Jax (Daddies of Justice #2)

1. Mia

Chapter one

Mia

M ia danced under the dim lights of the strip club, her petite, curvaceous frame moving to the beat of the pounding music. The air was thick with hungry lust, the eyes of leering patrons following her every move.

"Hey, Tiger!" shouted a man from the crowd. "Give us a closer look! I want to feel that ink dance."

Mia twisted away as his hand reached out, trying to grab at her tattoo. Her heart raced, adrenaline pumping through her veins. She felt trapped by her own skin, unable to escape the unwanted attention.

"Back off," she snapped, her voice barely audible over the cacophony of music and catcalls. She moved back to the center of the stage, to the pole she spent so much time dancing with. The pole was good. The pole was her friend. The pole never grabbed her or said lecherous things to her.

"Aw, come on, don't be like that," the man called out.

Mia stayed by the pole, well out of his grasp.

“I just wanna see that hot little tiger tattoo of yours",” yelled the guy, who was clearly drunk. “Show me your claws, baby. Bet you’re ferocious between the sheets. Miaow.”

Just then, a red light buzzed over the stage. Every time the red light turned on, it was an instruction from Mia’s boss to remove another item of clothing. There were no ifs or buts. No arguing with those lights. She had to do as she was told . . . or face the consequences.

"Damn it," she muttered to herself as she began to provocatively remove her strappy top so that now she was dancing in nothing but her bra and panties.

Now, the green light flashed on. That meant “go.” Mia had to move around the crowd, to give them an eyeful, to tease them and grind against them and most importantly, collect their cash.

Mia swallowed, steeling herself for another unpleasant round of getting pawed at by sweaty businessmen with hard-ons. Each and every one of the men in here disgusted her. Their beery breath. Their sweaty palms. The greedy look in their eyes. And of course, the fact they thought they owned a piece of her.

As Mia moved through the sea of strangers, she did her best to avoid their touch. Sweat clung to her skin. All she wanted was to shower, to get clean, then run a mile. But she couldn’t. She was a prisoner. An animal in a cage, forced to perform for spectators who saw her as nothing more than a piece of meat.

For a fleeting moment, Mia's thoughts retreated to her childhood in foster care. She remembered the cold linoleum floors and sterile white walls of the group home she'd shared with her only friend, Savannah. The two girls huddled together beneath threadbare blankets, their whispered dreams of escaping to a better life filling the darkness.

"Promise me we'll get out of here someday, Mia," Savannah had said, her green eyes shining with hope. "We'll find a real family who loves us."

"I promise, Savvy," Mia had replied, her voice trembling with determination. A fierce sense of loyalty bound them together, sisters forged not by blood but by a shared struggle for survival.

But fate had other plans—plans that tore them apart and left Mia betrayed and abandoned, her dreams crumbling like ashes around her.

"Hey, Tiger! I got somethin’ for ya.”

It was the same guy, the one who wouldn’t leave her alone tonight. He was holding a wad of cash now. Her heart fell. Mia knew that meant there was no escaping him. Her boss, Chad, watched her on CCTV from the back room. If he ever caught her doing something as bad as not going to collect money from a client, he’d punish her for days.

No dinner for two nights.

No blankets.

An ice bath.

He had all kinds of ways to make her suffer.

The man moved closer to Mia, his eyes gleaming with anticipation. He extended the cash towards her, his voice thick with a layer of insinuation, "Come on, Tiger, you know you want it."

She hesitated, her eyes scanning the crowd for an escape route. There had to be a way out of this. She couldn't do this every night. Something inside her snapped, and she decided to assert her agency. Instead of just taking the money, she spun around, her eyes locking with the man's.

"Listen, buddy," she said, her voice firm, "if you think this is gonna get you anywhere, you're sadly mistaken. I'm not that girl."

The man's expression twisted into a snarl, as if he'd been slapped. His grip tightened around the cash, his fingers digging into his palm. "You think you're all that, huh? You wanna get in trouble with your big boss, do you?”

Mia swallowed. “Just . . . hand over the money. Let’s get this over with.”

His grin grew wider, a testament to his sheer satisfaction with his power over her. “Glad you see sense, baby.”

One by one, excruciatingly slowly, he began sliding dollar notes into her underwear. His rough fingers felt like they left burn marks all over her skin. The scent of his breath made her want to wretch. Finally, he had inserted all ten notes, and she counted them. Ten dollars. Ten measly dollars. And for that, he got to feel her up with those disgusting sausage fingers and act like he was better than her.

She looked him in the eyes, frustration bubbling within her. She knew that she was facing away from the camera right now, so she mouthed three words to the guy. “I hate you.”

The guy licked his lips and laughed. “I like ‘em feisty,” he said.

Mia was about to say something or retaliate, but just then, a shrill bell sounded. The bell that told Mia her shift was up, her torture was over—or at least, this particular torture was over— for another day.

“Time's up!" called a gruff voice from beyond the stage, yanking Mia back to the present. With a heavy sigh, she stepped down from the platform and made her way through the labyrinth of dimly lit corridors, her mind still lingering on the past.

"Another night over," she mumbled, pushing open the door to the cramped dressing room. It was a far cry from the glamour and glitz portrayed on the outside; just a small space cluttered with discarded costumes, cosmetics, and shattered dreams. Mia took the cash out of her clothes, uncrumpling it and counting it out. Not that she was allowed to keep any of it, of course. It all went to Chad. Occasionally she got other gifts inserted into her underwear: perfume or trinkets, and she was allowed to keep those. Her only worldly possession.

She peeled off her underwear, her skin prickling with both relief and disgust as she removed the layers of sweat-soaked fabric.

"Ugh, I need a shower," she thought, shoving the dirty garments into the laundry basket. Her body ached from hours of dancing, and her soul felt even more bruised than her muscles.

She went into the small, moldy shower in the corner of the dressing room, and turned on the faucet.

The water was tepid at best, but Mia didn't care. She needed to wash away the filth that clung to her skin, not just from the sweat but from the men's unwanted touch. As the water cascaded over her, she closed her eyes and tried to block out the memories of the night.

When she was done, Mia stepped out of the shower and wrapped herself in a threadbare towel. She looked in the mirror, her eyes bloodshot and her skin sallow. How anybody could find her attractive was beyond her. She used to be quite round as a kid, and she always liked her natural shape. Since she was brought here on her sixteenth birthday, she’d been practically starved. She had curves, yes, but her ribs showed, too. She felt like a skeleton with skin.

Mia got dressed and sank down into the battered armchair in the corner of the dressing room, her body still trembling from the night's performance. She glanced over at the worn copy of Kipling's Jungle Book she'd stashed among her things earlier. The dog-eared pages had become a sanctuary for her, a place where she could escape the harsh reality of the strip club and lose herself in the wild jungles of India.

"Hey, Mowgli," she whispered, opening the book to her favorite passage. The familiar words washed over her like a soothing balm, transporting her far away from the leering gazes and groping hands of the club's patrons. Her fingers traced the rough edges of the yellowed pages, tracing the ink as it formed each word, each sentence, each story.

This book had been one of her rare gifts from a client. He was a regular visitor about a year and a half ago. Gave her gifts like a necklace and some perfume that smelled of lilacs. He’d asked her if there was anything else she wanted, and she told him shyly that she’d love him to bring her favorite book to her: Jungle Book by Rudyard Kipling.

He brought her the book and then the very next night he made an advance on her. He paid her boss, Chad, a hefty payment so that he got time in the back room with her. But when he’d tried to sleep with her, she’d kneed him in the balls. He told her he’d earned a fuck with her, and she’d felt sick to the stomach. Told him to go find some other slave to lavish attention on.

And, presumably, he did.

But not after reporting her to Chad, and making sure she got no dinner for an entire week.

Mia's fingers rubbed the creased spine of The Jungle Book, her thoughts wandering to a life beyond these dimly lit walls. A life where she could be seen for more than just her body, where her passion for books could flourish. Her heartbeat quickened at the thought, as if even daring to imagine such a future was dangerous.

"God, I wish I could escape," she whispered under her breath.

"Don't let them get to you," murmured a familiar voice. It was Zara, another young woman held captive here, about to go onstage for her shift. "You're stronger than they are, you hear me?"

Mia nodded, a small smile playing on her lips. She turned the page and her heart skipped a beat. There, staring back at her, was Shere Khan—the same image of the tiger that adorned the back of her neck. She stroked the picture gently, feeling an odd connection to the fearsome beast.

"Shere Khan," she mused, her voice barely audible. "Misunderstood, powerful. Just like me."

"Exactly," Zara affirmed, her gaze holding Mia's. "You've got that fire inside you, babe. Don't ever forget it."

"Thanks," Mia said, her determination strengthened by her friend's unwavering support. She closed the book, the finality of the action echoing her resolve. "I won't."

The heavy thud of fists against the dressing room door caused Mia to flinch, her momentary peace shattered by the intrusion. Chad's menacing figure filled the doorway, his bulky frame casting a dark shadow over her. "Here's your dinner," he growled, shoving a grease-stained paper bag at her. "Bon Appetit. You've got 15 minutes to eat and then get your ass on that webcam."

Mia clenched her jaw, forcing back the fear that threatened to consume her. She met his gaze with as much defiance as she could muster, watching as his eyes flicked down to the book clutched tightly in her hand. "Thanks," she replied, her voice barely a whisper.

"Saw you talking back to a customer tonight. Just remember who you belong to," Chad snarled.

“Yes,” she said quietly. “I won’t forget.”

“Yes, who ?” asked Chad, taking a step toward her.

She swallowed, grimacing as she said the words: “Yes, Daddy.”

Chad grunted. “That’s better.” He slammed the door behind him with enough force to rattle the walls.

She exhaled slowly, all pretense of bravery crumbling away as she slid down to the cold, hard floor. The bag of food lay forgotten beside her, its contents as unappetizing as the life she'd been forced into. Mia opened The Jungle Book once more, seeking solace in the familiar words and characters, her heart aching for the freedom they represented.

"Shere Khan," she whispered, then she rubbed the back of her neck. "I need your strength now more than ever."