His Little Doll (The Morelli Brothers #2)

Chapter One

Anya

The bass thrumming through the walls is deep enough to make my ribs hum. Glitter hangs in the air, catching the stage lights that never sleep.

“Anya, you’re up.”

Tasha appears in front of me with sweaty hair and a few bills poking out from her bra and the strap of her heel. She’s counting twenties with her longer-than-life acrylics.

“Stage Two,” she says, stuffing the last of the money into her purse. “Try not to trip on the edge again. You made that old guy in the front row almost have a heart attack last time.”

I smirk. “Maybe that’s my brand.”

“Girl, your brand better be rent money.” She pats my arm before walking off, her hips swaying even though she’s off the clock. It’s hard to separate our stage presence from our real-life personas when we’re in here.

The next song starts—that’s my cue. I walk toward the stage, adjusting the strap on my heel, breathing through the nerves that never seem to go away no matter how many nights I do this.

The lights blind me for half a second. The crowd then comes into focus—rows of men in suits that cost more than my monthly bills. The most jarring parts of their outfits will always be the wedding rings. It makes me lose faith in happily ever afters. How many women have worked their asses off to please these men, only for them to come here and throw affection and money on other women? It’s heartbreaking. Why do men have to be such pigs?

But if there’s something about these men, it’s that they are all either powerful or pretending to be. They’re either sitting on millions or have sold a kidney to come here and pretend they are.

Eros Club doesn’t let just anyone in. They say it belongs to Cassian Morelli, which explains everything. His name lives in this part of the city like he’s the boogeyman. Nobody really knows him, but everyone knows what happens if you cross him.

The music catches my hips first. Then my hands. I trace the pole with my palm, feeling the cold steel kiss my skin.

Bills start falling in lazy circles as the crowd whistles and cheers. I smile for show, but inside I’m counting seconds—and dollars. You learn to make it look effortless, like you were born to do it, when really you’re praying you don’t slip and break something you can’t afford to fix.

The good thing about this place is that no one touches without permission. Security’s everywhere. The other good thing about this club is that the men here truly act like money grows on trees.

When the song fades, I step down, legs trembling. The floor smells like spilled whiskey and money. I scoop up the tips, shove them into my bag, and head backstage. This is always the most humiliating part.

The dressing room’s alive with chatter and the clink of perfume bottles.

Mina’s hunched over her mirror, reapplying eyeliner. “How was the crowd tonight?” she asks without looking up.

“Generous,” I say, dropping onto the chair beside her. “Or drunk. Either way, I’m not complaining.”

Tasha’s sitting across the room, regluing an acrylic that fell off. “Lucky. One dude tipped me with a casino chip after a lap dance. A damn chip. I told him unless it’s made of gold, it ain’t currency in this establishment.”

Mina snorts. “You should’ve taken it. Maybe you’d win big.”

“Yeah, or maybe I’d get mugged trying to cash it.”

It’s crazy how back here, we’re like coworkers at a regular job, not half-naked and held together with body oil and bad decisions.

Tasha stretches, showing off her bellybutton piercing. It looks great, but there’s always been something about bellybuttons that just creeps me out. “You ever think about quitting, Anya?”

“Every day,” I admit, peeling off a lash. “But then I remember the job market’s deader than my dignity.”

“That bad? I haven’t tried applying in ages,” Mina says.

“Worse than you can ever imagine. The grocery store I worked at shut down six months ago. Nobody’s hiring unless you’ve got a degree or no self-respect.”

Tasha chuckles. “Well, lucky us, we’ve got the second one covered.”

I grin, but inside, I’m hurting. Because it’s not true. We do have self-respect, but each one of us has a reason for being forced into stripping. Mine is the real risk of getting evicted and becoming homeless, Tasha’s is putting her twins in private schools so they don’t turn out like us, and Mina is just trying to get through medical school without the loan sharks breaking down her door.

By the time I clock out, it’s past two a.m. I pull my jacket tighter, holding my bag close as I walk to the bus stop. Downtown still glows in the distance, too rich and too clean for the rest of us.

My neighborhood’s on the other end of that line—the part of the city that only a few survive.

I climb the stairs to my building, the metal railing threatening to fall apart under my hands. My heels click with each step. Second floor, third. I almost trip. Shit, the hallway light’s busted again.

“Anya, that you?”

Mr. Devlin leans out from his door, robe half open, beer can in hand. He’s been retired longer than I’ve been alive but never misses a chance to flirt with me. It gives me the creeps.

“Yeah,” I mutter, not stopping.

“Still working those late shifts?” His eyes flick down, and it feels like they slime down my body with grease. “You oughta take care, sweetheart. Not safe out there for pretty girls.”

“I’m fine,” I say.

“Could always keep me company instead. I don’t bite—unless you ask nice.”

I fish my key out and shove it into the lock. “Goodnight, Mr. Devlin.”

My door shuts in his face before he can say anything else. I let my bag and heels drop to the floor.

The apartment’s tiny—barely room for a bed and a fridge. I spread out today’s cash on the floor. It’s not much. But it’s enough to pay the rent, keep the lights on, and buy myself a little more time.

Somewhere, a baby cries. Somewhere else, someone yells. I swear I can hear my neighbor peeing and flushing the toilet. I try to be positive. It’s like white noise or something. I don’t know.

I close my eyes and whisper to myself, “Just one more week.”

But it’s a lie I tell myself every day. It’s never just one more week. And my worst nightmare is that I’ll keep repeating it over and over again until I’m too old and wrinkly to use my body to survive.