Logan
“Daisy. Daisy. Fucking Daisy!”
I spin towards the voice, forgetting I gave a fake name when I applied at Euphoria, so most of the employees probably think I’m an idiot.
“Sorry, music,” I mutter to Carl, the owner behind the bar, as I walk past. His sleazeball mustache makes it hard to take him seriously.
“Take these drinks to table fourteen.”
Memorizing the table numbers wasn’t as hard as I’d worried it would be; remembering to check the bar for orders was the difficult part. Euphoria has tablets at each table so patrons can order at will. We just have to pick them up when we’re waved over.
Balancing the tray on my palm and shoulder, I carry the two jugs of beer and eight frosted glasses to a table of rowdy men, already annoyed by their thought that they can touch me.
“Gentlemen, another round?” I paste on a smile and keep up the facade, when all I want to do is go to the crappy motel I found to rent. Great tips are what’ll save me.
Placing the tray on the table, I ignore the hand gliding up the back of my thigh as I pour the beer into their cups and pass them out. Once one of my hands frees up, I push the one away that’s getting too close to the bottom of my ass.
“No touching,” I tease when all I want to do is bash the glass over his head.
“Aw, come on, Daisy, won’t you dance for us?” He winks, and they all start in.
“Sorry, boys, I was born with two left feet and zero rhythm. You’ll have to enjoy the beauties on the stage.” And the girls are gorgeous, they’re just not as accessible as we servers.
They grumble but accept my words at face value. I can dance; in fact, I love to, just not for an audience.
As I wander back to the bar to collect another order, a face flashes in the club lights before disappearing. The blood freezes in my veins.
He can’t be here. He’s never been to Gulfport; there’s no reason for him to be here.
Except you, that niggling voice in my head mutters, making me nearly trip in the three-inch heels I found at Goodwill.
Carl hands me a tray with three shots, a cold mug of beer, and some of our famous wings, grumbling, “Table six.” Right where I thought I saw Connor.
My stepbrother.
The boy who has always treated me like property and would soon enough be the one to rape me, if his father didn’t first. For a while now, I’ve known it was only a matter of time before one or both of them took my last bit of innocence.
Swallowing around the lump in my throat, I half convince myself it’s only a doppelganger and not actually him because there’s no way he could track me. He wouldn’t even want to. I’m nobody. I’m nothing.
“Here we are. Shots, beer, and our famous wings!” My smile drops as our eyes meet, my world tipping on its axis as I realize it is, in fact, Connor.
My worst nightmare.
My limbs rattle with fear, and my mouth dries out as that slick smile crosses his face while he grabs my wrist and drags me into his lap.
“Look at you, Miss Buttoned Up and Frigid, letting it all hang out in a strip club for perfect strangers to see, but you won’t share with your big brother.”
I feel sick, swallowing around the lump in my throat.
“Let me go.” I refuse to let him win and send me running.
“Can’t do that, little chicken. You owe me a little play time.” He nuzzles his face into my neck, and bile rises up my throat as my eyes meet one of the bouncers. The man's gaze narrows, and he immediately makes his way over.
The thing about Carl is that while he’s as sleazy as they come, he doesn’t let anyone touch the girls beyond what the rules state. So, as Jamie approaches, prepared to beat Connor to a pulp and ban him from the club, his next words stop me cold: “Your mom is sick.”
Whipping my head around to face Connor, I ask, “What do you mean, sick?” It’s a word they always used after Ian beat the crap out of her, and she couldn’t leave her bed for days. My mom hasn’t been the best since Dad died, but she doesn’t deserve what Ian does to her either.
“Hands off the girl.” Jamie is a huge man, full of steroid muscles and a menacing scowl that scares the hell out of me.
Connor raises his hands so Jamie can help me to my feet. “Sorry, man, just my long-lost sister.” The bouncer isn’t fooled.
He leans down into Connor’s face, and I catch fear cross his eyes as Jamie warns him, “Put your hands on her again, and I’ll break them both. We clear?” Connor gulps and nods while Jamie escorts me back to the bar. “Give her a glass of ice water, Carl.” Not even the owner argues with the bouncer.
“You can take your break now.” Carl eyes me up and down, not oblivious to the ordeal I just went through.
Nodding, I take his advice and head to the back room, which has sofas, tables, and a fridge always filled with nutritional snacks—another anomaly about this place. But Carl has a standard, and that means keeping his girls healthy.
Grabbing a bottle of juice and a bowl of fruit, I stop at my locker to get my phone before sitting down to call Carly.
“Hey girl, what’s up?” She’s always so darn chipper.
“Is my mom okay?” I rush out, grateful the music doesn’t filter into this room too loudly.
“What? Yeah, I’m pretty sure. Why wouldn’t she be?”
I wilt at her reassurance.
“Connor is here.” Carly knows everything that’s happened from the first night I arrived, and she was ready to bus it down here to kick Trista’s ass for making me cry so hard.
“Well, how the hell did he find you?” she nearly shouts; her parents won’t appreciate the loud noise. “I’m going to call Miles, figure out what’s going on, and see if we can get you moved.”
“Yeah, sure.” I’m so damn defeated. All I want is to be left alone. I realized a long time ago that college wouldn’t be in the cards for me, but I’d hoped to start the search for a decent job and build a life I could be proud of.
“Hey, Lo, it’s going to be okay.” My friend's reassuring words don’t have the desired effect because it seems like nothing will ever be okay again.
“I have to go back to work now.” I can almost picture the scowl on her face. Carly hates me working in a strip club. She’s worried I’ll wind up on stage and start selling my body.
“Call me when you get home.”
I’m not out until like three in the morning, and there’s no chance she’ll still be awake, but I don’t say that and just agree instead.
Eating the small bit I can, I chug my juice and head back out onto the floor. My gaze immediately seeks out Connor, only to find his table empty and being cleaned off by one of the girls. My heart stutters, then finally calms down again in relief.
He’s gone, and I hope he never comes back.
Noticing a few tables that need clearing, I don’t hesitate to grab a cloth and get to work. By the time last call is announced and the final girls have danced their set, my feet are on fire, my back is burning, and I want to sleep for a week.
The physicality of working here doesn’t bother me; it’s the emotional drain from Connor showing up that makes me feel like I’ve gone a few rounds in a ring.
Once the front of the house is cleared, I slip on my sweats, a baggy shirt, and runners. With my bag in hand, I say goodnight to everyone and begin the twenty-minute walk home. It’s the worst part of working at Euphoria because you never know if you’re going to run into someone unsavory or not.
As I turn the first corner, I hear the unmistakable sound of a motorbike revving, and butterflies erupt in my belly as I think of the two bikers who caught my interest when I showed up at Trista’s clubhouse.
Viking and Priest were scary as hell, but they called to something dark and depraved inside my soul that made me think of sweaty nights and screaming pleasure. It’ll never happen now, especially with getting all but kicked out of that place.
Ignoring the lingering sounds filtering through my head, I clasp my purse tightly to my chest, with my keys out, as I approach the dumpy motel.
Climbing the stairs to the second-floor balcony, I like that it’s out in the open rather than inside a building because when I need to breathe, I can just step outside.
Twisting the key in the door lock, I step through, then quickly close and relock it. While it’s not a high-crime area, I don’t leave anything to chance. Too bad the true violence comes from the inside.
“You fucking whore,” Connor’s voice hisses from behind as he grabs a chunk of my hair and slams me into the wall beside the door. My face bounces off the cheap plaster, and I immediately taste blood in my mouth.
“Connor, stop,” I cry out, regretting that my room is so far away from the front office.
“Connor, stop,” he mocks. “Fuck no. Do you have any idea what the fuck you did?” There’s no chance for me to answer before he slams a fist into my side, promptly knocking the wind from my lungs and turning my vision black.
I can’t pass out, though. “Dad was in the hospital with a severe concussion, eighteen stitches, and he’s mad as hell.
Once he gets his hands on you, your body is going to be so fucked up. ”
Whimpering, I try to push him off, but he slams my head off the wall again. This time, my eye hits the light switch, and it swells instantaneously. “He shouldn’t have tried to rape me.”
A humorless bark of laughter escapes his mouth as he drives another punch into each side of my ribs. Wheezing, my legs give out as tears run down my face.
“You should have been a good little whore and opened your legs for him.” Grinding his hips into my back, I feel his hardening dick and want to scream, but I know nobody will come to my rescue.
“No. I’m not a whore, let alone his.” Bucking against him, Connor must not have expected it, because he stumbles backwards just enough for me to reach the door, flip the deadbolt, and open it about a foot before he’s on me again.
His weight slams us both into the door, the handle digs into my hip with blinding pain, and I scream out this time. Spinning us around, Connor tosses me across the room, where I crash into the table, a lamp, and the side of the bed.
Everything hurts as he advances on me, the rage and hatred in his eyes so startling that for the first time in my life, I feel true terror. I worry this will be it, and all I can think about is the sound of motorbikes until I realize it’s not in my imagination this time. They’re outside.
A burst of hope and energy strengthens me. I jump up and sprint to the window, grateful that the curtains are open, so I slam my fists against the thick glass. When I spot two bikers in the parking lot, I pound even harder until they look up, and I recognize it’s them. It has to be.
Connor is right on me, though, and bashes my head against the glass, shattering it with the force and dropping me when my frame can no longer hold me up. Excruciating pain erupts in my skull, and I know I’ve been cut open as wetness streams down my face.
Trying not to panic, I remind myself that head wounds bleed badly and take advantage of Connor’s shock by flipping my body out the window, ignoring the stinging of glass shards in my palms as I fight to crawl away and hopefully reach help.
“Who the fuck are you?”
I remember those cold words from last week and cry out when my body gives up and drops to the ground. I have no strength left. Whatever happens to me doesn’t matter anymore.
“Who the fuck are you?” Connor grits out, the quiver in his tone unmistakable.
“Boy, you messed with the wrong fucking girl,” Priest warns as he and Viking step around me. My vision is blinded by blood, so I can’t see any more of what’s happening.
“That’s my fucking girl, so fuck off,” Connor challenges, not realizing how screwed he is right now.
Laughter from the two menacing men makes me cringe because even though I don’t really know them, I get the feeling that reaction means someone is about to be hurt.
“I don’t think so,” Viking growls, his tone low and foreboding.
I hear a few grunts, then stomping feet, and I can tell that Connor must have made a run for it.
When hands begin touching me, I cry out. Everything hurts, but I can’t find my voice to tell them to stop.
Eventually, as I’m carried away, I pass out and can’t remember what happens next.