Doll Face: A Doll Face Novel (The Doll Face Series Book 1)

by Sadie Grubor

  Sadie Grubor writing as

  V Fiorello

  ~*~ Doll Face is a dark erotic tale suitable for ages 18+. This contains DARK subjects. If you require trigger warnings, guaranteed HEAs, are easily turned off by dark subjects, or just have any hard 'limit/requirement for a story, this isn't the book for you (Check out The Falling Stars Series instead). If you like dark subjects, over the top obsessive controlling alpha males, and aren't afraid of how bloody love can truly get... Then enjoy. ~*~

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  Copyright 2017 by Sadie Grubor

  Cover Art by VST

  This book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any existing means without written permission from the publisher. This means no part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, photographed, social media distributed, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without explicit written permission from the author. Contact Author at sadie@sadiegrubor.com.

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or actual events are purely coincidental. The characters are products of the author's imagination and used fictitiously. The locations, businesses are also fiction, and those that do exist are utilized in a purely fictitious manner. The music mentioned is owned by the original artist and employed in a purely fictitious method. No infringement or malice/ill will is intended by the author or publisher.

  ISBN-13: 978-1548840006

  ISBN-10: 1548840009

  This one is for shattering comfort zones, exploring new parts of yourself, and for celebrating every part that makes you YOU.

  Sometimes you have to embrace the darker parts too.

  (But don't go to jail.)

  Love, Sadie G.

  To Mr. G for not thinking I was demented or crazy for writing this story. I love you.

  To the BETA BABES (Marie, Ruth, Kara, Leanne, Tracy, Pam, Bronwyn, Katie, Stephanie, & Michelle), You guys are so amazing. Thank you for all the conversation, discussion, and hours of reading, critiquing & the ego boosts. 

  Monica. <3 You complete… my sentences, because apparently, I forgot how to write one this time around. Thank you for all your hard work and putting up with my insecurities! Without you, I very well may have never published this story.

  To the G Spot (Groupie Zone), Thank you for keeping me entertained and answering my weird questions.

  Special thanks to Carrie Waltenbaugh!! You are amazing! Thank you for all your support of this new venture.

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Epilogue

  Most kids don't grow up wanting a deadbeat dad. Those kids don't understand how much worse it can truly be—how it feels to grow up wishing your father was neglectful and not a living nightmare.

  I did. I do. And my safest place is to hide among the monsters. So, that’s what I do. I blend into a sea of criminals, the depraved, the evil lurking in the underground of Chicago.

  That's how I ended up here, applying too much makeup and too little clothing, dressing up just enough to entice, yet subdued enough not to draw too much attention. Getting noticed not only puts you in the position of private dance rooms, but it makes them curious. They want to see you—all of you—and possess you. Even if it's all a part of the game, their night of fantasy, it's too risky.

  For two years, I've stayed safe.

  For two years, I’ve kept the balance.

  For two years, I’ve been someone else, living another person’s life.

  I’ve taken on the occasional businessman, random bachelor, and even the rare, everyday good guy, but never a regular client or patron. Sure, the money, gifts, and hell, even the attention and pampering, are more tempting than the drugs readily available, but the fear of being discovered again…it tampers the temptations and desires for more.

  Then, he walked through the dark red lacquered doors of my hiding place. His eyes searching, probing, knowing. He sees through my fabrications. Buried beneath the corded muscle and smooth tan skin, lies a darkness I know too well. He has his own secrets.

  It's terrifying, seductive. The temptation swirls on the tip of my tongue, teasing my taste buds, making me want to confess all my sins to a man who could punish me and free me in the most wonderfully worst ways.

  Mei

  The face looking back at me is familiar, but not my own. The eyes shouldn't be green, the blonde hair is unnatural, and the layers of foundation, blush, shadows, and charcoal liner are just a mask—a façade topped off with glitter and red lips. All of it, everything about me is as false as the lashes glued to frame the eyes of a stranger.

  No, that's wrong. A stranger is someone you don't know. I knew her once—long before darkness unleashed from within the sins born to me. It crawled its way through my veins with whispers of seduction. Promised freedom and a life beyond the shadows closing in around me. If only I'd been strong enough to fight against it. If only I'd realized the very sin providing my escape would also imprison me. If only the face staring back were a stranger and not a reminder of what I'd done. If only.

  "Meissa," Tricia shouts, planting herself in the chair to my left.

  Blinking, I emerge from my dark thoughts and focus on her reflection.

  "Have you heard anything I've said?" she asks, leaning toward the mirrored wall behind the makeup table.

  "Sorry," I say, flat, unable to shake the murky memories plaguing me.

  "What the hell is up with you tonight?" Her eyes meet mine in the mirror before she goes back to primping for the private dance requests she no doubt got after her incredible performance on stage.

  "Nothing." I give a shake of my head. "Just tired, I guess."

  Forcing a smile, I look away, my gaze falling on the text alert I read a few moments ago.

  10th Anniversary of Dollhouse Killer's Discovery. After years of no leads, authorities speculate Gilbert Dandry, aka The Dollhouse Killer, has died in hiding. Click here to continue...

  Gripping the edge of the table, I swallow the sudden flood of saliva in my mouth. Bile rises, lingering at the base of my throat.

  "I still don't understand why you don't work the audience more. With your figure and the moves I've seen during rehearsal, you could easily have a couple regulars." Tricia sighs.

  "I've told you before—"

  "Yeah, yeah, you aren't looking for a sugar daddy or regulars," she mocks with a roll of her eyes. "Look, I don't know what you're running from, but—"

  "Who says I'm running from anything?" I snap, hating when people get too close to the truth.

  "Girl, please, it doesn't take a fucking genius to see you're running from something…" she pauses, turning to meet my eyes, "or someone."

  "You don't know shit," I state, looking away.

  "I know you are running, or hiding, or both—just like I know Kelly's here because she's got four kids to feed and no fathers in sight, Na
tasha isn't even fucking close to being in this country legally, and Candy is fucking Joey. You think any of us grew up hoping to work in this place?" She purses her lips.

  "Candy's fucking Joey?" I ask on a whisper, glancing toward the curvy redhead in question. "She's so young and—"

  "And has her fucking reasons, like extra money for the college courses she's always going on about," Tricia cuts me off, motioning to the young student caught up in this depraved life. "Just like you have your reasons." She lifts one shoulder in a half shrug.

  Tensing, I bite back the urge to rage at her. To tell her to shut the fuck up and leave it alone. Instead, I turn back to the mirror and touch up the mask I wear every night.

  "The problem with you is you're either crazy or fucking stupid," Tricia says, deciding to continue.

  Placing both hands on the table, I clench my fists, close my eyes, and take a deep breath. A darkness, one that lives within in the depths of me, begins to boil.

  My eyes dart to the pair of scissors resting at the corner of the table, and I lean my head to the side. It would be so easy to grab them and make a horror show out of Tricia. It would be a spectacular sight, one I could even sell tickets to… Shaking my head, I blow out a breath and push down my anger, fear, and twisted thoughts.

  "It's really none of your—"

  "I mean, if you're gonna hide in a place like this only to bury yourself in the sideshow, I'm guessing you've got legal problems."

  If only that were the worst of my worries.

  Misery, pain, and death follow my every step. And if Tricia doesn't shut the fuck up, she's going to end up another casualty in my selfish choice to live instead of just ending it all—ending me, and not just this false me, but taking the real me to the grave.

  But I won't. I've survived this long. I may hide behind the mask in a crowd of Chicago nightlife debauchery, but, selfish or not, I will not surrender.

  "You need to play this smarter, honey, not harder," Tricia prattles on, uncaring or unnoticing of the way my back stiffens and jaw tightens. "I mean, you realize this place is owned by Giovanni Accardo, right?"

  "I don't fucking care about Giovanni Accardo," I say through clenched teeth.

  "Girl," she drawls, "you should. He's like a major player in the Chicago Syndicate. And I mean he's in the family."

  Giving a humorless laugh, I cross my arms over my chest and slouch back in my chair. I know who owns this club and exactly which family he belongs. I also know I do my best to stay out of their way when the expensive suits arrive. Instead of putting on a show for them, I let the other girls flirt and catch their eyes.

  Sure, the money flowing from those silk-lined pockets would rejuvenate my dwindling cash flow, but the danger radiating from them is enough for me to stick to my routine.

  Take the stage, dip, twist, and wrap around the pole just enough to make the drunks, cheaters, and first-timers practically dump their wallets on stage. And, on occasion, when necessary, I emerge from the depths of backstage and work the floor. I've perfected my client radar, able to spot the married men, traveling business types, and the couple here to spice up their marriage. Those ready to venture, but not get attached—they are my preferred targets.

  "So, what? He's just going to erase any legal woes one of us might have because we strip in his club? I'm pretty sure it doesn't work that way," I respond with sarcasm.

  "Okay, so we're leaning toward the stupid side of this scenario," she insults.

  Twisting my head in her direction, I allow my eyes to drop to her neck, focusing on the pulse. One puncture to that delicate spot would shut her up.

  "Major players come in here regularly, which means you just need the attention of one." She lifts a perfectly manicured finger, all of them dark red with sparkling black tips. "All it takes is one of those guys to put you on a favorites list and poof! Your troubles to go away."

  I snort. She acts like trouble doesn't follow these guys or danger doesn't radiate around them like a mud-thickened aura.

  "You don't believe me?" There's a level of anger to her question. "Bitch, do you know how many of those guys come here just for certain girls? Fuck, it only took Vicky three goddamn private dances to get Felix Ricci on her regular rotation, then only a couple months before she was upgraded to mistress."

  "Who's Vicky?" I ask, unfamiliar with the name.

  "She's the girl who's spot you filled, ‘cause she's now living in an above-the-law and untouchable penthouse downtown," Tricia answers, a slight jerk to her head.

  "Who is Felix Ric—?"

  "You really don't know shit, do you? Maybe it's time to look up once and awhile to see what the fuck is going on around you, huh?"

  It's not really a question she wants an answer to, because after delivering the snotty remarks, she pushes away from the table and sashays out of the dressing room.

  My eyes flit back to my cellphone. Tapping the screen, I glance over a second text alert.

  Missing girl case goes cold after 7 years. Kayla Mearson Presumed Dead.

  Deleting the alerts, I close my eyes. Unfortunately, the memory of the first time he came for me plays behind my eyelids.

  "Come to Daddy, doll." His hand stretches out, dripping red. "I'm going to take you home."

  Slowly raising my arm, I fixate on the familiar man before me.

  "That's it. Come to me," he urges, taking one step forward.

  A scream pierces the air, breaking the trance and pulling my gaze to the contorted face of the beautiful girl I share a room with.

  Mr. and Mrs. Branson made Kayla and I sisters, friends.

  Following her horrified stare across the room, the man speaks to me once more.

  "Come here, doll," he pleads, sounding closer. "Your family misses you. Your dolls miss you.”

  My eyes land on Mr. and Mrs. Branson. They lay on the floor in weird shapes.

  "What's wrong with—?"

  "DOLL, COME TO ME!" His yell snaps my eyes back to him.

  This crazed man sounds nothing like my father. This can't be him.

  This time, both his arms reach for me, blood soaked and holding a knife.

  Kayla screams once more, gripping my arm. My body jerks from the tug of her hands, but I'm frozen in place. Nothing makes sense. Not the man before me or the fear climbing up my throat.

  My gaze moves back to Mr. and Mrs. Branson. They were so kind to me. Mr. Branson was going to show us how to catch fish tomorrow. Why are they laying like that? Who—?

  "Come on!" Kayla yells, pulling harder on my arm as his stained hands fist the front my flannel nightgown.

  How could he do this? They aren't dolls, and the mess isn't acceptable. I bite my bottom lip, remembering all the times he scolded my messy room, or when my hand slipped and—

  "Let go of her," Scott yells, charging from the darkness of the dining room and knocking him to the floor.

  "Scott!" Kayla cries out to our foster brother.

  Studying the fear etching her face, I touch the tears streaking her cheeks.

  Why would she fear Daddy? He's—

  "Run," Scott yells. "Go get hel—"

  A gurgling sound fills the room, and I turn to the source as Kayla wails once more.

  Daddy sits over Scott.

  He'd been the one who showed me how to ride a bike when I first arrived.

  Daddy brings the sharp metal down over and over. Scott's chest, his neck, his face…so many times his face.

  "You. Can't. Have. Her!" he shouts, each word accentuated with a stab. "She. Belongs. With. Her. Family!"

  Knots twist in my stomach and dread weighs down my limbs. Bringing my hand up, I touch the dampness on my chest, then pull it back, staring at blood. My eyes wide, I look back to my father.

  Burying the knife into Scott's chest one last time, Daddy twists his blood-covered body and reaches out for me to take his hand.

  A sharp pain in my arm makes me glance down. Kayla's fingernails bite into my skin.

  "He's dead," she sobs.


  Shaking my head, I look back to Scott. His face is unrecognizable and his body ruined. A pool spreads beneath him, slowly darkening the carpet.

  Daddy rises to his feet, dropping another knife to the floor. The thud of it makes me jump and sharp realization slices through me. The Bransons and Scott weren't dolls. They were real.

  Memories of all the doctors, the questions, the looks each person gave me when I told them about our dolls, flash in my mind, and it all makes sense. It was all wrong. Daddy was wrong. I was wrong. The dolls were wrong.

  Shame I didn't completely understand and a fear I'd never felt before surged through my veins. Before I can think twice, I grab Kayla's hand and run from the man who just took away the people who cared for me, showed me so many things, who took all the dolls out of the house without scolding me for what I did with them. Wrong things.

  Running blindly, Kayla and I end up deep in the woods behind the house.

  "We aren't allowed to be this far into the woods," I remind Kayla. "Mrs. Branson will be angry."

  "Mrs. Branson's dead," Kayla cries, shoving me. "They're all dead, because of you."

  "Doll!" We jump at his bellow, our eyes darting around. This new fear makes my stomach flip and twist.

  "We should hide." I point to a hollow tree, my brow furrowing.

  Kayla is bigger than me, older. I'm not sure we'll both fit.

  "He wants you." She shoves me again. "He can have you."

  She disappears farther into the woods, leaving me behind. The darkness closes in. The damp wooden smell grows thicker with each breath. My fear turns into something all encompassing. I'm frozen in place.

  "Come to Daddy! Don't be afraid. I've come to bring you home," he yells, closer, more urgent, terrifying. "Damn it! Come to me now!"

  It's enough to push my body into motion.

  Scurrying to the hollow tree, I climb inside and bury myself in dirt and leaves. Covering my ears, I block out his curses and demands. Eventually, when he falls silent, the sounds of the woods and calls of a search party find me.