7. Chapter Five
Chapter Five
Xena
The club is draped in its usual half-hearted attempt at holiday cheer—twinkling Christmas lights strung along the ceiling, oversized candy canes leaning awkwardly in the corners, and garlands draped over every available surface. In one corner, a massive fake Christmas tree stands, flashing with cheap, colorful bulbs. The sight is gaudy, almost laughable, but it fits. None of it feels festive, not really. The music pumping through the speakers is some bizarre mashup of Christmas classics and electronic remixes, an odd backdrop to the usual haze of bodies and alcohol.
But none of it touches me. The holiday spirit, the lights, the decor—it’s all just background noise, drowned out by the familiar hum in my head. I’d taken something earlier, something to help me survive the night, and now everything is soft around the edges. The lights blur, the sounds blend together. My mind floats just above the crowd, detached, while my body moves mechanically.
I’m dressed in the usual Christmas costume they push this time of year—a red lace "sexy Mrs. Claus" outfit, complete with a tiny red thong that leaves nothing to the imagination. It’s the same kind of tacky crap they expect dancers to wear every December. My hips sway in time with the bass, circling the pole with practiced ease, my body on autopilot as the crowd cheers. Drunk on overpriced Christmas cocktails, they hoot and holler, faces flushed under the dim glow of the lights. One guy, already half-gone, fumbles with a Santa hat that’s barely hanging on his head as he tosses back another shot.
I smirk, throwing a teasing glance over my shoulder as I twist around the pole, playing into the holiday vibe even though I don’t feel it. I never do. I’m just here to get through the night, make some money, and get out.
But then, mid-spin, I feel it—that cold, creeping sensation that slithers down my spine, like someone’s trailing icy fingers along my skin. My smile falters for a split second, and my grip tightens on the pole. Something’s here, something lurking just beyond the flashing lights and cheap decorations. The festive mask I wear slips, and I force it back into place, but the pit in my stomach tightens.
Spinning again, I catch sight of him. He’s sitting at the back of the club, near the fake Christmas tree. The lights barely reach him, casting him in shadow. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t cheer or drink like the others. He just watches me. I can’t see his face, not fully, but I can feel his eyes—burning into me with a heat that makes my skin crawl. The oversized Santa cutouts plastered along the walls behind him grin their frozen, cheery smiles, but his presence is anything but festive. It’s dark, oppressive, like a storm hanging heavy in the air.
I swallow hard, forcing my body to keep moving, to keep up the show. But I know he’s watching me. His eyes don’t leave me for a second, and every step I take feels like a string pulling tighter, wrapping around me.
It’s him. I know it’s him.
Even after all these years, I can feel it. I can feel him .
I try to shake it off. It’s just another guy. But there’s something wrong about him, something off in the way he stands so still, like he’s waiting for something. As I arch my back and flip my hair, I catch it—his hand moving under the table, slow and deliberate. There was no mistaking what was happening.
He’s touching himself. Right there. Watching me.
Normally, I don’t care. It’s part of the job—some guys get off without even stepping foot in a private room. But this… this feels different. The garlands and lights overhead feel suffocating, like they’re trapping me with him. I glance away, trying to focus on the other faces in the crowd, but I keep being drawn back to him .
There’s something familiar about him, but I can’t place it. My thoughts are too foggy, too muddled. The unease in my gut twists, but there’s a thrill too—one I can’t deny. There’s danger in his aura, a dark vibe that sends a chill through me. It terrifies me. And excites me. Much like Roman’s did. Could it be? No. It’s not time yet.
"Xena!" Tony’s voice snaps me back to reality. "Private client, now."
I blink, breaking the spell. Nodding, I grab my robe and follow Tony to the back rooms, trying to leave the stranger’s gaze behind. It’s Christmas season, just another gig. I can get through this, like I always do.
The back room is decorated too—a sad little wreath on the door and a small bowl of candy canes on the desk. It almost makes me laugh. I adjust my robe and turn to face the man who’s already seated, watching me with hungry eyes.
He’s balding, mid-forties maybe, with a potbelly straining against his cheap Christmas sweater. His tie is half-loosened, and a Santa pin wobbles on his collar as he shifts in the seat. I force a smile, stepping closer.
"What’s your name, sweetheart?" he asks, his breath smelling like peppermint schnapps.
"Candy," I lie smoothly, leaning in just enough for him to get a good look down my robe. His eyes glaze over, and I almost roll mine.
"Merry Christmas, Candy." His grin is lewd, eyes flicking between my chest and legs. "How about you give me a real present tonight?"
I push down the disgust, keeping the smile plastered on my face. "Sure, baby. Whatever you want." I untie my robe slowly, letting it slip off my shoulders. He groans, his hands already fumbling with his belt.
"Come here," he growls, pulling me closer. I step between his legs, letting him paw at me. His hands are sweaty and clumsy, and I can barely keep from grimacing as he pulls me onto his lap.
"What do you want for Christmas?" I ask, my voice low, seductive. His hands slide under my skirt, groping greedily.
"I want you, baby," he breathes against my neck. "All of you."
His hands are on me, rough and impatient, and I try to shut it out, focus on the Christmas music playing softly over the speakers instead. The bells, the soft jingles, it’s all twisted in this moment, warped by the sickening way he grabs at me. He bends me over, and I hear him tear open the condom foil. I sigh with relief that at least he won’t try to go without protection, as many do.
As he finishes, I feel the warmth of his small cock probing at my entrance after he pushes my thong to the side and do my best to detach, to avoid gagging from the booze on his hot, moist breath. I continue to murmur sweet nothings as he grunts and thrusts clumsily.
"Naughty or nice?" he asks, giving me a fake innocent voice. "So nice, baby. So nice." I reply. I fake the moans that follow next, each false sigh and whimper adding fuel to his pitiful fire. He thrusts with the rhythm of a man years younger and double his stamina. Thankfully, it’s over rather quickly. His body goes slack against mine, his labored panting hot and wet in my ear. He mutters something I don’t catch, likely some clumsy endearment or dirty comment. With a last squeeze of my thigh, he pulls away, tugging up his pants.
"God, you’re amazing," he mumbles, but I don’t care. I’m already on my feet, waiting to be let out by Vik. Knowing Tony, he already paid; no one touches his girls without payment. That’s one good thing about this job—they look out for us. They still fuck us, but they look after us.
Adjusting my robe as he zips his pants back up, still grinning like he just unwrapped the best gift of his life. I don’t say anything, just nod and head for the door. Vik opens it with a smile on his face. "Not even twenty minutes," he taunts.
I shrug, leaning into the big guy. "You know my pussy is heaven," I say jokingly. Why not brag about it? My looks and body are mine to give; they’ll take it anyway, so why not profit from it?
"That it is, baby," Vik chuckles, patting my back gently. "Heavenly pussy," Vik adds as he slips me a few extra bills, likely courtesy of Tony. The smell of his cologne, musky and rich with undertones of tobacco, is a strange comfort. I fold the notes carefully and tuck them into the pocket of my robe.
"A drink to celebrate?" Vik offers, reaching for a bottle of expensive bourbon kept behind the counter. I shake my head, feeling the heaviness of the evening start to settle into my bones.
"Maybe later," I reply, managing a small smile. I need to freshen up, put on a new face for the next client. Vik shrugs and pours himself a drink before slapping his hand on the counter. "Go home. It’s late, and that married asshole paid good money. Go get high and forget the night."
"Sounds tempting," I smirk, sauntering down the narrow hallway to the back, pausing only to grab my purse. I can hear the thumping bass from the nightclub upstairs fading as I step into the dimly lit dressing room. My reflection stares back at me through the smudged mirror, a stark reminder of the life I’ve chosen—or rather, the life that chose me. The bright red lipstick is smudged, my eyeliner has formed a dark pool under my tired eyes. I sigh and turn on the tap, steam rising in an instant. The warm water feels comforting as I begin to wipe away the night’s makeup, revealing tired eyes and chapped lips beneath it all.
I pull on my everyday clothes—a pair of faded jeans and a loose, comfortable sweatshirt. I finger-comb my hair into a messy bun at the top of my head and sling my purse over my shoulder. I wipe off the last bits of makeup from my face with a damp cloth, one last look at the mirror confirming I’m back to being just me.
Then I leave.
I step back into the hallway, shaking off the encounter, but the unease lingers. The dark aura from earlier haunts me.
I leave the club not long after, stepping into the cold night air. The holiday decorations outside feel almost menacing, like the twinkling lights are hiding something darker. I wrap my coat tighter around me, the snow crunching beneath my boots as I make my way to the parking lot.
The sight of Senior’s old Ford pickup under the streetlamp usually brings me comfort, but tonight, something feels wrong. My heart sinks when I reach it. Draped over the windshield is a pair of panties.
My panties.
I reach out with trembling hands, feeling the warmth and stickiness. I pull my hand back, choking on the rising bile as the unmistakable scent of cum hits me.
I glance around frantically, but the parking lot is deserted. The soft glow of Christmas lights flickers against the shadows, making them dance and shift. I can’t see him, but the sensation of being watched is palpable.
Panic surges through me. I fumble with the door handle, practically throwing myself into the truck. I slam the door shut, my hands trembling as I jam the key into the ignition. The engine roars to life, and I peel out of the lot, my eyes darting to the rear view mirror, half-expecting to see the man from inside following me. But he’s not.
After a few minutes, my breathing steadies, and I force myself to calm down. I grip the steering wheel tighter, take a deep breath, and crank the ignition again, settling into the ride back home.
When I finally reach the cabin, the snow falls heavily, blanketing everything in a serene white. The garlands on the porch are dusted with snow, and for a fleeting moment, the sight of the old cabin gives me a sliver of solace. This place is supposed to be a sanctuary. It’s almost Christmas. I should feel safe here.
But I don’t.
Something feels off, wrong. I can’t shake the feeling that I’m being watched—not just by anyone, but by him. It creeps up my spine, settling deep in my gut like an itch I can’t scratch. I try to push it aside. Jimmy’s coming back tonight. More fucking, more drugs. Just the distraction and numbness I need.
I place the truck in park and turn off the engine, stepping into the night. As I rush inside, the house feels darker, more ominous. It’s as if it has eyes, watching me, and that feeling follows me into the shower. After a quick rinse to wash off the remnants of the night, I step outside with my hair still wet, pulling on one of Roman's old band t-shirts—an oversized black AC-DC tie-dye—and some black yoga shorts.
I pull out my phone and text Jimmy.
are you on your way ?
Almost there. Desperate for Daddy :)
I can feel bile rise in my throat at his words, but I ignore it. I’m desperate for oblivion, even if it isn’t Jimmy who I crave.
Jimmy arrives not long after, his familiar presence a welcome reprieve from my spiraling thoughts. He pulls out the usual—nothing fancy, just enough to blur the edges. We get high, the world around us fading, and we fuck lazily on the old couch, like it’s the only thing we know how to do anymore. The scent of pine fills the air, almost enough to mask the dread still clinging to me, stubborn and unrelenting.
I try to lose myself in the moment, to forget the memory of those eyes watching me, of the panties left behind like some twisted offering. Almost. But not quite.
Lying there afterward, Jimmy strokes my arm lazily, his breath warm against my neck. "You okay, Xena? You’ve been jumpy all night."
I hesitate, biting my lip. "Just… a long day at work. Some creeps; you know how it is."
He chuckles softly, pulling me closer. It’s a gesture I usually wouldn’t welcome; I’m not the cuddly type. And if I were, it sure wouldn’t be Jimmy that I’d be cuddling up to.
"Want me to rough ‘em up next time? Santa’s got some gifts to deliver."
I manage a snort, rolling my eyes. "Yeah, I’m sure you’d make a great Santa."
"Hey," he protests, feigning hurt. "I’d be the best damn Santa you’ve ever seen." And with that, he parts my legs once again and slips inside.
We fuck again, the tension from earlier slowly dissipating as the drugs begin to take hold. I close my eyes, letting the haze envelop me. The room grows quiet after he finishes, his breathing steady and rhythmic as he falls asleep. I get up and shuffle my way to the bathroom to clean the remnants of his release from my stomach.
But just as I’m about to step back into the dimly lit room, I hear it—a sound like someone walking around the cabin. Fucking drugs must be making me delusional, I think, but a wave of unease washes over me. I turn to look behind me, my heart pounding, but there’s nothing there.
Picking up my pace, I rush back to the couch and lie down, desperate to let the drugs take me under. But in the dark, I’m jolted awake by the creak of old floorboards. My heart races as I squint into the shadows, trying to decipher what’s real and what’s not.
The snowstorm outside casts strange, shifting silhouettes against the walls, and for a fleeting moment, I think I see him—a dark figure standing at the edge of the room, unmoving.
Roman.
Panic surges through me, sending icy tendrils of fear coiling around my throat. I blink hard, but the figure doesn’t disappear. I can’t tell if it’s a trick of the light or if he’s really there, but my gut tells me it’s not just a hallucination.
"Jimmy?" I whisper, my voice trembling, but he’s deep in sleep, oblivious to the nightmare unfolding around us.
The figure shifts slightly, and my breath hitches in my throat. It’s just my imagination, I tell myself. Just the drugs. But the air feels charged with a presence I can’t shake, like a weight pressing down on my chest. I sit up, every nerve in my body on high alert, and then the figure steps forward, its outline sharpening in the dim light .
"Xena," it whispers, a voice that cuts through the silence like a knife.
The name hangs heavy in the air, and I freeze; the world around me fades into the background. My heart races, pounding against my ribcage like a frantic drum.
I blink, my breath catching in my throat. The faint jingle of bells, soft but eerie, drifts through the room. I squeeze my eyes shut, willing it all to be a trick of the light, a figment of my imagination.
When I open my eyes again, he’s gone. The room is empty, save for the shifting shadows that mock my fear.