Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
The Brawl
I writhe beneath his grip. Bolts of pain pulse through my leg beneath his pincered digits. My shoulder and back scream for release as he persists in pushing my wrist up my spine. His lips rest beside my ear, breathing heavily against my skin, releasing a growl before speaking.
“What a clever little girl you are! We’ve tried your way, but now it’s my way. Summer’s coming, and we don’t want you getting too hot in that bar. Do you understand?!”
The words slither from his lips, tickling my ear as they land.
He comes closer—so close, I’m expecting his tongue to drag along my skin.
But his teeth pinch my earlobe, and I can’t restrain the squeal that escapes.
His grasp is agony, and I fidget with pain shooting through my leg, shifting my weight to my other foot, stretching out my back, anything rather than bow beneath him.
I won’t fucking yield! I can probably clock him in the nose twice before Donnie reaches me. But Joey… I need to get back to Joey.
“Yes, Krick! Yes! I hear you! Goddamn!”
I defeatedly let out a groan as he finally releases his hold on me. I’m rubbing to ease the pinching pain in my leg, where there’s a noticeable indentation.
“Donnie!” He waves him over. “She wants to go to Mabel’s in the morning. Let Joey know he’s opening solo.”
Donnie nods.
As I’m peeling myself away from Krick, his slimy touch stays after I stand, but then he slaps my ass—the ultimate insult.
“And let Mabel know she wants some shorts! Some of those real short shorts.”
I don’t look back as he cackles, laughing so hard that he chokes—and I hope he does. Oh, God, I so wish he would.
I grab my jacket and cap while marching past Donnie.
I have to get out of here. The huffing from my nose heightens as I pick up my pace.
I’m so fixated on the door, I almost break into a jog, dodging past men who jeer at me, thinking I work here.
My mouth sweats, and hair sticks to the dampness of my neck. I need to get outside.
I swing the front doors open, only to have a man slur his hot liquored breath in my face.
“Hello, gorgeous.”
I push past him, trotting down the stairs while feeling sick to my stomach.
I can’t hold it down any longer and vomit onto the club’s sidewalk.
My palms pull the cold from the stone wall of the building as I spit, with my skin cloaked in a cold sweat.
I stand upright, taking deep breaths while holding my hair off my neck.
I hear Donnie laugh before I see him, lumbering down the stairs with his arms swinging long by his side.
“Donnie—” I bite my lip. I need to be careful. I’m exhausted and emotional. With a few breaths, I bundle the things I want to say and do to Donnie, shoving them into a dark closet within my mind, and with the click of an internal lock, I look up. “Take me home.”
No amount of showering can clean off that feeling. The snake-like hold Krick had on me. The satisfaction it gave him. I sat like prey in his coils while he played with his food.
The trip to Mabel’s is … interesting. In a dingy back room of her tailor shop, there is a small space dedicated to women’s clothing, but not ordinary attire.
Only classic Krick bejewelled “uniforms,” and I can confidently assume nothing reaches past a knee or an elbow.
Donnie stays at the front of the store while she dresses me, with reluctance painted across my face.
I try to pull the shorts lower and fight with the tops as I wrestle to simultaneously cover my cleavage and waist. Mabel is an unusual woman, her skin stretched tight across her face.
Her eyebrows are drawn in dark, thin arches.
How did she get into this—dressing young women to bait men?
But she shows her humanity when she delves into another box of her collection, pulling something out for me.
“Here, darlin’. This should be enough for Krick’s tastes.”
I unfold it. A pair of high-waisted shorts and a cropped T-shirt. I put them on, and it covers my breasts, with only an inch of midriff visible. The bonus being that the shorts are long enough to cover my butt.
“It’s very ‘girl next door.’ I think we can get away with that,” she says from behind while I stare at my reflection.
I spin and throw my arms around her brittle frame, as it means more to me than she knows to not feel uncomfortably exposed, to hide the areas of myself that I’m not all too comfortable seeing in my own reflection. She needs to know how much I appreciate that.
I can’t bring myself to tell Joey the full story, so I share only the vague highlights of my visit with Krick.
An ultimatum between a job at The Gentlemen’s Club, or a revision of the uniform.
He knows me well enough to know there’s more, but he doesn’t press, only worries about me, since my confidence has been knocked down on my return.
My workouts are especially violent, grunting with every movement, and in the days that follow, there is a lot of screaming into my pillow, venting my anguish at how completely powerless I was against Krick.
I repeatedly try to invoke my father’s influence, sitting mindfully and meditating, but it always spirals into anger.
A week later, even though the bruise has faded, I still shiver at the memory of Krick’s groping touch, feeling his breath on my neck and his grip on my knee.
The only benefit is my increased appetite to escape this place.
I’ve collected provisions and constructed homemade weapons in multiple packs, hiding them in different locations, waiting for when the time is right.
One at my apartment, one for Joey, two at work, and another two at Seth’s. Even Seth is in on the plan now.
My responsibility is to get us to a safe space, but I have to admit my own limitations, while Joey is solely responsible for getting us out of the city walls.
Him being the lovable character he is gives us an advantage, and the way people come together to help is truly humbling.
Within weeks, the fundamentals of a plan fall into place, and I try not to get my hopes up, but it is hard not to get excited.
The chill fades as spring brings warmer days and brighter nights.
With the introduction of my new uniform, a new pink neon sign sits in the bar’s window, displaying the female gender symbol, which advertises that the bar has women.
It invites a fresh wave of customers, mostly younger men who have less respect for boundaries.
They believe I’ve put myself in this position because I want to be ogled, that I enjoy being a spectacle to be devoured, an object.
It has been bothering me. The hands that rest on my hips as I bring over their drinks.
The lingering stares as I bend over, lifting my hand to cover the gap of my cleavage as they strain for a peek.
The rare—but not rare enough—gropes and occasional slaps on my butt.
Every one of them knocks me down a peg, and I feel myself retreating into my shell, as if they take a piece of me every time.
The bar doesn’t offer the safety it once did.
The anger has inflamed during the Unity Siren, and the rangers have been called in for fights twice this month.
Despite Joey and the regulars, it is changing.
Krick has tainted something beautiful and made it cheap.
The creeps keep Smith on his toes as Joey and I press the alarm below the counter to eject the worst offenders.
I hate to back down from a job, but we have agreed it is easier to let Joey work beyond the counter, serving and clearing tables, especially when it’s busy.
When the Unity Siren plays with everyone’s backs turned, Joey and I hold hands—not just a simple link, but a tight grasp.
It has become a comfort—the closest we can be without looking at each other.
The risk is higher for him. Women are not referred to as property, but our contracts suggest that we technically belong to our employer until we’re handed over to our husbands.
And there is no doubt that Krick wouldn’t take this infringement lightly.
I have warned Joey of the dangers, but he simply smiles and links his fingers in mine at every opportunity.
Each time his thumb strokes my knuckles, it is a defiance of Krick.
And during the Unity Siren, when I slide my fingers up his forearm, feeling the softer side of his skin, the slight rise of his tattoos, then stroke the grain of his dark arm hair before brushing his calluses and re-linking our fingers—that’s a giant “F you” to Beckett.
The way we do it in plain sight is the highest thrill I have experienced.
By the time Beckett finishes his speech, it is always a chore to smother our smirks, but it’s a goddamn miracle we keep our hands off each other.
It’s nearing the end of the shift as we stand side by side, looking out at our bar.
We’re sharing the last of a honey-soaked granola cookie, which was too damaged to sell.
Joey pops in the last mouthful of his half, mumbling as he asks beneath the murmur of the music and patrons, “Shall we go to the beach?”
“I’ve never been to the beach.”
“Get out of here! Really?!”
“No. Never. I’d love to go to the sea! Have you been?”
“Yeah. Mom always took us for our birthday treat, but with how many of us there are, it was, like … every other weekend,” he says with a laugh.
“I bet. She’d be so proud of you.” I reach over to twist the dark platinum ring on his pinkie finger before linking my pinkie with his. I am proud of him, of how he has taken control of our plans. It is beyond his comfort zone, but he has embraced it, nonetheless.
“Yeah,” he says. “She’d be excited to know one of her boys helped a girl. What about your dads? You think they’ll be shocked to see you?”