by M Never
Slade materializes out of the darkness in his usual attire. Black hat, shirt, and jeans. He looks like night personified.
“So what’s the scoop?” I ask as I look around, scouting the immediate area.
“After further investigation into the girl’s phone records, I found something peculiar.”
“And that was?” I blow into my hands to warm them up.
“Joe’s Pizza.”
“Excuse me?”
“Joe’s Pizza. There was an abundance of calls on her phone bill for a Joe’s Pizza.”
“So she liked pizza. How is that a lead?”
“The calls were incoming. All of them.”
“Huh?”
“My thoughts exactly. Why would she be getting so many calls from a pizza place?”
“Deadbeat boyfriend with no cell phone?” I throw out there.
“One theory. So I traced the number and found out it wasn’t Joe’s Pizza. It was Club Clip.”
“Shady Club Clip?” I thumb down the street to the line on the sidewalk.
“As shady as they come. Thought we could poke around and see what exactly is going on in there.”
“The sooner, the better so we can get the fuck out of the cold.”
“You’re turning into a pussy.” Slade heads down the alleyway.
I roll my eyes. “I’m just not partial to freezing my balls off. I prefer tropical climates.”
“Whatever you say, pussy.” There’s humor in his gravelly voice.
The bouncer gives us a once-over before he lets us in, skeptical of our appearance and our interest in the club. We’re older than all of the other people standing in line and not wearing a stitch of designer anything. But they luckily let us in reguarless without any hassle.
Inside, it’s a typical dance club. Nothing I haven’t seen before. A couple of bars, big dance floor, and flashing strobe lights.
“So what are we looking for exactly?” I ask Slade as we order a drink and pretend to be nobodies at the bar.
“Anything unusual.”
I take a sip of my crappy gin and tonic. “Informative.”
After a few minutes, we decide to part ways to cover more ground and inspect the place more thoroughly. He stays on the edge of the dance floor as I climb the stairs to the second-floor landing. I stay back, as inconspicuous as possible, and scan the room. I watch the dancers, the bartenders, and even the bouncers. Everything looks kosher. Just a bunch of drunks letting loose in the appropriate atmosphere.
I spot Slade snaking through the crowd slowly, but not unusually slow. As I visually follow him I catch a splash of blonde hair in the middle of the dance floor. I take a step forward to make sure my eyes aren’t playing tricks. And they’re not. It’s her, in a short pleated skirt, cropped top, and thigh high boots. Her tousled hair curly and long and being grabbed by some prick wearing a polo shirt who couldn’t be more than twenty-one. My stomach lurches as I watch them. She lied straight to my face. Said she was going out with girlfriends. Why? Probably because she didn’t think grandpa would approve, my subconscious sneers. How long did you think you were going to keep a young, gorgeous blonde satisfied?
I find that hard to believe after the week we’ve had, but I am seeing it with my own eyes, how she responds to him, laughing and grinding against his body as they move to the obnoxious techno music.
In a moment of blind rage, I bolt toward the dance floor, pushing my way through the sweaty crowd as I try to find them. I scour the whole club and somehow come up empty. I saw them, her, but seemingly they’re gone. I retake my position on the second level, vowing to stand here all night if I have to. Minutes tick by and my rage only escalates.
“I wish you’d stay . . . you’re the only one I come for . . . I love you.”
It feels like all my emotions are being wrung dry.
After a while, I spot the guy in the crowd, but no Tara to speak of. Before I can even think, I’m hurrying down the stairs and following him into the bathroom. He doesn’t even see me coming as I force him into a stall, locking us both inside.
“What the fuck, man!” he shouts at me, but I crush my forearm to his throat, silencing him. The guy’s green eyes widen with fear. That’s right, buddy; be scared.
“The girl you were with, where is she?”
He shakes his head as if to say he doesn’t know.
“Where?” I slam my fist against the wall right next to his head. He jumps, looking like he just shit himself.
“I don’t know. She’s gone.”
“How do you know her? Are you dating?”
“Dating? No!” he scrambles. “Are you her boyfriend? They said it was anonymous!”
“They? Who?” I demand.
“Are you some sort of cop?” His voice is high-pitched, terrified.
I tilt my head, now really looking at the man in front of me.
“You could say that. Now, tell me what I want to know or I’ll make your life a living fucking nightmare.”
“They’ll kill me if I talk.”
Enraged, I grab his junk and twist. “If you don’t talk, I’ll make sure you never use your cock again.”
“All right, all right!” He puts his hands up in surrender and lifts onto his toes. What a little punk. “She’s a whore! She’s a whore! I paid to sleep with her!”
I freeze mid-twist.
“What?”
“The club,” he splutters. “It’s a front. They run this service. It’s like a monthly subscription. You pay a fee and can sleep with any of their girls you want, as much as you want.”
My blood turns ice cold. “How do you know which girls are which?”
“The wristbands. The girls with the red wristbands. There’s a new code word every night. Just whisper it to them, and they’ll take you into the back. There are rooms.”
I’m shaking by this point with a vice grip on the guy’s cock.
“What’s the word?”
“I can’t. If you’re not a member! These guys are bad news!”
I squeeze, and the guy actually screams. Good thing it’s loud as fuck in the bathroom. The bass is literally vibrating the stall.
“You should have thought about that before you bought pussy. Now tell me!”
“Buttercup!” He gives it up.
I release the guy’s package, and he slumps onto the toilet, gasping. “Give me your wallet.”
He glares up at me. “Fuck off.”
“Oh, now you grow a pair?” I grab him by the throat and pull him to his feet. He’s not very tall or muscled, and sort of reminds me of a wet noodle, tight jeans and all. I snatch his wallet from his pocket and pull out his license.
“Insurance.” I throw the wallet back in his face. “Tell anyone about this conversation and I’ll kill you. Fucking slowly.”
“Like I have a death wish,” he spits at me.
I storm out of the bathroom and back into the club, looking for the doors to the back room the kid spoke of. That’s when I spot her, standing unassumingly by the bar with her back turned to me. Stealthy, I creep up behind her, uncontrollable anger boiling in my chest.
“Buttercup.”
“BUTTERCUP,” SOMEONE HISSES IN MY ear. I actually sag. This is my third John tonight. I want to cry. I don’t turn around immediately, taking a moment to find the energy to put up another front. Being here is eating me alive. I want to run, but I have no choice. Nino’s threat keeps ringing in my ears. He reminded me again tonight. He’s keeping me on a short leash, and I hate it.
I finally turn around, fake smile and all as I come face to face with the one person I never expected to see.
Tears immediately well in my eyes.
“You don’t look happy to see me, shortcake,” he says just loud enough for me to hear. “What’s the going rate for a subscription call girl these days?”
His tone is as sharp as a blade that effortlessly slashes me wide open. I don’t respond because I have no words.
“Let’s go.” He grabs
my arm tightly—so tightly it actually hurts. “Show me what all this back room hype is about.”
I nearly burst into tears. He pushes me, and I walk reluctantly to a hidden door in the back that is painted black, same as the wall. It’s virtually undetectable unless you know it’s there.
I push it open while CJ keeps a firm grip on my arm. We walk down a short corridor where there are more doors, each leading to a private room.
I find one that’s open, and we slip inside. The room is nothing spectacular. It’s small, with a mattress on the floor and a couch against the wall. The lighting is a shitty dull yellow that enhances nothing. The nicest thing I can say about it is it’s clean. Whore is definitely the name of the game. Guys pay to be with a girl they could never pull in real life. That’s the niche. A jacked-up fantasy fuck. That’s why my hair is over curled, my makeup is too heavy, and my skirt is too short. My worlds blur together at the irony. CJ wanted me to be his fantasy girl, and here I am, in the fucking flesh.
CJ backs me up against the wall with rage burning in his eyes. He doesn’t utter a sound, and I think the silence scares me more than anything. I would prefer him to yell. Confirming what a god-awful person I am. But he just breathes erratically, like a raging bull.
“I’m sorry,” I squeak out, not knowing what else to do or say.
“Sorry? You’re sorry?” He sounds disgusted. “You have no fucking idea what sorry is.”
He spins me around and slams me against the wall. “You were fucking lying to me this whole time. How many other fucking guys, Tara? How many did you let fuck you while you were with me? Huh?” he shouts.
The thought of answering that question turns my stomach.
“Answer me!”
“None until tonight.” Oh shit, that sounded so bad.
“Until tonight?” he seethes.
“CJ, please,” I beg, pathetically, because I am pathetic.
“Please? Please what? Is that what all your Johns like to hear? You begging?”
I don’t answer.
“Tell me, Tara!” He crushes me against the wall with his body.
“Do they savor you like I did? Do they inhale your scent and caress your body?” He touches me roughly, and I can’t believe it, I actually feel him getting hard.
“No, no one touches me like you.”
It’s the truth.
He grunts like I triggered something. “No one touches you like me?” There is so much anger in his voice. “You’re goddamned right, no one touches you like me.” He gropes my breasts and bites my neck, twisting my nipples until I’m writhing.
He scoffs as he palms my ass, discovering that I’m not wearing any underwear. He squeezes my cheek so hard, I can feel the fury biting through his fingertips. Then he sinks a finger inside me, and I hear the confliction in his growl. “How many men have been in this pussy tonight?”
I close my eyes and bite my lip. I won’t answer. Why does he want to know? Just to escalate his anger?
“How many?” he yells as he fingers me. I’m so confused. He’s mad, but he wants me?
I hesitate for a beat before I answer. “Two,” I whisper. “Only two.”
“Slow night?” he responds scathingly, as if he loathes me.
I press my face against the wall and fight back the tears. CJ was the one good thing in my life, and I’ve ruined it. Not on purpose, but because I was trapped.
“I’m sorry,” I force out, my tone brittle. It’s all I can say. It’s all that’s left to say.
“You’re sorry?” he snaps at me. I then hear him rip his pants open, taking me by total surprise. “I’m the one who’s sorry,” he hisses enraged right before he slams his cock into me, burying himself directly to the hilt. We both expel a choked moan as he fucks me right up against the wall. No reason, no regard. He takes all of his aggression out where I can feel it the most, right between my legs. I should hate him for this, but I don’t because I know this is the last time CJ Carmichael is ever going to touch me. So I’ll accept his displaced anger as my parting gift. He pounds into me again and again every so often muttering, “Bitch.” I absorb every brutal punch of his cock, my pussy tightening involuntarily around him. This is not just some rough fuck—it’s a primal, no-holds-barred, brutal hate-fuck. He hates me. It destroys me that I drove him to this, but in all its fucked-up-ness, it’s some of the best sex I’ve ever had. I claw at the walls as he thrusts so hard he lifts me right off the ground. It’s loud, sweaty, and ruthless, and in all honesty, I’ve never felt so turned on and like such a whore in my entire life.
CJ hits me square in my sweet spot, and I moan like a feral cat. I’m so fucking close and wet there are squelching sounds echoing around the room.
CJ grabs my hair and fumes in my ear. “You going to come for me, baby?
“Yes!” I answer in a state of heady lust.
“Because I’m the only one you come for, right?” He resentfully throws my words back in my face just as I’m hurled over the edge. I cry in disgrace at the same time mewling with pleasure as my womb spasms out of control.
Right in the middle of my climax, CJ pulls out, and I gasp as the tremors dissipate, leaving me achy and wanton.
I whine miserably as I feel CJ explode, shooting hot cum all over my bare ass. He moves quickly after that, pushing off me and zipping his pants.
“Whore,” he spits in my ear, before he reaches around and rips off the necklace he gave me. The necklace I love with the treble clef charm.
I crumble after that, collapsing onto the floor in a pile of shame.
I STUMBLE OUT OF THE club like I’ve had ten too many, a tirade of emotion storming inside me. I lost control. I never lose control, but Tara drives me crazy in both good, and bad ways, apparently. I’m trying to make sense of it all, but the more I try, the more of a jumbled mess I become. I stagger into the first bar I see and slam my hand on the bar top. It all just needs to go away—the betrayal and hurt and anger that is quickly taking over my consciousness.
“You’re the only one I come for.”
Liar!
The burly bartender asks what he can get me.
“Jack, straight up. Leave the bottle.”
“Can’t do that buddy. Against house policy.”
I pull out my wallet and slam my black card down right in front of him.
“With one fucking swipe, I can buy this whole fucking building and toss you right out on your ass. Give me the bottle and don’t fucking bother me,” I snap. Rage burning a hole through me like battery acid. The bartender steps back with an annoyed glare, but he pours me the shot and leaves the bottle.
“She burned ya good, huh?” He leans on the bar.
“You have no fucking idea.” I down the Jack in one gulp and pour myself another.
“Towers Hotel,” I tell the bartender. “Call them for a pick-up when I pass out.”
The guy nods and walks away as I begin a self-destructive assault on my body and my emotions.
Down the motherfucking hatch . . .
I HAD BEEN HOLED UP in my apartment for three days crying my eyes out.
I would still be sniveling under my covers if Philly hadn’t forced me out. Now I’m a walking zombie taking drink orders at Jo Jo’s. My hair is up in a messy bun, I have zero makeup on, and my emotions are nothing but a pile of ash. All I keep seeing is CJ’s face and the pain and betrayal etched all over its handsome features. All I can keep thinking about is how much I hurt him and how much he hates me. Despises me, is more like it. That hate-fuck made his feelings crystal clear. The guilt starts to build in my chest again, one heavy brick at a time. I’m utterly devastated. I meant it when I said I loved him and that he was the only one I come for. Once he walked back into my life, my body and soul belonged to him, even if I didn’t want to admit it straight away. Yes, I was with other men, but no, they didn’t pleasure me. They repulsed me. Once you feel the hands of a man who truly cares about you, it’s only him you crave.
Why did I do it? At first it
was purely about the money. But after a while I sort of liked being someone else, someone who could satisfy their indecent cravings without being judged or looked down on. It was my terrible, debased little secret. I’m not proud of what I’ve done, and I’m not trying to justify my actions. Nor am I looking for pity or forgiveness, I know I don’t deserve either of those things.
I’m foolish, selfish and, above alI, flawed. I have more flaws than most. I know I committed transgressions and hurt the people I love. But it wasn’t intentional. By the time I was ready to get out, I was trapped. And a situation I thought was temporary became my entire world. Flaws. I have many of them. They don’t go unrecognized. No, it’s not forgiveness I want, just understanding. I’m human. I make mistakes. Big ones. And now it’s time to own up to those mistakes, aware I’ll walk away from them a different person. Maybe better, maybe worse. Only time will tell.
Today, I’m taking my first step, and unfortunately, it’s in the opposite direction of Christopher John Carmichael.
“Tara, try not to look so desolate. You’re depressing the customers.” Philly attempts some humor.
I glare at him. I don’t appreciate the joke. He knows everything that happened. Every heartbreaking detail.
“You think you just bounce back from what I’ve been through? My entire life is in shambles, and I lost the man I love.” I slam the tray down on the server’s station.
Philly’s eyes widen. “Chill out, hormonally-imbalanced Barbie.” He looks around the café to see if any of the customers noticed my little outburst. Jo Jo’s is a moderate size, with exposed brick walls, antique coffee makers, oversized wingback chairs, and cushy couches you actually sink into. It’s the perfect place to cozy up in and spend all day reading a book.
“Don’t tell me to chill out,” I erupt. “I didn’t want to leave the house, but you coaxed me out, and now, I feel even worse.”
“I’m sorry. I was just trying to help.”
“I know,” I groan, frustrated. “I think I just needed a little more time. I’m taking a break.” I grab two empty sugar caddies for good measure. “I’ll fill these up.”
I escape to the stock room, where it’s cold and dark and no one will find me.
