by James, Marie
The regret doesn’t set in, however, until I check my messages and see the first one from Blade which was sent a mere two hours after I left Annie in that disgusting alley without concern as to whether or not she’d make it home safely.
Blade: I told you to find Georgia Anderson. Not fuck her like a whore in the alley.
So much for my new life. That redheaded woman from last night just fucked me harder than I fucked her last night.
Chapter 2
Gigi
“Shit,” I hiss when I roll over in bed. My whole body aches, but the scratches on my back and the thrumming between my legs are my greatest concern.
The time on my cell phone may say ten after noon, indicating I’ve been in bed for no less than seven hours, but I feel like I haven’t slept at all. I scrub at my eyes with the backs of my hands and twist my neck in both directions until the satisfying crack echoes around my shitty, one-room apartment.
Feeling dehydrated, as I always do after a night of dancing and cocaine, I reach for the half-empty water bottle on the coffee table in front of the crappy couch that doubles as my bed. I down it, wincing once again as I climb off of the couch and head to the sink to refill it.
Once the bottle is filled, I turn with my hips against the counter. The wad of cash that asshole gave me last night mocks me from the opposite counter. I could’ve tossed it back at him or thrown it to the damp, trash-riddled ground, but only a fool would do something as ridiculous as that.
Instead, I came home, feeling like the whore he suspects and counted it. Twice.
It’s been a long time since I had access to that much money, and I couldn’t help letting my mind wander to the next place I could go. I’m always moving, always planning for the next city, praying it’s better than the last, but knowing better.
It doesn’t have to be this way.
This thought makes my eyes shift from my ill-gotten gains to the empty cocaine baggie sitting beside it.
I’m a social user. That’s the lie I tell myself right before I inhale the poison and take the stage at the club. I allow myself to believe it most days because I don’t use on my nights off. Those are spent curled in a ball, feeling like total shit, while thinking of nothing but the better life I walked away from. It’s in those moments that home doesn’t seem so bad. It’s those moments that the controlling hand of my father and his expectations don’t seem like a reason to run at all.
I squeeze my eyes shut, letting the water soothe my sore throat and try not to once again feel bitter for turning into the twin that no one can love. I envy Ivy and her perfect grades. She’s always been the one they can be proud of, while I remain the constant thorn in their side and the disappointment of all of the Cerberus kids.
The alarm on my phone chimes, telling me whether I want to or not, I have to get to work. At least tonight I’ll get off at a decent hour since I’m covering another girl’s shift. Working my off days as often as possible ensures I can move on quicker. Although not my intention when I walked up to the stranger in the alley, the money he gave me gets me a lot closer to my next city than I could get working at The Minge Palace in two weeks. I cringe at the name and head to the shower.
After my shower, I towel off and dress. With the red wig in place, I leave my apartment and walk down the street to the club so filthy even the low lights can’t disguise how disgusting it is.
My throat, still dry from the cocaine and cigarette smoke from last night, only grows even more irritated as I make my way to the small corner I share with ten other women. The owner’s office is ten times this big, but he expects us to walk on top of each other to get ready for the stage, going so far as to bitch and yell when we’re late because we’re waiting for others to get ready. I’ve been dancing here for two months. In two weeks I should have enough to leave. Dallas isn’t my ideal geographical location, but I hope to make it to Austin soon. Sixth Street, or somewhere near there would at least bring younger, hotter guys; not the geriatric fucks that have made The Minge Palace their home away from home.
I hate the way the dull lights on the vanity make my skin look almost green. I hate the amount of makeup the owner requires us to wear so our faces stand out against the stage lights. As if the men are looking at our faces. They may glance at our mouths and wonder what it would be like to have our lips on their cocks, but our full faces aren’t important to them.
I hate that I’m getting damned near naked on stage for money. But most of all I hate that I was running behind today and wasn’t able to swing by Javi’s place to grab another baggie of coke. Dancing sober is up there with a root canal or surgery without anesthesia. It’s brutal and almost impossible to suffer through.
I look over at Dolly. The stage name was given to her in reference to her incredibly huge, albeit natural, breasts. The sneer she gives me tells me that asking for a bump would be fruitless, so I don’t even bother.
I steel my spine and wait in the cluttered wing just off the stage. After shaking my hands out, a futile attempt to stop them from shaking, I tighten the knot on the front of my shirt. I mean, if you can call a sequined bikini top with Velcro at the neck and back a shirt.
I don’t bother to lotion myself up at this club. The owner keeps it so damn hot in here it’s a wonder I can control my movements on the pole. His reasoning is that if the men are warm, they’re also thirsty. He makes money on the liquor and cover charge. He reminds us constantly just how gracious he is to let us keep our tips.
I roll my neck, but the soreness from my lack of sleep prevails. I hate myself for taking this extra shift even if it’s nice to go to work while the sun is still out.
Peaches makes her way off stage, giving me the same sneer Dolly did just moments ago. Every one of the other dancers hates me. I usually find at least one woman at the club I’m working in that’s friendly. The only person who pays me any attention in this shit hole is the owner, who talks to my tits more than he talks to my face and Gerardo who’s creepy and makes me think he’s picturing himself peeling my skin layer by layer when he looks at me.
The intro to Pour Some Sugar on Me is my cue to hit my knees and crawl out on the stage toward the pole. Mom and Dad always played this kind of music while we were growing up. As much as I love this song, I know I strip to it as a silent slap in the face to them.
Look at me now, Dad. And you thought you could dictate my life.
The men in the audience sit straighter, and I realize that this is the exact reason the other girls hate me. These guys here pay attention to me. They want the attention, the salivating mouths, catcalls, and horrendous suggestions of what I could be doing to them. I despise it. Dancing, stripper pole or not, is a means to an end. The only problem is, I’m so far from the end, considering I have no idea what my long-term goals are, that there’s no conclusion to the degradation in the near future.
I tried waitressing. The money is shit, and even with clothes on, the men in the seedy diners I was able to gain employment and be paid under the table are just as vulgar as the men here.
When Def Leppard sings “loosen up” my top comes off. “Squeeze a little more” has my hands fondling my own breasts. I get way more tips when I touch myself. I trail my fingers from my lips, trying not to cringe when an awful taste fills my mouth, between my breasts and over the soreness left by the stranger last night. I revel in the discomfort, turning myself on for the first time since I first wrapped my legs around a stripper pole.
By the time I’m two-thirds of the way through the song and swinging around the pole, I’m turned on to the point the heat in the room actually cools my damp skin. When the final hard beats of the song ring out through the room, I’m on my knees barely able to catch my breath. I shouldn’t be concerned about my breathing because it stops completely when I meet the dark, angry as hell eyes of the stranger from last night.
Before I can push myself up to stand and collect the wads of cash on the stage, he reaches in and jerks me off of my feet.
“The fu
ck are you doing, psycho?” Tossed over his shoulder, the ineffectual hits of my small fists against his muscled back don’t even faze him.
“The hell, man?”
Gerardo. Thank goodness, I think but remember just how creepy he is. I’m torn, leaning more toward going with the stranger than owing the creepy ass bartender any favors.
“Move, dick face.” My captor’s words echo against my own body.
“Chad left me in charge tonight,” Gerardo says as if it means anything to this big bastard.
Gerardo is shoved to the side, and I push against my stranger’s ass with my hands to look up at him as we walk away.
“He’s going to be pissed, Annie.”
“Tell him I had a stomach ache. I’ll be back tomorrow night.”
“Like fuck you will,” my jailer says with a swift, sharp slap to my bare ass.
I should be scared when a man I don’t know, a man who treated me like shit last night, carries me out of The Minge Palace. I should be terrified when he slides me off of his shoulder and into a darkly tinted car smelling faintly of his cologne and stale cigarettes.
I may have made horrible grades in school, but my instincts have always been spot on. I knew the second I looked in this man’s eyes last night, even with the clear intent that he wanted to fuck me written all over his face, that he isn’t the type of man to hurt a woman.
Questioning my gut, I try to unbuckle the seat belt he pulls around me and snaps into place. The low growl in his throat is warning enough, and for some fucked-up reason, it turns me on. It’s the same sound he made last night when he shoved me against the wall and slammed balls deep inside of me.
“Put this on,” he hisses as he climbs into the driver’s seat and tosses me a button-up shirt.
I unsnap the seatbelt as he pulls out of the parking lot, raising an eyebrow as I shrug it on. The fire in his eyes says he’d love for me to challenge him.
I question him. Ask him where we’re going, just who the fuck does he think he is, and what his plans are, but I’m met with utter silence until we pull up outside of a hotel that isn’t but a few degrees better than my apartment.
“Am I going to have to carry you inside?”
I narrow my eyes at him, trying to gauge exactly what the fuck is going on and spending more time than I should actually considering doing it without argument.
“Are you going to hurt me?”
A sinister smile turns his plush lips up until the corners disappear in his well-groomed beard.
“Only if you beg.”
The arousal I’d thought had abated during the short drive once again flares to life. I anticipate another suggestive innuendo from him, but instead, he tosses my small clutch that I’d left locked in the back room into my lap.
“You look nothing like your driver’s license photo, Georgia Leigh Anderson. Want to tell me what you’re doing so far from home?”
I glare at him, pissed that he went through my things, but at the same time terrified for what it means for my family back in New Mexico. I want to get away from them, not rain down hell on them. I start to shake, wondering if this is the first step in sex trade abductions.
“You said you won’t hurt me.”
He frowns as if the notation is absurd.
“That means my family, too?”
He recoils, head snapping back.
“Surprised my head would go that way? You threatened to kill me last night.”
He shakes his head, jaw flexing to the point I hear his back teeth grind together.
“Not one of my finer moments. Last night was more about fucking up than fucking you. What is a twenty-year-old girl from New Mexico doing stripping illegally in Dallas, Texas?”
How the fuck does he know where I’m from?
“What is some former Marine doing in Dallas fucking young girls in the alleyway,” I challenge.
It’s his turn to narrow his eyes.
“You see more than you let on.”
I ignore his words. “Why am I here?”
“Do I have to carry you in or can you walk on your own?”
Call me curious, but the appeal to join him inside, to figure him out is too strong to do anything but climb out and wait for him to lead me to the door of his outside entry room.
Chapter 3
Hound
“Why am I here?” she asks, not for the first time.
I tilt up the bottle of whiskey I left on the particle board dresser earlier to my lips. I don’t even notice the burn as it travels its way down my throat. She sits on my bed like she owns that place the second we step into the room.
“Why do you think you’re here?”
It’s crazy how quickly your maturity drops in the face of young people. I huff, and she gives me a questioning look.
“I imagine you enjoyed yourself so much last night that one time inside of me wasn’t enough.” She tilts her head, red hair flowing over her shoulder and touching her bare thigh. My shirt swamps her, but she knows exactly what she’s doing showing that hint of bare flesh.
I tilt the bottle up again as a means to fortify myself when I know it will do nothing but lower my inhibitions.
She. Is. Work.
No matter how many times I repeat that fact over and over in my head, my body still craves her. My memories from last night drive me to touch her, to taste her.
I shake my head. That along with the whiskey have no effect on the need I have for her skin against mine.
“You need to stop being a little fucking tease. I don’t have time for that shit.”
She smirks, and I want to do nothing more than kiss that look off her damn face.
I shake my head again. No, not kiss. Kissing is the last thing I need to do. I have to convince her to head back to New Mexico with me and find a way to do that without her telling her father I fucked her in a filthy alleyway.
I was diverted from my very first day with the Cerberus MC in New Mexico to Dallas. Blade, the IT man behind the MC gave me specific orders to get Georgia “Gigi” Anderson out of the strip club she was dancing in and get her home safely. I fucked myself out of a job by literally fucking an MC princess. I’ve heard the stories of Kincaid, Dominic, and the others in New Mexico. They’re fair, but nothing short of murder is headed my way unless Gigi and Blade both get onboard to not breathe a word of this to Kincaid.
“It’s not teasing,” she says pulling me from my frantic thoughts, “if it’s what I want.”
She spreads her legs, the thin sliver of glittery fabric the only thing between me and the tightest cunt I’ve ever slid inside of.
“I fucked you raw last night. A second round of my cock is the last thing you can handle right now.” I mean it as a warning, but it comes across as a challenge instead.
“My pussy is sore but far from raw.”
Those filthy words coming from her mouth may be the sexiest thing I’ve ever heard.
“I woke up this morning with my cock covered in blood. Don’t tell me it isn’t raw.”
She grins, the light reflecting in her green eyes. Green? Blue last night? She has to be wearing contacts.
She rolls her lip between teeth too straight and perfect to belong to your everyday stripper. Girls like that are dancing in much better establishments than the one I pulled her out of tonight. It’s a fact I should’ve realized last night before I let the sway of her hips and the tightness of her stomach distract me.
“That’s what happens the first time,” she reveals causing my blood to run cold and the bottle of whiskey to fall from my hand.
It hits the dingy carpet with a soft thud, and I watch her, frozen in place as she unfolds from my bed and reaches down to get it. The luscious curves of her breasts are visible as the shirt gapes open at the neck.
“You’re twenty,” I argue.
“You’re forty,” she counters.
“Thirty-four,” I hiss letting her sassy ass attitude get the better of me.
If I thought I was screwed by
fucking the Prez’s daughter, add taking her virginity in a depraved way, and I know the police will never find my damned body.
She places the whiskey bottle on the dresser at my back, making sure to lean her lithe body against mine in the process.
“I promise I’m not too sore.”
She trails her finger over me exactly the way she did last night. I imagine her doing exactly this to the men who spend the cash to get private dances, and it pisses me off more than it should. I try to convince myself that I’m angry for her father. Angry that she’s someone’s little girl who’s dancing half-naked on stage, and not because I loathe anyone she’s touched before.
You fucked her first. That’s something she can never give to another man.
I shake my head again. Thoughts like that will get me killed, but I can’t help but consider keeping her happy until I can convince her to go along with the lies I have to tell Cerberus.
I grip her wrist, remembering from last night that she liked it rough, liked it when I commanded her body.
“I owe you one,” I remind her.
“True,” she coos.
I shove her on the bed, and her eyes widen when her back hits the hard mattress. Her wet pink tongue swipes across her lower lip when I shift the erection in my jeans to a better position.
“Better make it two,” she whispers when my knees hit the bed, and my lips begin to trail up the soft skin of her calf. “Call it interest.”
I nip at the delicate skin behind her knee, fully expecting her to pull away or slam her thighs together. She surprises me when they open further on a moan.
I fucked her bare last night. Came inside of her like she was mine to do so. Tonight, under her spell again, I don’t even question lowering my mouth to her heated flesh, pulling the thin strip of fabric to the side, and sucking her clit into my mouth.
She whimpers, unable to form words I assume, as I give her over eighteen years of pussy licking experience. I don’t hold back. I want her liquid, pliable, willing to do what I say when the time comes to face her father.
