Harlow

1. Chapter One

Chapter One

HARLOW

The air in the club is stifling hot, thick with desire and sin.

Strobe lights flicker behind my closed eyelids, the pungent stench of cheap perfume blending with alcohol and sweat filling my lungs as I grip the brass pole in the center of the stage and sway my hips to the beat of the techno music blasting through the speakers.

Forcing my gaze on the crowd, I scan the sea of men seated around tables and stuffed into dark booths.

Most are wearing designer suits worth more than my entire existence, their ties loosened and the stress of fancy careers darkening the bags beneath their wandering eyes.

The rest are dressed smartly in khakis and golf shirts.

Bunch of pretentious pricks.

Reluctantly, I give them the show they’ve paid handsomely for, swinging around the pole and flipping my long black hair and cute pink money piece that frames my face, while I shake my ass on stage for tips.

I bet my father’s decaying corpse is rolling over in its grave right now. It’s a grim image that warms my cold, dead heart.

Six. Five. Four. Three. Two. One.

Breathe.

When the second song of my set starts, I peel out of my pink leather bikini top and kick it to the side with the toe of my stripper shoe. The heat from men’s gazes intensifies, the scar on the inside of my left wrist itching the way it often does.

A nauseating level of adrenaline courses through me as I shift my attention to the man seated front and center of the stage, eyeing the half-drunk glass of something clear on the table in front of him.

I take in the sad, hollow look on his weathered face.

The way his tongue flicks out to wet his lips while a set of beady eyes rake lustfully over my body.

The gold wedding band on his left hand.

Jackpot, baby.

I flash my target a seductive smile and maintain eye contact as I grab my feather boa—also pink because pink is fucking life—and sling it around my neck, getting down on all fours and crawling across the stage toward him.

When I’m only a few feet from him, the desire flickering like a candle behind his eyes roars to life.

And I know I’ve found myself the perfect plaything for the evening.

Perched on my knees, I pluck a feather from my boa and gently blow on it, giggling when it floats lazily through the air and settles on his lap. He stares down at it with excitement etched on his face, as if the tiny feather is symbolic of how fucking special he is.

He’s not. None of them are. But I’ll make him feel like he is, just for a little while. Until I rip it all out from under him the same way I do the others—with a fucking smile.

Once again, the song switches, and I shimmy out of my bikini bottoms and kick them to the side.

Except for my black fishnet stockings that stop mere inches from my crotch—because those never come off—I’m baring every square inch of myself to the room.

All while stuffing my disgust for the men in here deep down where the remnants of my little black soul are currently rotting.

Because that’s exactly what I am: rotten to the core. Mentally unstable and overflowing with pent-up rage and bitterness.

Six. Five. Four. Three. Two. One.

Breathe.

Sliding my tongue over my lips, I flip my hair once more and finish my set with a bang.

The DJ bellows animatedly through the speakers, “Everyone, put your hands together for Rebel.”

Rebel. My stage name. Clever, I think, considering that’s exactly what I am. What I was born to be.

The crowd erupts into applause as I gather up my discarded outfit, step off the stage, and strut my naked ass down the dimly lit hall. Before vanishing into the dressing room, I pause and glance over my shoulder.

As I suspected, my target is still watching me, his gaze flicking all over my body.

Twiddling my fingers, I flash him another smile before pushing through the steel door.

The second I cross the threshold, hair spray and perfume flood my lungs, body glitter assaulting my vision and causing a wave of nausea to roll through me as the high-pitched squeals of the other dancers damn near make my ears bleed.

They’re all huddled together at the makeup tables, gossiping and laughing and talking about their boyfriends and weekend plans.

But me … I’m a loner. A drifter. I don’t make friends. Don’t want them or need them.

Besides, it’s better that way because anyone who gets close to me only ends up getting hurt.

Which is exactly why I play the cold, quiet bitch around these girls, keeping my chin tucked and eyes averted as I beeline it for my locker at the back of the room. I’ve learned the best way to keep them safe is to freeze them out, even if that means I’ve been dubbed Ice Queen of The Devil’s Den.

Ignoring the din of laughter on the other side of the dressing room, I make quick work of stuffing all my naughty bits back into the leather bikini I just peeled out of, check my hair and makeup, and make my way back out into the crowded lounge.

Sure enough, I find my target exactly where I suspected he’d be, slumped over at the bar with a freshly poured drink in front of him.

As if he can feel me staring at him, he glances over his shoulder and rakes his gaze over me.

Stamping down the urge to gouge his eyeballs out with rusty spoons, I weave through tables and chairs, my killer heels sinking silently into the burgundy carpet as I keep my focus on one thing and one thing only: the cash in that man’s wallet.

Sliding onto the stool beside him, I wave the bartender, Leo, down.

He greets me with a smile, the deep dimples popping on either side of his mouth.

He’s a charmer, this one, with hair bleached so blond it could be seen from outer space and the eyeliner around his eyes thicker than my own.

It makes him look a little like a young Billy Idol.

He’s cute in a boyish sort of way. Polite.

Respectful. Doesn’t touch without consent.

It took me a while to warm up to him after Dom, the club owner, hired him. But since then, I’ve decided I don’t hate him like I do most men.

Plus he once told me he’s gay and that vaginas give him “the ick.” So I know he’s not a threat to me or any of the girls working here.

“What can I get you, Reb?” he asks, slinging a towel over his shoulder.

“Just a water, Leo. Thanks.”

Leo raps his knuckles on the bar, pulls a hose out from under it, fills a glass, and slides it across the wooden surface with a wink and a smile. When he turns his attention to another patron, I turn mine to the desperate, sad man seated beside me.

Spinning in my stool, I lean back and prop my elbows onto the bar behind me.

Then I bathe him in attention.

“Hi, handsome.” It comes out sugary and sweet and shy.

All things I pretend to be because if there’s one thing I’ve learned in my six years doing this job, it’s that these guys don’t like women with a backbone.

They prefer weak, compliant women. Ones who won’t question their shitty morals or stand up to their disrespect.

“I don’t think I’ve seen you in here before. ”

I bat my eyelashes and push my tits out for good measure.

“It’s Rebel, right?” he asks, his hungry gaze now glued to my chest.

“That’s right. And your name is … ?”

“Peter.” He offers me his hand, and I accept with another one of my obnoxious giggles.

Remembering the end goal, I go through the motions, feigning interest in his personal life and laughing at everything he says.

It’s all very blasé.

But when I get to the question that really matters—the one that I’ve been building up to since I sat my leather-clad ass on this barstool—a trickle of excitement works its way into my system.

Leaning in, I whisper in his ear, “Would you like to go somewhere more private? We could talk some more. Maybe I could dance for you? I bet you’d like that, wouldn’t you, Peter?”

A flush of red creeps up from the collar of his dress shirt and into his cheeks.

And just like clockwork, Peter accepts my offer and tells me to lead the way.

Grabbing his frail, clammy hand, I lead him through the lounge and down the corridor, glancing back at him every few seconds to make sure his eyes are still on my ass and the goofy smile is still plastered on his face.

We approach an open door marked with a six—the room I’ve booked for private dances every day since I started working here—and I gesture for Peter to take a seat on the leather sofa against the wall.

He flops down onto it with a sigh as I close the door and seal us inside.

“Alone at last,” I say seductively, swaying my hips as I saunter over to the small drink cart parked in the corner of the room.

Glass tinks on glass as I pour whiskey from a bottle into a tumbler, returning swiftly to Peter and thrusting the drink toward him.

He accepts it with thanks, and I take a seat beside him, the cold leather groaning as I hook my ankles and straighten my posture, once again drawing his focus to my chest.

“So …” I start.

Peter’s throat bobs as he swallows, and that’s when I notice the sweat pouring down his neck and soaking into the collar of his dress shirt.

Jesus. He looks like he’s about to have a heart attack. I’m not sure if I should be concerned for his well-being or wait it out and rob him blind while he’s unconscious.

But since I am me and men are men, I opt for the latter.

“So …” He parrots, hooking a finger into his collar and tugging it away from his skin. “I um … Do you … I was hoping …”

Christ. Spit it out.

He shakes his head as if trying to rattle the words free from the walls of his brain, then stares down at my feet with lust-filled eyes and licks his lips, the bulge in the front of his slacks beginning to swell.

“May I?” he finally asks, gesturing to my foot.

A foot fetish. Lucky me.

“It’ll cost you,” I tell him honestly. Because no way am I letting some rich old creep get his rocks off to my little piggies without making it worth my while.

Peter retrieves his wallet from his back pocket and pops it open between us. Little dollar signs flash in my eyes as I stare down at the thick stack of cold, hard cash nestled within the leather wallet.

Cha-ching.

“Fifty to take them off yourself,” I tell him, leaning toward him and playfully bumping his arm.

Peter pulls a fifty out and lays it on the coffee table.

“And to”—he tugs at his collar again—“caress them?”

I glance down again to find Benjamin Franklin smirking at me, urging me to be just a little greedy.

Hey, who am I to argue with one of our founding fathers?

“Another hundred.”

He stacks Benjamin on top of President Grant, and I prop my heel on his thigh while he delicately unclasps the buckle around my ankle as if it’s made of glass.

Another long stomach-souring hour passes where I empty Peter’s wallet in exchange for letting him sniff, touch, and—barf—lick my feet. Between the toes included.

They’re all the same, these guys. Manufactured on Satan’s assembly line, packaged up into designer suits and watches, then shipped up to earth to wreak havoc on the female population.

Cheating isn’t the worst sin they could commit. And it’s certainly not the one I want wholeheartedly to seek revenge for. But it’s the one readily available at my fingertips.

So for now, I’ll direct my energy toward taking these lying assholes for every dollar they have.

That is until I have the opportunity to unleash it on the monsters I narrowly escaped.

Because if there’s one thing I know for certain, it’s that they won’t hide forever. They’ll come for me. It may not be today. It may not be tomorrow. But this is year six since my rebirth.

Which means the clock is ticking.

Six. Five. Four. Three. Two. One.

Breathe.