Chapter 19 #2
The second and third floors are for private entertainment.
I thought that meant birthday celebrations, bachelor parties, and horny men paying extra for butt-naked lap dances.
I was way off the mark. Now I understand Hawk’s reluctance to hire a high school student.
There are twenty rooms total—ten per floor—each with a king-sized bed, nightstand, seating area, dance pole, and bathroom.
Hawk delivered me to Muriel, the cleaning crew lead.
I was issued a black polo shirt with the club’s logo embroidered on the left side and tan pants.
After changing into uniform, I stored my belongings in a locker and was given a two-way radio.
Muriel showed me the ropes and gave me the rundown, especially the rule about no dallying with customers.
Fraternizing is strictly prohibited and means immediate termination. Even friendly conversation is frowned upon. Basically, I’m to keep my legs and my mouth shut. Those duties fall to the strippers. Not a problem. I have no intention of engaging in any of it.
The women I’ve encountered seemed like willing participants, so who am I to judge?
In any case, the pros outweigh the cons.
Employees get one free meal per shift. I grabbed a fried chicken sandwich from the bar during my thirty-minute break, and it was pretty good.
The schedule also means less time spent in the Double Dragon’s Lair. That’s a win on its own.
The only real problem is getting home. Buses stop running before midnight, and taxis are too expensive.
Guess that means I’ll be walking home. Roughly five miles—not ideal, but doable.
But a teenage girl walking alone that late at night?
Disaster waiting to happen. No use dwelling on it.
If I get the job, I’ll pick up pepper spray and a pocketknife tomorrow.
I refocus, gliding the steam mop over the coal-colored hardwood floors. Once finished, I step into the hall and stow the mop on the cleaning cart. I unclip the radio from my pants and push the talk button. “Room sixteen done.”
“You’re fast,” comes the reply. “Head to room nine.”
I smile and press the talk button again. “Fast and efficient.”
As I’m about to reach down for the door stopper, I spot the air freshener on the nightstand.
“Oh, almost forgot.” I secure the radio at my hip and go back into the room.
“Sucks to be you.”
I whirl around, instantly recognizing the smug voice. Snake casually leans a shoulder against the doorframe, arms crossed.
“What are you doing here?” I snap, clasping the air freshener to my chest.
Please don’t tell me he works here too. Or maybe he’s a customer?
“You honestly don’t know.” Snake bursts out laughing, shaking his head. “He’s going to love this.”
I know the “he” Snake is referring to.
“What exactly should I know?”
Snake smirks and walks away. I timidly peek into the hallway, scouting left then right. He’s gone. I blow out a relieved breath and move on to the next room. I pull on a pair of latex gloves and clean the bathroom first, then strip the mattress and replace the bedding.
Snake and Sandman can’t actually be blood-related brothers. There’s not even the slightest resemblance between them, except both are extremely good-looking assholes.
I hear a soft click and pivot on my heel, expecting to see Snake. My gaze clashes with blazing blue instead. I drop the spray bottle and cleaning cloth, fear loosening my grip. Sandman looms in front of the only escape route… imposing… frightening… my worst nightmare.
“Take off your clothes.” The growled demand ices my veins.
“P-please,” I stammer, hugging my lower belly in a protective embrace. “I’m working.”
“My father owns this place,” he states, stalking toward me. “And I say it’s time for a break.”
“Father?” I question, backpedaling around the table. “I thought he died.”
“Hell, me too, but on the third day, the motherfucker rose from the dead,” Sandman retorts sarcastically. “It’s a goddamn miracle.”
He flips the table, shattering the chrome glass top. I scream, plastering myself against the wall.
“Do I need to undress you myself?” he asks softly, setting my nerves on edge.
I shake my head and begin slowly peeling away my clothes, unshed tears stinging my corneas. Shoes, pants, shirt—leaving me in my matching pink bra and panty set.
I fix my gaze on the monster’s boots… shivering… helpless… entirely at his mercy.
We remain still, no words spoken, his harsh breathing the only sound in the room. I wait on pins and needles, my arms dangling listlessly at my sides.
“The rest,” Sandman rasps, charged passion resonating in his gravelly baritone.
I lift my head and the tears flow, distorting his hulking physique into a watery blur.
“Now!” he shouts, startling me into compliance.
“Okay,” I sob, unhooking my bra with trembling fingers.
The lace material slips to the floor. Next, I push my panties down my legs, laying myself bare to him. I cross my forearm over my breasts and place a hand between my legs, instinctively trying to cover my nudity.
“No,” Sandman murmurs, his stone gaze promising dark retribution. “Show me.”
I let my arms fall and seal my eyelids shut, spilling more salty rivulets down my face.
“Look at me!” Sandman bellows, his hand latching onto my throat with unyielding force.
Panicked, I grasp onto his wrist with both hands in a vain effort to ease his crippling hold.
“You will never know peace again.” His grip tightens, completely blocking air circulation.
Within seconds, burning pressure claws through my chest. I feel myself slipping away; my world growing dimmer with each fleeting heartbeat. Strangulation is personal—a slow, agonizing induction to the afterlife.
I can’t die. Not like this.
My oxygen-deprived mind races, ruminating on the past, present, and what could have been. Specifically, the catastrophic decision that led to this very moment—the day my cowardice resulted in irreparable damage to my beloved best friend.
I want him back. My Sam. My protector, my keeper of secrets, my shoulder to cry on.
But he’s gone forever, replaced by this sadistic monster.
I study his granite features—the sneer twisting his full, beautiful lips, the throbbing vein on his right temple, the maniacal elation gleaming in his cornflower-blue orbs.
He’s enjoying choking the life from me. His grip loosens, and air immediately fills my deflated lungs… then he squeezes again.
Over and over.
Taking me to death’s door, then pulling me back at the last possible second.
After what seems like an eternity, he releases me. I wilt to the floor, coughing and gasping for breath. He grabs a chair and drags it in front of the dance pole, heavy boots crunching along the broken glass.
“Dance,” he commands, sprawling in the high-back chair.
I clamber to unsteady legs, shuddering sobs ripping through my naked body. I’m in his territory. The Gods’ Territory. There’s no use in calling out for help. Not here, not anywhere. It’s pointless and highly dangerous. Sandman is a ticking time bomb. One wrong move and I’m done for.
I stagger toward the dance pole, skirting the shards of broken glass.
“No!” he booms, freezing me to the spot. “Walk through the glass.”
I venture forward, body shaking, cautiously placing one foot in front of the other. Mind whirling. Heart thundering. Each step more nerve-racking than the last.
A stabbing pain falters my steps. I cry out, coming to a standstill.
“Keep walking!”
Tears streaming down my face, I limp the short distance to the dance pole, blood painting a trail behind me. My hand wraps around the cool metal—then I hesitate. I don’t know what to do.
Sandman opens his cut, revealing the gun stashed in his shoulder holster. The silent threat is loud. Obey or suffer the consequences.
“Dance,” he growls, freeing his intimidating length. “And make it sexy.”
I inhale a quivering breath and circle the pole, awkwardly fondling my nipple. Sandman caresses his erection in slow, deliberate strokes, peering at me with unrestrained lust in his eyes.
Does he plan to just watch, or will he take it further?
He won’t be gentle.
My first time is supposed to be special. I want loving kisses and warm embraces.
This afflicted man, whose raw desire is more suffocating than his chokehold, will only give me pain and scorn. I broke him, and now he plans to break me in turn. Karma is hell on wheels.
Having no clue what to do next, I try to remember moves from my majorette days. I never imagined that knowledge would be the difference between life and death. I execute a scorpion and split combo, hoping it’ll be enough.
“Come ’ere,” Sandman demands.
I trudge over to him, heart thudding rapidly in my chest, praying I survive the night in one piece. He seizes my waist with strong fingers and pulls me between his spread thighs, his lengthy erection brushing against my leg.
“I want to kill you, but I can’t,” he states, frustration mirrored in his words. “Why can’t I kill you?”
He sweeps his tongue along the cut marring my torso. Then he brandishes his knife and reopens my healing skin. I whimper but force myself to stay still. Attempting to run will only fuel his wrath.
“There, much better,” Sandman mumbles, smearing red across my belly. “So much fucking better.” He trails his bloody hands up my rib cage and pinches my nipples. “That move you did with your leg, what’s it called?”
“Scorpion,” I whisper.
“Do it again,” he orders, sheathing the knife at his hip.
I shift into position, grabbing my right ankle and stretching my leg taut behind my back, holding my foot directly over my head.
“Don’t move.” He drops to his knees and buries his face in my folds.
I tense. “Please don’t bite me.”