Even Better (Stripped 2.50)

That earns me a low laugh. “I can do anything I want with you. You seem like a smart girl. I know you already know that.”

“Then let me dance,” I whisper.

Pale eyes narrow. “What?”

“Like those girls out there.” My heart is beating out of my chest. I don’t even know what I’m saying, whether I really want this or not. Whether I can even do it. “Let me work here.”

Frustration flashes across his stern face, so slight I would have missed it if I wasn’t staring at him—studying him. Learning him just like I learned Leader Allen for years. “Those girls,” he says, his voice like ice, “are grown women. Adults. Every one of them is at least eighteen years old, because my club doesn’t break the rules.”

He doesn’t seem like a man who follows rules, but I know what he means. He breaks the rules he wants to and follows the ones that will keep the cops off his back. He picks which rules to follow—and he has no reason to choose me.

I swallow hard. I know what’s coming. I just don’t know how I’m going to get out of it.

He scans me from my loose hair to my ragged dress down to my fraying cloth slippers. “And you…well, you look all of twelve years old.”

Do I really look that young? Do I really seem that innocent? “I’m eighteen.”

He smiles like we share a secret. “Of course you are. And I’m only calling the cops to protect your pretty little cunt.”

I blink, the word a slap. I don’t even know what it means, but I know it’s bad. I know because of the harshness of the word, the hard c and abrupt ending. I know because of the appreciation in his eyes when he says it—a man like this wouldn’t like anything sweet.

He stands, and it seems like he’s ten feet tall. I shrink against the wooden chair, but there’s nowhere to go. “The truth is,” he says, his voice smooth as water, “I’m calling the cops to get you out of my hair. And the only reason I follow the rules? Is to keep the cops from sniffing around, disrupting business. My real business. Understand?”

“Not really,” I whisper.

The corner of his lip turns up. “You wouldn’t. All you need to understand is that you can’t stay here. This isn’t a boarding school or a sweatshop. There’s no place for you here.”

The words hit me harder than they should. I’ve only been in this building a few minutes. It should mean nothing to me. He should mean nothing to me. But it’s more than this building—more than him. It’s like he’s speaking for the whole city. Like he’s speaking for everything outside of Harmony Hills. That was the only place I’ve ever had, the only place I’ve belonged. And it was killing me.

All the air sucks out of the basement, and I can’t breathe. This is worse than torture. I’d rather he hit me than tell me I don’t belong. Tears fill my eyes, making everything seem murky, underwater.

Through the haze, I see him come to stand in front of me. If he was my mother, he would hug me. If he was Leader Allen, he’d slap me.

Instead he just watches me.

He leans back against the edge of the high desk and crosses his arms. When I was a kid, there was a boy who would drop water onto an ant and watch it drown. That’s how the man is looking at me—faintly curious, as if he wants to see what will happen next.

I clench my fists, squeezing my finger nails into my skin until the physical pain is worse than the pain inside. “What’s your name?” I demand, my voice shaky.

“Ivan,” he says softly, still watching. Still waiting.

“Let me work here, Ivan,” I say, hands clenched, body ready to fight. It’s not fighting he wants from me, though. Not exactly. I may not know the word he used, but I know how he thinks. It’s not that far off from the men outside who surrounded me.

It’s not that far off from Leader Allen either.

I stand up and meet his gaze. “I’ll do anything.”

* * *

I know what will happen to me if I let him touch me. I know because every sermon I ever heard, every scripture I’ve ever seen promises the same thing. Eternal damnation.

That’s what I’m offering him—my soul on a spit.

He doesn’t look impressed. Instead he leans close, close enough that I’m forced to sit. He braces his hands on both arms of my chair. It occurs to me then how he’s advanced on me since the conversation started. He was behind his desk at the beginning. He stood and circled it. Now he’s inches from my face, his breath warm and soft against my forehead when he speaks.

“What could you possibly give me that I couldn’t get from any one of those girls out on the floor tonight?”

My eyes shut tight. I can still see her clearly, the woman onstage. Her power in the form of bared breasts and a bold smile. She could pleasure Ivan so much better than me, and without even asking, I know she would do it if he wanted.