity to lean in, his lips almost grazing my ear.

“The more money you make me,” he murmured against my skin, “the quicker I can set you free. That was the deal, yeah?”