Chapter 22
TWENTY-TWO
Addison
T wo more weeks, which was four more shifts, counting tonight. That was my estimate of how much longer it would take until I paid off my sister. Of course, that didn’t mean I could stop working here. If I could just get twenty or thirty thousand paid down on my student loans and get caught up on my bills, I could quit.
At least, that was what I kept telling myself every time I walked through the doors at the start of my shift. And every time I got onto the stage. And every time I gave a lap dance.
And every time I was hired to go into a private room.
I could do this for my parents.
And then I could do this for myself.
It was just a minor bump in the long, arduous ride of life.
But it was getting hard.
Harder actually.
Especially during the moments when I was completely alone with a guest. When I was solely responsible for entertaining his eyes. When I became the object of his desire and I had to navigate those thoughts and not let them consume me.
The private dances—aside from when Ridge hired me—lasted for one or two songs, three max.
All I had to do was act.
Pretend.
Zone out and remind myself that I was doing this for the money.
I made sure to keep eye contact and constantly part and bite my wet lips and make the kind of sounds he would want to hear.
But during every instance, the set of eyes that gazed back wasn’t Ridge’s. Neither was the hair or the scruff or the sexy jawline or the Cole nose that I found so hot.
So, to get through it, to survive, I replaced his features with Ridge’s.
That was what kept me going. What made each second of the song more tolerable.
Until it suddenly wasn’t.
My back bolted straight, and my muscles tightened, and every piece of hair on my body stood up.
I grabbed his wrist to pull his hand off my breast and warned, “You can’t touch me there.”
The rules were explained to every guest who hired me privately the second they sat in this chair.
My waist was allowed; anything higher or lower wasn’t.
He’d agreed.
They all agreed.
With his hand now returned to his lap, I backed away from the chair and adjusted my skirt, trying to catch my breath in the process. I was halfway through the song, so my bra was already off and on the floor. There was nothing left to remove from my body. My skirt was so short that I was basically in only a thong.
To waste some seconds, I turned around and gave him my backside, lowering my arms to the floor, and tucked my face into my knees. I slapped my thighs together, shaking my ass, and glanced at him through the space between my calves.
He was leaning forward, his face far too close to my butt … like the asshole was trying to smell me.
I quickly rose and faced him, guiding him away by gently pushing on his chest, and stood on either side of his legs. A position I dreaded whenever someone was in this chair, but a position that was necessary for the job.
The outside of his thighs was barely touching the inside of mine when his hand returned to my breast.
Had he not listened to what I just said?
Who the hell did he think he was?
I grabbed the back side of his palm. “You’re breaking the rules again.”
“Fuck the rules.” His voice was like acid, burning through my skin.
And the moment those vile words left his mouth, his fingers tightened.
He wasn’t just holding it.
He was squeezing.
His hand was like a vise, taking every bit of breath out of my body and worsening when I attempted to loosen his grip.
“Let go of me!”
“No.” I got a strong whiff of beer and cigarette from his breath. “I paid for you. I’m getting my money’s worth.” His other hand was on my inner thigh, rising at an uncomfortable speed. “While you’re in this room, these are my fucking titties. That’s going to be my pussy. And I’ll touch you whenever and wherever I damn well please.”
“Let go of me!” I repeated, hoping the pitch of my voice would alert the staff and a security guard would come running in.
But I couldn’t wait for that to happen.
He was hurting me.
He was touching something that wasn’t his.
He was breaking my rules.
I tore at his fingers, stabbing the backs with my nails.
He didn’t budge.
The only thing that changed was his expression, the passion building in his eyes, the desire bleeding from his lips.
This sick fuck was enjoying this. Something told me that the more I thrashed and yelled, the more turned on he was.
He was after the fight, and he wanted me to give it to him.
I shouted a final attempt. “Let go of me right fucking now!”
And when he didn’t move, when his hand was getting dangerously close to my thong, I lifted my leg and aimed my heel at his balls, and I kicked as hard as I could. When that didn’t feel like enough, I stomped a second time, and my ears were instantly filled with his groans, but my body was free from him.
“Take that, asshole!”
“You fucking whore!”
I left my bra where it was on the floor, not even bothering to reach for it, and I ran from the room, holding my chest as I rushed down the hallway—the walls, the strobe lights, the voices all a blur—and went past the cashier, which dumped me into the main lounge.
Unlike the private room, it was full of light.
Was that why there were tears, why my eyes felt like they were on fire?
And my breath—it was gone.
I scanned the room, looking for something, anything—mostly just familiarity.
But nothing seemed right.
It was all so far away and yet insufferably close.
The music was too loud.
The smell was thick and sickly.
My feet wouldn’t move. It felt as though they were glued to the ground. But my head wasn’t, and I looked from side to side to see where I needed to go.
Where I should go.
Where it was safe.
Where no one would touch me.
Why couldn’t I move?
“Addison.”
The sound of my name hit my skin and bounced right off.
“Addison, look at me.”
I felt something on my face, like hands.
And that voice—it was achingly familiar.
A stare I could feel even though I couldn’t feel anything at all.
“Addison, baby, look at me.”
I didn’t know what I was gazing at since it seemed like I wasn’t looking at anything at all, but something began to come into focus.
A chest. Neck. A sexy jawline that I remembered so well.
Lips, a Cole nose, and cobalt eyes.
Ridge.
“There you are,” he said.
He was holding my face.
He was locking his stare with mine.
But …
I didn’t believe it was him.
I made everyone in this club look like Ridge.
I changed their eyes to his. Their hair. Their cheeks. Their nose.
“No.” I shook my head, feeling hands on my cheeks. “No, it’s not you.”
“What do you mean, it’s not me? Addison, I’m calling you by your real name. You go by Addy in here. How would I know that?” He paused. “Listen to my voice. Doesn’t it sound like me?”
I blinked several times. His face didn’t change.
Neither did the feel of his hands.
Or the smell of his cologne that my nose was just now picking up on.
“What happened to you? Where’s your bra?” His fingers were at the bottoms of my eyelids. “Why are you crying?”
I swallowed, searching for my voice, my throat feeling so heavy and tight. “He touched me.”
“Who touched you?”
“A guest.”
“What do you mean, he touched you, Addison?”
Even though it was Ridge, it wasn’t. Because everything about him was different.
His voice.
It was stern. Dominant.
His eyes.
They were angry and revengeful.
“He was hurting me. He wouldn’t let go. I asked him to again and again, and he wouldn’t.” If Ridge wasn’t holding me so tightly, I would have looked behind me at the mouth of the hallway to see if the guest had come out. “I kicked him. And then I ran.”
“Are you okay?”
I nodded.
“Where are your clothes?”
I didn’t know.
But I did.
“In the back room—” My voice was cut off when his hands left my face, and his arms surrounded me, and he lifted me into the air and held me against his chest. As he carried me, we passed the main lounge, then a short hallway, and finally the cashier, who was stationed by the entrance.
“Where the hell do you think you’re going with her?”
Ridge halted and turned us around.
I blinked, staring at the man in front of us, realizing it was my manager.
“I’m taking her home,” Ridge shot back.
“You can’t do that.” He took a step forward. “She’s an employee. She’s working. She’s?—”
“Watch me,” Ridge barked.
My manager’s neck craned back. “Watch you?”
A security guard had joined him, and they were both getting closer to us.
“Her shift is over,” Ridge said. “She’s no longer one of your employees. Once I put her in the car, I’ll be back to deal with you. Don’t fucking move.”
Ridge kicked open the door to the club, the gap now wide enough that we could fit through, and he brought me to his car. He maneuvered me in a way that he could open the passenger door, and he carefully set me on the seat. Once he was happy with my placement, he reached behind me and returned with a blanket that he placed over me.
“Daisy gets cold, so I always have one in my car.” He knelt; his face lined up with mine. “I’m going to lock you in. I don’t want you to be alarmed. I just don’t want anyone to be able to get into my car.” He moved some hair off my face and adjusted the blanket, and he reclined the seat several inches. “I’ll be back in a couple of minutes. Will you be all right here?”
I nodded.
“Addison, I need you to speak. I need to hear your voice.”
“Yes.” I didn’t know where his hand was, but I somehow found it and held it. “Where are you going?”
“First, I’m going to deal with your manager. Then, I’m going to find the motherfucker who touched you, and I’m going to kill him.”