Chapter 20 Suffer Not a Rapist to Live
Suffer Not a Rapist to Live
It’s shortly before eight when I park on the street a few blocks away from The Rose Room and get out of my car, tucking my keys into the top of the stocking opposite the GHB vials.
I’m relying on my looks and skimpy costume to get me through the door without giving a name, so I’m not wearing a coat.
The night is cold, and the chill seeps into my bones as I walk toward the club.
There’s already a line formed outside, snaking down the sidewalk and wrapping around the building.
I ignore it and head straight for the bouncer.
He’s a big, tattooed white guy wearing a black hoodie, holding a clipboard.
My name is technically on his list, but I don’t have any intention of using it until I come back to see Mark.
I stop next to him and clear my throat, ignoring the three women at the front of the line as I wait for his eyes to lock onto me. He gives me a once-over as soon as they do, and his gaze lingers on my very visible boobs, which are currently showing precisely how cold I am, I’m sure.
“Hey,” I say, leaning toward him, placing my hand on his arm. “I’m here with the Black Bears.”
“Are you—” he begins, his eyes still on my boobs, but I cut him off.
“I’m with Brandon Miller. He’s waiting for me.”
“Okay,” he replies, waving me through.
I saunter past, and another man closer to the club door pulls it open as I approach.
Fog comes rolling out along with a burst of house music.
Then I’m stepping through, into the din and chaos of The Rose Room at Halloween.
Everyone is wearing costumes, and the place is already packed.
The bass is blasting against me, making my whole body vibrate.
Finding Brandon is going to be easier said than done.
I’m taller than most of the crowd in my heeled boots, but there are so many people in here that it doesn’t matter much.
I still can’t see well enough to have a snowball’s chance in hell of finding him.
I snake through the crowd, twisting between groups of witches, fairies, and devils as I head toward the staircase leading to the second floor.
A guy in a vampire costume gropes my ass as I slide past, and I’m tempted to turn around and backhand him, but I don’t.
Given that I’m planning on committing a murder later tonight, causing a scene and drawing attention to myself wouldn’t be worth it.
Finally, I’m climbing the staircase to the second floor.
I push my way to the railing, ignoring the protests as I claim a spot against it where I can look down at the main floor.
I spot Rhys Steichen almost right away. He’s wearing a Frankenstein costume, but his size combined with the missing tooth makes him easy to recognize.
Plus, his makeup isn’t that good. The grey-green face paint couldn’t be more haphazardly applied.
He definitely won’t be winning any costume contests.
He’s in a raised section of the club, behind a velvet rope, in the middle of a group.
I recognize a couple of the guys as players on the team—including Garret Fischer, who’s wearing a cowboy costume.
I assume the others must also be hockey players.
The women are probably the players’ significant others—or WAGs, because a lot of sports culture is so misogynistic that they believe it’s acceptable to discuss women based solely on the relationship they have to ‘important’ men.
I don’t see Brandon Miller, though there are a few guys wearing costumes that have full-face masks—a Jason Voorhees, a Spider-Man, and a triangle Squid Game guard.
My money is on Brandon being Jason or the guard.
He doesn’t strike me as the ‘great power, great responsibility’ type.
They’ll have to take their masks off to drink at some point.
I’ll just stand here watching until they do.
About fifteen minutes have gone by, and I’ve ruled out Spider-Man. I’m not sure who he is, but he’s not Brandon. The other two haven’t removed their masks yet though, and I’m growing impatient. I can’t stand around all night.
I spot a cocktail waitress dressed as a French maid with blood running down her neck. I remove two hundred-dollar bills from my stocking and hold them up in the air until I catch her attention.
She slowly wends her way through the crowd. “What can I get you?” she asks when she’s near enough to be heard above the thumping bass and shouted conversations.
“Do you see the guys behind the velvet rope?”
She nods.
“Can I have thirty Jello shots delivered to them?” I pass her the hundreds, saying, “I don’t need change.”
“Sure,” she agrees, heading for the stairs.
Ten minutes later, she’s approaching the raised area where the players are sequestered, carrying a tray filled with neon-green Jello shots at the same time Mark is approaching, dressed as Gomez Addams. Damn.
I was really hoping my luck would hold, and he wouldn’t show up until after I’d managed to get out of here with Brandon.
Mark looks good. He stops for a moment to say something to the guy manning the velvet rope, who’s pulling it aside for the woman carrying the Jello shots.
After a few seconds, Mark is ascending the steps too, and I have to force my eyes away from him to watch the players as the woman begins handing out shots.
Almost everyone takes one, including Jason and the Squid Game guard.
But Mark holds up a hand, warding her off, when she reaches his spot near the back.
Apparently he’s not a fan, which doesn’t surprise me.
The Squid Game guard pulls his mask off first. Not Brandon.
A second later, Jason raises his hockey mask, and it’s him. Perfect.
Now I just need to get behind the velvet rope. Fortunately, Mark is sitting about as far away from Brandon as it’s possible to be while remaining in the same enclosed area. I hope it’s far enough that he doesn’t recognize me.
I abandon my position on the railing and head down the staircase to the first floor. Then, I make my way to the bar at the rear of the club. The crowd is at least three deep all the way around, and it takes fifteen minutes before I’m able to get a bartender’s attention.
“Hey love, what can I get you?” he asks.
“Can I get a bottle of Grand Brut with five glasses?” I reply, passing over three hundred dollars when he nods.
A minute later, he returns, handing me a tray with an already opened bottle and five champagne flutes. There’s eighty dollars in change on it. I give him twenty as a tip, then I turn and head for the velvet rope.
I unobtrusively glance in Mark’s direction as I approach, and I swear he’s watching me. The guy charged with keeping people out pulls the rope aside for me without a word, probably assuming I’m one of the miscellaneous bottle girls hired to help out tonight.
I think Mark is still watching me, but I don’t dare look toward him to check.
Instead, I beeline for Brandon Miller as soon as I reach the top of the steps.
Once I’m in front of the group he’s sitting with—which thankfully doesn’t include Rhys Steichen or Garret Fischer at the moment—I set the tray down, fill the champagne flutes, and begin handing them out.
“Compliments of the club,” I say when I pass the first glass to a player I don’t recognize. I save Brandon for last. I stare into his eyes, letting my fingers brush across his as he takes the champagne.
Almost immediately, he lifts his mask and smirks at me.
I smile back coyly, and he reaches up to take my hand, tugging me toward him.
“Stay and have a drink with me,” he says.
It sounds less like a question and more like a demand, but I nod and bat my eyelashes anyway, letting him pull me onto his lap.
His eyes drop to my chest, and his right hand goes around my waist.
I force out a giggle, and he says, “You know you’re very pretty.”
I want to say, ‘What I am is very naked. There’s a difference,’ but I don’t. I merely giggle again as I drop my eyes and murmur, “Thanks.”
He takes a sip of the champagne and then holds the glass to my lips. I make myself drink. At least I know he hasn’t put anything in it. He pulls me into him a little more, ignoring the people around us in favor of focusing all his attention on me.
I shift on his lap, which has the effect of grinding my ass against him, and he lets out a small sigh that sounds like a repressed groan of pleasure.
I do it again as his hand creeps up from my waist to skim over the side of my boob and he makes the same sound, just a little louder.
I fight down the desire to fling myself away from him out of pure revulsion and force myself to stay put.
I’m sure he’s one of those guys who believes the fact that he can’t keep his hands to himself should be taken as a compliment. It’s not. It’s simply disrespectful. Normally, I wouldn’t stand for it. Right now though, it’s exactly what I was hoping for.
We stay like that for another ten minutes, with him groping me more and more with each passing second. His dick is pressing into my ass, and it’s anything but sexy. Eventually, it seems like I’ve been compliant and placid long enough for him to press his luck.
“Want to get out of here?” he whispers in my ear. He’s too close, and I want to pull away, but I don’t.
“Where would we go?” I ask, channeling my inner Marilyn Monroe, making my voice breathier than it’s ever been in my life.
“My house isn’t far. It’s only twenty minutes from here.”
“Okay,” I agree. Before the word has even finished leaving my mouth, he’s in the process of standing and bringing me with him.
Then he’s headed for the exit, his hand on my wrist dragging me along behind him, and I hope I know what I’ve gotten myself into. I hope the drugs Vaughn got me work. If they don’t, I’m not sure I’ll get out of this in one piece.