Chapter 2
Two
S hit. Shit. Shit.
The keys in my hand tremble as I push it into the lock of my door and let myself into the apartment I share with Cassandra. Fuck, I can’t believe I was that careless. I rarely take a job without doing immense research on the host. But this time, I was desperate. I needed the money. Shit, I still need the money. There is no way I am getting paid for that job. The broken wineglasses will eat up all my hard-earned hours.
Why the fuck didn’t I look at the name of the couple? It would have saved me all this heartache. Las Vegas was beginning to feel like home, a place I could call my own. I should have known Kenzo would have associates here. And not just any associate. This one is his Russian partner, Adrian Volkov.
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
How could I have let this happen?
A fiery sensation burns at the backs of my eyes, threatening to spill over as I fight back tears. I can’t afford to cry right now. Not when everything is crumbling around me. In a chaotic flurry, I rush to my bedroom and snatch my bag from the depths of my closet. It’s the one I’ve diligently filled with spare cash and fake documents, just in case.
With trembling hands, I frantically stuff everything I can into the bag until it’s overflowing. It’s unusual for me to carry so many belongings. For years, all I had was the clothes on my back and two extra sets. My transient lifestyle never allowed me to gather possessions or build any kind of wardrobe. But Las Vegas is different. It’s been my home for longer than anywhere else. It’s the one place he hasn’t found me within weeks of my arrival.
In the distance, the house phone rings insistently, but I tune it out. I’ll have to remember to turn it off before I leave so that Cassandra won’t be stuck with any bills. She always thought it was strange that I didn’t carry a cell phone, but I couldn’t risk it. Not when my every step is haunted by his menacing presence.
“Hey, girl,” the answering machine chimes loudly. “I know you’re at that sweet catering gig, you bougie bitch, but don’t forget you are covering me tonight at Sweet Cheeks. I owe you big time. That sour ass was going to fire me if I couldn’t get someone to cover. Nine o’clock sharp, boo. Wear something…well, that isn’t you. Cassandra might have something. Anyway, gotta go before your old-ass machine drops…”
The beeping of the machine cuts her off. Fuck. Sighing, I lean my head back and take a deep breath. Why me? What the hell did I do in some previous life that has this one being so fucked up? I swear I have the worst luck in the world. It’s like I stepped on someone’s grandma in beetle form or something.
I completely forgot that I promised to cover for Samantha tonight at the club. She flew home for her cousin’s funeral, and it was the one shift she couldn’t get covered by any of her normal coworkers, which is why she turned to me. I’ve only covered for her a few times, and Bert liked me enough that he allowed it. Said my innocent act gave the patrons a hard-on.
Gross.
What am I going to do? I can’t just leave without covering her shift. I would feel horrible if she came home and didn’t have a job because of me. She has two kids to feed.
Fuck.
Okay, think Evie, think. He saw me, but he doesn’t know my name.
All right.
Except that he can easily get access to the catering payroll records and see the name I used.
Damn.
No, that is fine because the address I used for that company is bogus, which means he won’t be able to just pop on over.
That is good.
Except…the phone number I used is the house phone here, which means he could get this address.
However, if I leave directly from the club, that won’t matter. Cassandra has been staying with her boyfriend, so that shouldn’t be an issue. Kenzo wouldn’t harm her, especially since she doesn’t know anything. Not really.
Okay. Plan in place…sort of.
Go to the club, work Samantha’s shift, and then get the hell out of Dodge.
Checking the time on the old-fashioned clock perched precariously on the stove, I see that I still have a few hours before my shift at Sweet Cheeks. Placing my bag down on the worn kitchen table, I make my way to the back of the cramped apartment and into Cassandra’s room. As Samantha pointed out earlier, I have nothing suitable for work tonight. Usually, I would just borrow some of her clothes, but since she’s out of town, I’ll have to make do with my roommate’s wardrobe.
With a groan, I rifle through Cassandra’s overstuffed closet, pulling out various options one by one. Each item seems more ill-fitting and garishly colored than the last. Finally, I settle on a slinky black bodycon dress and a pair of kitten heels that are bound to leave my feet sore by the end of the night. As I leave her cluttered room, I place the outfit carefully on my rumpled bed and head to take a shower.
Stepping into the scalding hot water, I let out a sigh of relief as it washes away the stress of the day. The steamy air is filled with the sweet scent of vanilla as I scrub off every trace of makeup and sweat, preparing for a long night of suck.
My thoughts drift back to the day I ran. The day I was supposed to say those cursed wedding vows. My father had proudly walked me down the aisle as if it were the happiest day of my life. Little did he know that his own daughter was running away from him, from his twisted plans to sell me off to the highest bidder. He didn’t care about my happiness or well-being; all that mattered was his own profit.
An hour and a half later, I find myself driving down Tropicana Avenue toward Sweet Cheeks, a dingy and unassuming club located just off the bustling strip. It’s hot outside. Even at nine at night, it feels like my skin is going to melt off.
Parking my car in the dimly lit employee lot at the back of the building, I take a deep breath and mentally prepare myself for the night ahead. Working at this club isn’t the worst experience, as long as you can handle being objectified and harassed by drunk patrons. Some girls thrive on the attention, but I am not one of them. Luckily, with some quick thinking and avoidance tactics, I usually manage to avoid both unwanted advances and inappropriate behavior from customers.
“Hey, Bert.” My voice is low as I greet the owner, a potbellied man with an overgrown beard wearing a dirty wife beater. Bert smiles at me, showing his yellow, decayed teeth.
“Well, look who it is,” he smacks. “The little angel herself.”
“Don’t act surprised.” I shake my head as I stow my purse in Samantha’s locker. “Sam told you I was covering for her tonight.”
The man shrugs. “She did.” He smirks. “But I didn’t think you would.”
Closing the locker, I turn and stare at him. “What do you mean? I’ve always covered her bar shift.”
Bert scoffs, leaning against the set of lockers, a glint in his eye that I don’t like. “She wasn’t bartending tonight, sweet cheeks.” He leers. “It was her night to dance.”
The universe hates me. I know it.
“I saw her schedule, Bert,” I argue, my face paling. “I know she was set to bartend tonight.”
Another leering smirk. “Sapphire called out sick. Samantha is the backup.”
I shake my head. “Melissa can dance,” I insist, despite knowing that it is useless. This isn’t Bert having no other choice. He has plenty. He is choosing not to use them. The fat tub of lard has been trying to get me up on the stage since I started covering for Samantha, but I’ve always refused.
“No can do, angel.” He shakes his head. “She’s on restricted duty. So you’re up.”
“No.” Staring him down, I cross my arms over my chest, looking a lot braver than I feel.
Bert chuckles and shakes his head. “You don’t have a choice.” He straightens up, pointing his chubby finger at me. “You’re covering for Sam, who took an unauthorized leave of absence.”
“Her cousin died, asshole,” I hiss.
“Ain’t immediate family.” Bert shrugs. “You have two choices. You can walk your pert ass out of here and lose Sam her job, or you can go wiggle it on the stage like a good little girl.”
“You mother…”
“I’d be careful what you say next if I were you.” He tsks, his eyes darkening. “Remember who holds the power here.”
Grinding my teeth, I swallow back the retort that rests on the tip of my tongue, pushing back the tears that are gathering at the backs of my eyes.
“I don’t have anything for the stage, Bert,” I grit out.
Bert smiles broadly, eyes dancing. “Don’t you worry.” He licks his lips. “Jia has something you can put on.”
Great. Just great. Jia wears the skimpiest outfits in the entire club. She’s a completely nude dancer. Something I won’t be doing, even if Samantha ends up without a job.
“Wonderful,” I mutter, looking at Jia askance. The bitch has the nerve to wink at me. It is no secret that she’s Berty’s favorite, mostly because she’s the only one willing to blow his little smokey.
“Better get going, angel.” His tongue darts out, tracing a slimy path across his lips as his eyes roam over my body. The sensation of his gaze crawling over me sends shivers down my spine and makes my skin prickle with discomfort. “You’re up in ten.” With one last slimy parting look, he waddles from the dressing room and back onto the floor.
“Here ya go, sugar,” Jia drawls as she struts toward me holding what looks to be floss. Hell, it may even be thinner than floss. “Picked out the one outfit that covers the most.” She shrugs a shoulder. “I know this isn’t normally your thing.”
Oh.
“Thank you,” I whisper as I take the outfit from her. On closer inspection, it is more than floss. Barely, but it is more of an outfit than she normally wears on stage, and for that, I am grateful. Jia gives me a sad smile and a nod before she walks away, ready for her own set.
This is not going to happen.
As I emerge from the bathroom, the cool air hits my skin, and I am suddenly aware of how exposed I am in the white one-piece body cage set with thigh straps. Goose bumps prickle across my flesh as I make my way toward the back of the stage.
Berty’s eyes roam over me, taking in every inch of my near-naked body.
“You look delicious,” he remarks, a sly grin playing on his lips. “They’re going to devour you out there, angel.”
I remain silent, knowing that any response could put Samantha’s job in jeopardy. Instead, I continue onward toward the stage.But Berty isn’t done with me yet.
“Oh, angel,” he purrs, stopping me in my tracks. I turn to meet his gaze, feeling a surge of anger rise, heating my cheeks. In his hands is a pair of white angel wings. “Don’t forget to wear these. Really sell that innocence, huh?”
The anger boils over, and I snap at him, snatching the wings from his grasp.
“Fuck you,” I spit, before marching off toward the stage. The weight of the wings only adds to the burden of having to perform for this sleazy audience. The wings go on, and I take a deep breath as the announcer calls my name and the beat of the music begins.
I can do this. I can do this.
Making my way out from behind the curtain, I stand on the stage under the harsh glare of the neon lights, my heart pounding in my chest. The music throbs through the club, the bass reverberating through my bones. I can feel the eyes of the audience on me, hungry and expectant. But all I feel is a deep sense of unease, a restlessness that coils within me like a slumbering beast.
As I begin to move to the rhythm, swaying my hips and letting my fingers trail over my skin, I feel a disconnect between my body and soul. Each twirl and seductive gesture feel like a betrayal of my myself, a performance I never wanted to be a part of. The catcalls and applause feel hollow, like echoes in an empty chamber.
My movements become mechanical, my body going through the motions while my mind wanders far away. The music crescendos, reaching a fever pitch as I reach the climax of my first performance of the night.
Suddenly, without warning, the music comes to an abrupt halt. I stumble and lose my balance, falling to my knees on the unforgiving stage floor. The sound of panicked screams fills the air as gunshots ring out in chaotic bursts. My vision is obscured by the blinding spotlight trained on me. My heart races and adrenaline floods my veins as I frantically search for the source of the chaos, my ears ringing with a deafening silence where music used to be.
Confusion and fear grip me as I struggle to make sense of the chaos.
What the hell is going on?
“Cut the light,” a harsh voice commands, causing me to flinch. The sudden quiet only adds to the disorienting atmosphere.
But then I hear it. His voice. It can’t be. He can’t possibly be here.
I blink furiously, trying to clear the spots from my vision, when suddenly, the spotlight cuts out.
My breaths become rapid and shallow, my heart pounding like a hummingbird trapped in my chest. The sound of expensive leather shoes echoes on the wooden stage, edging closer and closer from the front. I tightly shut my eyes, not wanting to face what’s coming for me.
My warden—the one my father sold me to—is now ready to drag me back to my prison cell.
The footsteps halt in front of me, their heavy thuds echoing in the empty room. When I open my eyes, he stands before me, his tall and imposing frame casting a shadow over me. His eyes, the color of rich mahogany, gleam with amusement as he crouches. My eyes instinctively dart away from his intense gaze, but he quickly catches my chin between his thumb and forefinger, forcing me to meet his stare.
“And the cat finally catches the little mouse,” he taunts, his voice dripping with satisfaction. His warm brown eyes dance with delight as he revels in his triumph. “Hello, wife.”