Chapter 2 Kayla
Kayla
The fingers crawling up my thigh feel like fat, greedy spiders. My muscles tense beneath his touch, but I force a smile that feels like cracked porcelain on my face.
"Need anything else, sir?" My voice comes out higher than I intend, a frightened bird's chirp.
The balding man with sweat beading on his forehead grins up at me. "I can think of a few things, sweetheart."
Ugh. So gross. And he’s wearing a wedding ring. I wonder if his wife has any clue where he goes at night, or what he does while he’s here. Maybe she doesn’t care. Maybe she’s glad he’s not at home pawing at her.
Pretending to trip, I step back just enough for his hand to fall away, and adjust my tray so I’m hugging it to my chest. The move is calculated—not abrupt enough to seem like rejection, but clear enough to break contact.
It's an avoidance technique I've learned over the past week, how to slither away without seeming to refuse.
Because refusal isn't an option here.
It's been exactly seven days since my brother’s fatal drug overdose. Seven days since the thugs with the tattoos and dead eyes invaded my apartment and upended my life. Seven days since they took me as payment for my brother's debt.
After that first morning, they moved me out of my apartment into a place that’s even smaller and dingier near the club with three other girls.
My phone was confiscated. My ID locked away.
They let me keep my clothes, most of them anyway, but I'm not allowed to wear them while working.
Instead, I'm poured into this scrap of fabric they call a uniform that barely covers anything.
The underwire of the corseted top digs into my ribs with every breath.
"You'll work here until the auction," the man named Alonso told me in English laced with a thick Spanish accent. "Learn to be pleasing. Learn to obey. The higher you sell for, the better your life will be."
Three of the girls working here are in the same situation—paying debts that aren't theirs. Maria's husband gambled away their savings. Tiffany's father borrowed money for his failing business. And my brother...well, Jason's addiction finally caught up to him. And now I'm paying the price.
As I make my way back to the bar, I notice Scarlett standing at one end watching the floor like a hawk. She’s the floor manager and she’s as cold and cruel as the men who run this place. But she cozies up to every patron like they’re the best thing since sliced bread. It’s her job, I guess.
I try to avoid her, if possible. I’ve been warned not to get on her bad side.
As I approach, I notice her eyes fixed on something—or someone—across the room. I follow her gaze, and my heart does a little leap in my chest.
He's here tonight.
The man with the intense eyes sits at his usual corner table, the one with the perfect view of everything.
He's in a suit that fits him like it was sculpted onto his broad shoulders.
His jaw is strong, defined by the precise edge of his closely-trimmed beard.
Dark hair swept back from his forehead reveals high cheekbones and eyes that seem to burn through whatever they focus on.
I've caught him watching me every night he's been here, and it does things to my body that I don't understand. It's confusing and frightening and thrilling all at once.
My skin usually crawls when men in this establishment look at me. I want to disappear. But not with him. When his dark eyes find mine across the club, I feel butterflies in my stomach…and lower down.
My mind tells me he’s not a good man. He can't be. No decent man comes to a place like this. He’s just like all the others—entitled, grabby, thinking his money gives him the right to put his hands wherever he wants.
So why does my body respond to him this way?
Why do my eyes scan for him every night when I should be planning my escape?
Because my body’s a traitor, that’s why.
I’ve never had a boyfriend before. Jason made sure of that. No boys were allowed to call the house. No dates. No school dances. My knowledge of men comes from books and movies and the brief interactions with boys at school.
Now I'm surrounded by older men, their hungry eyes following my every move, their hands reach, touch, take liberties with my body as if they own it.
Soon, one of them actually will—I push that thought out of my mind because I just can’t handle thinking about it.
“Hey, you.”
Alonso appears at my side, his voice cutting through my thoughts.
He never addresses me by name. He probably doesn’t even remember my name.
His cologne is strong enough to make my eyes water.
Everything about him is vile—the way he looks at the girls like we're inventory, the way he calls us "merchandise" like we're not even human.
"Yes, sir?” I try to keep my voice steady.
His grin is all teeth and malice. "Time to earn your keep, princess. You're giving your first lap dance tonight." His eyes glitter with sick pleasure. "Got to show the potential buyers what their money can get them.”
The blood drains from my face. "But—I—I don't know how to—"
"Don't worry." His smile is like a knife. His fingers dig into my arm as he drags me toward the private rooms in the back. "The customer will guide you. Just do as you're told and remember—this is just a preview. Keep that cherry intact. It's your only real value to us."