Chapter 3
I wasn't one to shy away from giving my cut.
Mr. Cloney, on the other hand, never played fair when it came to percentages.
Every girl, even the ones he screwed—including me—had to fork over thirty percent.
At first, it didn't seem like such a big deal, especially on nights when we were drowning in clients.
Giving up thirty percent felt like a small price to pay.
But nights like tonight? The slow, suffocating ones?
They make it hard to swallow that number when it flashes on my phone screen.
The app coldly informs me that after being a human outlet for two pale-faced strangers, I owe Mr. Cloney three thousand dollars.
And what's he done tonight? Sat in his office, puffing on cigarettes, downing cheap liquor like it's the blood of the gods.
He's got his little stash of wine and whiskey hidden away like it's something precious.
The whole damn thing feels like a rigged game. I groaned as it hit me—I'd have to make another compromise just to hand over a measly thousand bucks. It was a slow night, and with his dick halfway down my throat, he was just going to have to deal with it.
That's when Sparkles waltzed in, her skin shimmering under the dim light.
The girl's got her name for a reason—she's addicted to glitter.
She buys it by the pound and practically bathes in it, coating her skin until she looks like something out of a twisted fairy tale.
But the long-term effect? Glitter caked around her thick lashes, making her look more like a sparkly unicorn on its last leg than anything magical.
She flopped her sweaty body onto the worn-out red leather seat, the color once a vibrant scarlet but now faded from years of use.
"This place is driving me insane," she panted, looking like she hadn't been drained yet.
Sparkles wasn't the type to stick around one spot too long; she preferred making rounds through the streets, mixing it up.
"Join the club," I muttered, staring at the number on my phone. Three thousand dollars. Gone. And for what? Selling my body and soul for tips that barely made a dent in what I owed. I should've held out with Jager a bit longer, squeezed a few grander from her before calling it quits.
Sparkles peeled off the bills that had practically glued themselves to her glittery skin. They were crumpled and worn, a far cry from the crisp, fresh-out-the-bank notes I was holding. Small blessings, I guess.
"These baby vamps are gonna drive me up a wall," she grumbled, unfolding the wrinkled bills as she counted. "Three lap dances, one pole. That's all I got."
I waited until she finished stacking her pathetic earnings before asking, "So, how much did you pull in?" The other girls were still out there, some in the back getting their blood sucked dry. Literally.
"A grand," she groaned, "and that money-hungry pitbull's gonna snatch four hundred off the top."
"You know his excuse. Our tips and commissions 'pay for us being here.'" I rolled my eyes. The place hadn't seen an upgrade in years, yet somehow, he charged us like we were dancing in a palace.
"I'm thinking about switching clubs," Sparkles said, her voice thick with frustration. "Heard Jamin' Blue's only takes ten percent."
I nodded, fully understanding. I might leave too, but another club? I wasn't so sure. The vampires had taken all the good jobs, leaving girls like us to scrape by in dingy bars, escort houses, massage parlors, and strip clubs.
The best dancers were leaving one by one. Every week, another girl vanished, and something told me this might be Sparkles' last week here.
I stood up and walked toward her, handing her a chunk of my cash. She blinked up at me, the glitter around her eyes catching the light. "What's this for?"
"It's yours." I wasn't exactly close to any of the girls, but we looked out for each other. Made sure no vampires mistreated us and shared what we could. We were in this together, even if none of us would admit it out loud.
"Thanks," she said, taking the money. "Are you sticking around?" Her question hung in the air.
"What do you mean?" I asked, even though I knew exactly what she was getting at.
"I could squeeze you in at Jamin' Blue, you know, if I nail the interview," she offered, a hopeful gleam in her eyes.
"Nah. If I leave, it's for something better. Maybe college," I replied, shrugging.
She snorted, giving me a once-over. "Aren't you a little too old for college? Besides, no one's hiring girls like us."
"Then I'll just stay here."
"But Jamin' is better."
"I feel comfortable here." As messed up as it was, I'd rather deal with Cloney and his middle-aged, saggy balls than some new boss I don't know. At least I understood this brand of evil.
"Well, if I do get through and leave this dump, you've got my number. Use it."
"I doubt I will," I said, heading toward the door, ready to face the club again.
"You might."
"Might doesn't mean yes," I shot back.
"And it doesn't mean no," she countered. I chuckled as I walked down the dimly lit blue hallway toward Cloney's office. The air reeked of stale cigarettes, blood, and liquor, but his chair was empty when I stepped in.
"Cloney, I got something for you," I called out, perching myself on his desk.
Legs crossed, I slipped into my usual routine—sensual and seductive, like second nature.
"Hope you don't mind, it's a slow night," I teased, my fingers trailing along the chipped wood of his desk.
"But we can come to some sort of compromise, right? "
The silence that greeted me wasn't what I expected. The playful smirk on my face faltered. I slid off the desk, heading toward the back where he usually kept his stash and personal items. But the room was empty—except for a single wooden chair in the middle.
"Cloney?" My voice echoed off the old black curtains.
I shoved the curtain aside and stepped in. Had he vanished into thin air? The room, once crammed with everything, now felt hollow. My finger pointed to the empty space where his cabinet used to be. I spun around, disbelief tightening my chest. It was all gone.
There's no way he's on vacation. He wouldn't need to clear out like this.
"Cloney?" I called again, my heels nudging the chair until it tipped over.
If he wasn't here, that meant one of his goons was running the show.
And there was no negotiating with them. They'd take all of his shares—or worse, leave you bleeding for more.
I let out a frustrated huff and kicked the chair. No more playing games, sucking up, only to keep barely a fraction of what I earned.
I walked over to the server table. For now, my cash was locked away, but I knew someone would come for that thirty percent cut soon enough.
"Bombshell," I called out to the blonde bartender. She turned around, wide-eyed, mid-sip of stolen wine. I smirked. No judgment here—I'd taken my fair share too.
"What's up?" She staggered, barely holding herself together as she made it to the counter. Bombshell wasn't the regular bartender; she'd taken over after the last guy had... well, let's just say he didn't stick around.
"Where's Cloney?" I asked, my voice firm.
She downed her drink before answering. "That bastard got bought out and left us to rot."
"Bought out?" My brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"
"Corporate bought him out."
Corporate? The only corporate types that ever showed up here were the ones looking to blow off steam after hours. How could a legitimate business buy out something as grimy as this club? Bombshell was talking nonsense—too drunk to know what she was saying.
"Which company?" I pressed.
She furrowed her brow, trying to recall. "The name's something stupid," she mumbled.
"Should be easy to remember, then," I said dryly, starting to realize she was far from being of any use—either to herself or me.
"I think it's... uhm..." Her face twisted as she swallowed hard, clearly battling the urge to vomit. "Valtor and Lefluer."
"Who the hell are they?" I asked, my tone sharp, probing for answers.
She grabbed a glass, filled it with beer, and gulped it down, adding fuel to her already unsettled stomach.
The wine here was potent, aged for centuries, made for vampires—not something a human should be drinking so recklessly.
But Bombshell was on a different level entirely.
Her tall, lean figure and creamy blonde hair had made her the hottest girl in the room—now she was what people would call a "hot mess. "
The remnants of the wine clung to her lips, painting them unexpectedly beautiful.
"Corporate," she muttered, a pout forming as she spoke. "They want to take over everything. Us humans can't have anything." She propped herself onto the stool behind the counter, grinding against it playfully, her giggles slurred but still girlish.
"So, who do I give the money to?" I asked, leaning in. "Who are Valtor and Lefluer?"
A slow, mischievous smirk curled her lips. "The women in suits upstairs."
"Who?" I asked, though deep down, I already knew. There was only one pair of women here who actually fit the corporate mold, and my instincts hadn't been wrong. I tapped her cheek lightly as she whined in response, half-dazed.
"Jager and Wade," she slurred.
Of course it was them. In my head, I'd always referred to them as 'demanding and mute,' though 'sippy and drinky' also fit. They were the type to drink in silence, but their presence was always felt.
"They own the place now?" I asked, my frustration simmering. "What happened to Cloney?" It didn't make sense. He couldn't have just vanished overnight—at the very least, he should've said goodbye.
She shrugged; her voice lazy with indifference. "I don't know, Snow Bunny. If you want answers, take it up with the girls upstairs." She pointed toward the upper floor, and my eyes followed instinctively, catching the sunset stares of Jager and Wade already fixed on me.
This new ownership could either go really well—or very, very wrong.
I slid off the stool. "Thanks for the info," I muttered, heading for the stairs.
This time, there was no tray in hand—just a knot of worry twisting in my chest. New owners could mean anything: kicking us out, bringing in their own girls, or worse—taking even more from us than Cloney already had. I shuddered at the thought.
Cloney had been squeezing us dry for years, but what I couldn't wrap my head around was how a club owner like him got bought out so fast, like it happened with the snap of a finger.
I couldn't help but wonder how much the club had sold for.
It had to be a decent amount—enough to make someone like him disappear and retire.
Then again, the place was slowly falling apart.
If I were him, I'd probably sell and run too.
Or maybe it wasn't that simple. Maybe it was bad business.
Corporations could be loan sharks, after all—high interest, impossible payments.
Cloney would've needed the club packed every night, not just weekends, to pay back a loan shark.