by Liza James
I don’t want to lose anyone else. No matter how badly I hate them.
So, I’ve never told anyone the truth about my sister, not even K. She only knows that she died years ago. To be fair, I don’t know Aura’s history with The Nation either. She and Ruby have stayed silent on the details. I only know that they were taken, Aura was shot in the process and they both escaped thankfully.
I step through the doors of the club, the heady smoke of cigars wafts through, along with the stale stench of spilled beer and fruity cocktails. Rumbling sounds of laughter and voices fill my ears, but I don't care to know who's speaking or what's being said.
I'm indifferent. I'm empty. I'm unfulfilled.
Except fear. That's the only thing I feel anymore, and even that is distant and vague.
What in life even matters anymore? The rest of my days will be dedicated to the group of people indoctrinating and killing innocent lives.
I know because of what they did to my sister. I remember the story, I remember the ways my parents explained it to me and my sister before it happened.
Fucking idiots. Worthless, spineless, sheep—
"You okay?" Skilla's sweet and melodic voice chirps out over the edge of the bar while she snaps her fingers in my direction. My eyes fly to hers, gazing up and down her tense form. I don't answer, because it doesn't feel like there's any point to that and my eyes fall farther down the bar until they land on the one girl who can usually drag some sort of emotion out of me.
But even now.
There's nothing.
Her blonde hair hangs limply around her face, and the older man in front of her has clearly pissed her off. K seems so... plain all of a sudden.
And I know that isn't true. I know it isn't my reality. But everything around me, my surroundings, my life, my routine. Everything is so dull and lifeless I can't seem to find the clarity I need in any of it.
Dom.
His face floods my mind and his words drown in my blood. He's weaving himself into my existence, and he's hardly been in my apartment a few days at this point. I'm already drained and exhausted, and I'm afraid of the darker places he'll take me.
My eyebrows pinch in confusion as K grips the front of the man's shirt. She whispers something, her lips pulled back over her teeth before shoving him off and stepping away. The tiniest flicker of curiosity bursts in my chest but dies off quickly. I don't need to know what's happening, and I don't even care to know. She can defend herself; she's always been ruthless.
I step toward the stage and work my way through the tables in order find my place before my dance slot. Men whistle and reach to pinch my ass as I walk by, because they're entitled to touching me while I look like this.
It's disgusting. But the brief sting of anger is almost a relief because it's something. And when fear is the only thing taking root at the moment, anger is a welcome distraction.
An idea sparks in my mind, but I push it away and decide to revisit it later. I need to get on the stage and entertain... like the perfect little barbie I am.
"Caly, wait—" Chris's—the bodyguard at the club—deeper voice sounds behind me and I turn to face him as we step into the corridor leading to our prep rooms. A wave of dizziness washes over me, but it's gone just as quickly, and I write it off to how high I currently am. Everything is moving in slow motion. Incredibly anxious and painfully slow motion.
"What?" I reply, my voice flat and monotone. I don't even have the energy for this.
"You've been booked in room seven for a private dance." He informs me, an arrogant tone lining his words. "It's uh—a couple of my friends actually. Treat them right, will you?"
My eyes narrow at him, more of that refreshing and toxic anger working its way through my limbs like a snake.
Constricting. Tightening. Enlivening.
"Excuse me? I'm about to go on stage." I whisper, my words dropping into something far darker than I usually hold. But after the last few days I've had, I'm at the very end of my rope. I go home every single night to a fucking monster in my bed. Literally.
He takes what he wants. I knew he did with the girls here at the club, but I was lucky enough to stay out of his grasp. Such a bittersweet history I have with The Nation. Because of my family's sacrifice, I have been spared. For the greater good, they said. For the ascension, they preached. To achieve enlightenment, they promised.
I want to throw up.
Now, it's a very different story. An actual nightmare while I'm both asleep and awake. If I had known that staying away from The Nation for this long would put me in the position I am in now, I would have gladly dedicated my life to them then.
Because this is so much worse. I must "make up" for lost time. I have to sacrifice now for lost years of devotion. I glance down to my thighs without realizing it and notice the smattering of bruises lying across them. My fingers grip my tight, gold shorts and shimmy them down a bit further, exposing the purple discoloration on my hip bone instead.
I can explain these away with dance moves. I can prove they're simple marks left over from practices and failed attempts at new moves.
No one will ask anyway if I'm being completely honest. No one questions black and blue stains on your skin at this club. Half of the building is a fucking kink dungeon. Who would assume you've been abused when you could have walked next door and gotten off to the act of something hurting you for pleasure?
It's a blurry line I walk at Pandora's Box. One that no one will ever think twice about. We know how things work here.
Entertain. Take off your clothes. Shake your ass. Get paid.
That's it.
"Take care of them. You know how it is, sweetheart. We've already filled your dance slot and I promise they'll pay you better anyway." He crosses his arms over his chest and leans against the wall. The fluorescent lights above us flicker and cast shadows on the chipped paint and cracked cement at our feet.
My heart sinks. This is really it? This. This is life?
I don't want to accept this, but I have nothing to support a life different of this. The tension under my skin, the pain in my limbs while I walk, the indifference and disappointment lingering in my mind all prove otherwise.
This really is it.
"Okay," I resolve, brushing my fingers through my hair while I pull it all up and tie it on top of my head. "I'll meet them in a minute."
A sick smile spreads wide across his lips while he stands and straightens his spine. I can't help but notice the way his short blonde buzzcut is patchy and his hair line has started receding. He wasn't bad looking before, necessarily. But this is different, and I can't tell if it's my own lack of color in my vision, or if this is how things have always been.
"Oh, they have someone else joining you as well. Another dancer, so you won't be alone." He says it as if I should feel lucky, comforted in some way by this.
But I feel nothing. Again. I don't care if I'm doing it alone, and I don't care if someone else is standing next to me and doing the same. There isn't companionship in disassociation.
I nod my head and turn around, making my way toward the prep room to take another Adderall before I meet them. I vaguely wonder how many men I'll be dancing on, and if I'll be able to dissociate completely. I think I will, but I never know until I'm in the moment.
Reality seems easy to slip away from as of lately though.
The room is busy, and once I've taken another pill and gathered my things, my eyes move to the mirror ahead of me. I stand there, in this moment, staring into the vacant eyes of someone who seems lost.
Is this me?
I don't know. I feel empty, and shallow. There's an ache for more but an uncertainty what that is. My life hasn't been horrible leading up to this week. I have had my days, my moments, just like everyone else. I have my own shit to deal with.
But god, some people have it so much worse than I did.
Should I have been thankful? For what I had? Have I wasted time taking advantage of what was good enough by fantasiz
ing about what life could potentially be?
Spoiler alert. It's so much worse than I imagined.
I should have enjoyed what I had while I had it. The peace. The complacency. The mediocrity.
There's beauty in settling, that's what I'm starting to realize. I don't think true, genuine, fulfillment exists. It was a romanticized idea that lived inside of my head for far too long.
Images of my guitar, of the moments I've spent on the few stages in that atmosphere, fly through my mind in cycles. Little reminders, little sparks of hope and possibility light along my skin at the idea that maybe I'm wrong. Maybe I could be fulfilled by something else.
But it's a facade, a false narrative I've lived in for far too long. I remind myself of that when I walk back toward the red, velvet covered private rooms at the other side of the club. My feet absently move me toward room seven, my mind taking each step near that door as another step goodbye in my mind.
This experience is simply that—an experience. One that I'll quickly go through and then leave as if it never happened.
I twist the small door handle and step inside, plastering a smile across my face while my mind releases its hold on the present. I turn toward the seating as the door clicks shut behind my frame. Two young men sit side by side. Both are in their late twenties, tattoos decorate their arms and necks, peeking out underneath the various hems of their shirts. Strongly built, wide shoulders and broad chests. One has long blonde hair, tied up in a knot on top of his head. The other has dark, buzzed short while his hands rest on his thighs.
They're attractive at least. But I still feel nothing.
"Hi," I say sweetly, keeping my eyes wide while the high from both weed and meds sing through my blood. I can let go; I can disappear through this.
"Hey," they both say, one after the other. The blonde guy leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees while I step toward him.
I slow my pace, swaying my hips with each inane step. The lights are dim, barely illuminating the space in orange glows of anticipated filth. It's always so dirty for me. It feels so differently to me than the other girls. I wish I felt like they did—powerful, in control, on fire.
This does nothing more than make my stomach twist with regret and force me back in my mind. Especially with Dom staying at my apartment now, hiding out in my personal space while he gathers his faithful followers. I come to work and entertain men with my body, and then I go home to pay servitude for my faithful neglect.
I lift a knee and straddle the blonde guy’s lap, dropping my hands to his shoulders and running my fingers along the nape of his neck.
"Slow down, princess. We have another one coming to join you." The way the words slip from this guy’s mouth has me feeling slightly relieved. It sounds like he wants to watch me and another girl, and while I'm usually the one dancing with the guys on stage, I'd prefer working with another girl rather than grinding on this stranger’s lap.
I sit back slightly, keeping my place over his legs while his fingers trail across my thighs, up and over my ass before giving it a little squeeze. I giggle, because that's what I know he wants to hear and it's such a practiced sound that I can easily fake it.
"Is that what you want?" I ask, teasing him with my tone, when what I really want is clarification on what it is I'll be doing. "To watch a couple of girls make out?"
Him and his friend scoff and glance toward each other, as if I'm simple enough to assume such mild foreplay. I watch them and raise my eyebrows, motioning with my hand for them to speak up.
Closed mouths don't get fucking fed.
"Sure, we can start there, sweetheart," the other guy laughs as he settles back against the seat. A heavy rush of absolute disgust rolls through me, and I fucking hate the entitlement they breathe into the air.
"First of all, quit it with the fucking nicknames or I'll walk my ass out of here and you can find someone else." I move to shift back off his lap and bounce my gaze between both of them while I speak.
"Second of all, you don't get to demand anything from either of us. We do whatever the fuck we want." A gritty and feminine voice breaks out behind me, just as the door clicks shut for a second time. But the waves of various emotions rolling through my chest are now exploding in chaotic bursts of what the actual fuck.
No no no no no. Not this one. Not this.
I don't dare look over my shoulder, but my body goes tense, my arms lying straight at my sides while I keep my eyes locked to the guys ahead of us. Their gazes fall behind me at the sound of K's voice and I have to physically clench and release my fists in succession to attempt clearing my head.
"There she is," buzzcut says, his tone suddenly alight with mischief and confidence. He sounds pleased by our fight. Turned on by the way we bite back. "Ready to play?"
A shiver rolls up my spine and I visibly shake my shoulders uncontrollably. The guys look toward me and I have to pull every ounce of my strength to straighten my spine and tilt my chin up while I address them. "I think someone else would be better suited for what you guys need. K is great with the other girls, let me bring in one of them." I turn quickly, without offering them the option of refusing when blondie suddenly grips my hand in his and yanks me back down onto his lap.
My back is pressed tightly to his chest, his hands roaming over my stomach and over the thin fabric of my bra. I grind my teeth and close my eyes, because while I hate every second of this—I'm familiar with it.
This is it. Take take take. I belong to everyone else. This is why I demand so much control when I'm having sex. Because I've been here too many times to count.
"No way, sweetheart. We requested the two of you specifically. You both are the hottest girls here." Blondie's lips graze against my ear while his fingers continue moving over my skin. Goosebumps spiral over my shoulders, but it's only because I'm so incredibly uncomfortable now.
"That's true," K replies as she steps farther into the room. Closer to us. "We are."
Suddenly, more hands are on my body. Long, thick fingers wrap around my jaw and force my chin to tilt up. "Open your eyes," buzzcut's voice is next to my ear now and I know he's the one who's begun touching me. "Watch her."
I do as he demands, but not because he's forcing me. Simply because I know what K looks like while she's dancing, this isn't anything new for me. If I'm being forced into this situation, I'll do my best to maintain my own sense of control over it.
"I've seen her dance before. She isn't anything special." I bite the words out while my eyes settle on K's gaze. She smiles, something that looks sweet and innocent but only I know the true meaning too.
She's enjoying this. Watching me suffer while she remains untouched.
Fuck you, K.
She moves though, her hands coming up above her head while her leather panties and bra pull tight across her body. She's wearing a fucking collar, thick and black with a chunky silver latch resting at the base of her throat.
The music pumps through the speakers, a rhythm and beat that moves seamlessly with the sway of her hips. Her fingers trail down her neck, wrapping around her own throat while before moving even lower.
My heart pumps a cadence quicker than it was a moment ago. I've seen her dance a million times, but the angry tension between us is too thick for the small space we're being forced into. All this energy, this bitter resentment, is forcibly contained in these sinister little rooms.
It won't fit in here. We can't be tamed into something this toxic.
K's eyes stay locked onto mine, and I catch my breath falling in heavier exhales while the guys continue exploring my body. One hand is over my chest, a thumb brushing over my nipple while another falls between my thighs and slowly moves upwards.
"Liar," K replies to my earlier comment regarding her dancing. "You know I'm the best."
"Have you two hooked up before?" One guy asks, clearly noting the obvious tension between us.
At the same exact time, we give different answers. I say no, K confidently boasts yes.
>
The guys laugh, and my head falls back against one shoulder while K continues dancing. Part of me wants to let go completely, surrender to this moment and to their touch. So, I roll my hips against the lap I'm rested on, feeling the slight bulge underneath my ass.
My hand moves up to wrap around the back of buzzcuts' neck, pulling him closer to me while I move against both of the guys. I swear the air feels hotter, heavier, and my heart is steadily increasing its pulse while the four of us watch each other.
My legs fall wider, while two hands work up and down my inner thighs. My skin is on fire, and the heaviness from my high is settling in my skin. It's twisting my emotions, from angry and disgusted to angry and aroused.
Fuck.
I'm still pissed, still enraged at the audacity of this entire situation. But fuck, I'm also turned on, and the heat is building in every glance, every touch, every tempted glimpse I chance by watching K move.
"You think she's fucking hot, don't you?" Blondie whispers in my ear while one of his hands weave into my hair and he tugs my head back. My eyes move slowly, raking over her legs, her waist, her tits. Up to her neck, where the tight little collar stands out against her creamy skin. To her face, her lips.
Those fucking lips.
"Watching her like this. You want her to touch you?" I can't even tell which one of the guys is whispering in my ear, but my instinctual answer is fuck no.
However, my body moves against him even more, my hips rolling forward while their hands rest at the very top of my thighs. So, fucking close, but refusing to touch me where I'm now aching and wet.
"No," I reply, and my eyes watch as K's hands slide to the thin leather straps of her top. She slowly pulls them to the sides while she continues moving to the music. She looks fucking good. I hate her for it.
"You want her to kiss you? Is that it?" Another taunting voice, another flash of memories in my head. A mixture of emotions warring with the need my body is chasing.
I'm so fucking wet, so turned on in this moment. Even while I hate every second of it.
"Fuck no," I grind out, and I close my eyes momentarily but am too weak to not look again.
