Chapter 2
I rock my hips from side to side as I attempt to merge into the dispersing crowd. Too many of these assholes just got more than what they paid for with Atticus’ display. As much as I loathe the prick, I admit he knows how to put on a good show. Unfortunately, more often than not, it’s at my expense.
Thumping, cliché, club bass vibrates through me as I venture further into the crowd. Bodies begin grinding on each other as the stench of sweat and sex permeates around the dance floor. It’s obvious these degenerates get off on what Atticus does. The crueler he is, the hastier men and women in this club find themselves giving in to their darkest desires.
At least I’m not the only one.
I know I shouldn’t want him to lay a finger on me, but my body craves his touch in any way that I can get it. As much as I hate him, I try not to think about it too much. I can’t afford to think that I’m not a willing participant, otherwise it would send me spiraling down the drain.
Again.
At least his dick is something worth keeping around. He has a piercing, for fuck’s sake. What can I say? I’m a sucker for pretty, shiny things.
The DJ dims the stage lights as he spins a new, sensual track, giving the other dancers a moment to slip backstage seemingly unnoticed. I, like them, have no plans to stick around after the clusterfuck Atticus started. Once blood is spilled, it never stops. Word around the club is the third floor tends to become ravenous with their desire and those clients have zero qualms about paying the asking price.
What is the asking price for a life?
I shake my head, forcing the intrusive thoughts to leave my mind. Third floor clients range from rich trust-fund kids, to members of N”awlins’ dark underbelly; Mafia, Bratva, Cartel, down to the bottom of the barrel politicians. I don’t need to know how much any of them pay to know that it’s wrong. My morality may be skewed to some degree, but I’m not that far gone.
Yet.
Shuddering, I make my way up the metal spiral stage stairs, taking notice of both familiar faces and new ones. Old habits die hard, as do habits that you have bled for. Everything I do at this point is just a reflex, not a single thought behind it. I guess I’m more desensitized than I thought.
As I lean against the railing, sudden movement catches my eye in the gyrating crowd below. I watch as three middle-aged, prominent state officials lead each other from the center of the dance floor. I’m typically not a voyeur but, “It never hurts to have a reason to pocket a politician,” Atticus’ stern voice recites in my head. One of his earliest lessons during my corruption.
I begin to understand the appeal of voyeurism as the men eye each other hungrily, wearing unbuttoned white dress shirts with their ties lazily draped over their necks.
The heated tension between the unlikely trio finally breaks as their hands claw at each other suggestively. Their shirts fall to the floor, easily forgotten, as well as their worries of being seen. Two of the three drop to their knees as the third pulls down his dark pants, revealing one of the longest cocks I’ve ever seen. The kneeling duo moves in tandem, flicking their tongues against the man”s engorged tip before one widens his mouth, taking in as much of the impressive length as he can while the other peppers his lips over the remaining exposed shaft.
I guess politicians are cocksuckers after all.
Turning my lips in a cheeky smile, I waggle my fingers in a sassy wave as the man standing catches me staring at his impressive length. He taps the other men to gather their attention, forcing them to pause. The men on their knees look up towards my direction, both sporting salacious smiles. All three wink flirtatiously before continuing their steamy display.
I manage to pull away from Louisiana‘s finest, speeding back up the stairs as fast as my heels allow me. I turn towards the ladies’ locker room, ready to put this entire night behind me.
A plume of overwhelming fragrance chokes me as I push open the door to the employee locker room. The fluorescent lights burn as my eyes adjust after having been used to the club’s low light for hours. Whispers from the other dancers float around the room while everyone prepares to leave for the night.
She’s lucky that she’s Mister Lennon’s wife.
She doesn’t deserve to have Le Papillon’s brand.
It seems our clients weren’t the only ones watching the show tonight. Not that it’s any surprise; many of the girls who work here know all too well how I am with Atticus. Guilt eats at me every night, questioning if these girls choose to be here like me or if they’ve been conditioned, paid for, and trained by my husband.
Mrs. Lennon may be my name on these streets, but in this gilded cage, I’m just another pretty butterfly with wounded wings.
I heard that Mae was sleeping around and that’s why her ass is covered in bruises tonight.
Murmurs of confirmation echo around the room, oblivious to my presence. I shake my head while I step towards my locker, letting out an indignant scoff. I immediately shuck off any remnants of guilt or sympathy as the girls gasp in faux horror. Their chatter ceases as everyone realizes I’ve been in the room during their gossip session.
“Is it true? The rumors, I mean,” asks Stevie, the busty blonde whose locker sits next to mine.
Rolling my eyes, I give her my best, ‘what the fuck do you think?’ face.
I won’t even try to deny the accusation. It wasn’t the first time I fucked someone other than my husband, it was however, the first time I insinuated Atticus” couldn’t perform to standard. I told him as much when he finally decided to return home smelling like a distillery while carrying another woman’s thong in his pocket. If he can indulge someone else for whatever fucked up reasons, turnabout is fair game in my book.
A low whistle sounds from her pink painted lips before she flashes me an irritatingly, perfect smile, “Ya know what? Good for you, girl. Don’t let your husband keep you from finding some good dick.”
“Uh–thank you?” I laugh, appreciating her sex positive outlook.
Flipping her hair over her shoulder, she gently pats my arm before hauling a Barbie-pink gym tote out from her locker.
“If it’s any consolation, the new girls are just jealous. They don’t know the shit we know, Mae. Not yet, anyway,” she sighs.
Flipping her middle finger up, Stevie bids everyone a goodnight, leaving me to sit in an uncomfortable silence while the remaining dancers filter out after her.
My hand slides across my lace-covered breast, I caress the brand that gave me purpose when I begged for death. Marked for eternity by the Devil, my warden. He should have chewed me up and spit me back out. Instead, he chose to breathe his toxic version of life back into me.
It’s not the life I wanted for myself, but I’ve come to accept it all the same. I had to. I promised him the day he was laid to rest that I’d fix my mistakes. Even if he wasn’t here to see ‘em.