Intense 2

by Hebert, Cambria

  Danny looks like he’s about to heave into my face. “She looks barely legal, if you ask me. I hope to heaven you checked her ID.”

  “I did.”

  “Some sick bastards here would like it if she weren’t even out of high school. But do you realize what trouble we could get in. . . .”

  “Relax, bro. She’s twenty-one. Older than your piece of jailbait . . .”

  “Don’t . . . call . . . her . . . that.” Danny’s eyes are practically bulging out of his skull. I love ribbing this guy, I swear. Making him mad is more fun than an amusement park in July. He deserves every ounce of irritation he gets, after all. Danny grew up a Blue, all of the perks, everything he wanted out of life handed to him on a shiny silver platter, spoon in the mouth and all. He needs someone to rub his nose in the dirt a little, from time to time. Keeps him sane. Keeps him good.

  “It’s not the same.” Danny grimaces. “Neve’s used to this world. She grew up in it. Being Keith Knight’s daughter—she practically had vodka in her nursing bottle. She’s used to fending off guys like these losers. But Staci—twenty-one or not, she’s had a much more sheltered life.”

  I roll my eyes. “Growing up in Vegas, you mean?”

  “Not everywhere in Vegas is like the strip, Terrence.”

  “She’s got an idea of what the club is about.”

  “As long as Angus doesn’t sue . . .”

  “He won’t.” I’m confident Bunny and Brandi will see to that.

  “And make sure the clientele know the rules. No means no. Even when you’re a multibillionaire. And I refuse to have it any other way.”

  “Harsh.”

  “Revoke his membership if you have to. I’m not founding a business empire based on rape!”

  “The girls know what . . .”

  “No means no, Terrence.” Danny’s so passionate it’s almost terrifying. “Whether she’s out on the street or working the Blue Room. Our girls have a choice. They always have a choice. You got that?” His look is menacing. “Got that?”

  He lets me up. My back is killing me.

  “Got it.”

  Danny Blue, in the right, as usual. Just my luck.

  “And that goes double for you. You can’t sleep with any of the girls here. Even if they consent. You’re in a position of power over them—you can’t abuse that.”

  “Like I’d need to use my position of power to get some tail. I can get plenty of that on my own. And I’m not so inclined at the moment. Roni’s keeping me busy.”

  “Just because you’re a Blue doesn’t mean you have to act like our father,” Danny scoffs. “You can keep it in your pants for a change.”

  “But fucking all and sundry is a family tradition.” I grin at him, but he isn’t having it.

  “Not anymore.” Danny looks grim. “I’m the head of the Blues now.”

  Chapter 3

  Staci

  I’m in my dressing room, trying my best not to cry. It’s not working. My tears are snaking through the glitter on my face, leaving ugly mascara trails of blue and purple all down my made-up cheeks.

  This, I think to myself. This is how stars die. For a second, it was like a dream. A fairytale. A Hollywood success story. Everything I ever wanted. I was on that stage, singing my heart out. The men in the audience—I recognized some of them. Big shot producers, directors, studio execs. The kind of guys who could make a girl’s career.

  And I was so stupid. So bloody stupid. I thought I could get in on talent. That singing like a nightingale was the way to impress them, to make them take my name and number, to make them think of me when it came round to casting time. But I was a fool, through and through. I had faith, stupid, naïve, blind faith, in the power of my voice.

  All anyone wants in Hollywood is the power of the tits.

  I felt anger swelling with my breast. The kind of rage it’s tough to withstand at the best of times. But right now, I was livid. It felt like everything I’d ever wanted, everything I’d dreamed of—it had been so close. I smelled it. I tasted it. I breathed it all in. Fame. Fortune. Success. E: True Hollywood Story, right at the beginning. The moment where everything changes. That lucky break. I inhaled it like oxygen.

  And then there it was. Gone. Empty air. Shattered glass. The shards of broken dreams all around me.

  Maybe I should have gone with Angus Bolton. Maybe I should have done what he asked. It’s only sex, right? Only flesh. What’s flesh, transient, mortal, when you can have fame: which lasts forever? I’d have been getting the better end of the bargain, right? That’s what I’m thinking, right now. That’s what I’m thinking, with the tears streaming down my face, trying so hard to make sure nobody hears me cry.

  To make sure Terrence Blue doesn’t hear me cry.

  He’s the worst of all. He knew—this whole time, I feel sure. He knew what I’d be asked to do. Maybe he thought that I’d give in. That I’d succumb with the flashbulbs in my face and money waved at my tits. Maybe he thought I had desires I didn’t even know I had until everyone’s drunk and sweaty and the need is pouring off all our backs.

  He’s wrong. He’s wrong about me, I tell myself. I’m not that kind of girl. I’m not his kind of girl. I don’t even like him. Sure—when I first met him, sitting across from him in that swivel armchair in his private office—I felt a certain something. Not even attraction. Just, like, a heating of the blood. A prickle down my spine. But Terrence Blue is a pro—no less than the girls he hires. He knows how to sell sex. It’s positively written in his DNA. Being attracted to Terrence Blue is like admiring a Michelangelo sculpture. It’s just what you do. It doesn’t mean anything. Maybe some other girl would find him sexy, with his cocksure smile and that swivel of his hips like he could just thrust any girl against the wall at a moment’s notice, and she’d moan with ecstasy because of how lucky she is to have him. Maybe that’s how it works, for other girls. Not for me.

  I don’t care about his eyes, those shining, piercing blue eyes that get right under your skin. I don’t care about his silky soft hair, black, to his shoulders, lustrous. I don’t care about his face, chiseled to perfection, but with a few flaws that indicate mischief, nor harmony or his full sinful lips like a rock star’s lips.

  “Staci?”

  I don’t care about his voice, either. Not when it’s low and dark like this. Like he’s whispering into my ear, trying to make me wet.

  “How are you? I just came to see how you’re doing.”

  I wipe my tears away with the back of my hand. I’d melt into the floor if Terrence Blue saw me cry. I’m supposed to be worldly, street-smart, experienced. Used to the attentions of horny men. Not some inexperienced virgin recent college grad, desperate for a job but unable to cope with its demands. A girl who gets hysterical when a man puts his hand on her ass. I need to convince him that I can handle this. This job, this world. That I can sing my heart out, and shake my tits to boot.

  Rita could handle it, after all. My old college roommate, Rita was a gorgeous girl with long dark hair and blue eyes almost as piercing as Terrence’s. She’d funded med school on that stage. Sure, there had been odd times—times when she didn’t come home at night, times when she vanished for weeks on end—but she’d always texted me. Just to say “I’m fine. Don’t wait for me.” And she’d always come back. The last time, she told me she’d met someone. A wealthy man, a handsome man. A patron at the club. Mr. X., she called him. He was too famous, apparently, for me to know who he really was. She wasn’t sure if he loved her or he loved her cup size, but she was happy. Happy enough to give up med school and live on his largesse. She left college and the last I heard, she was wearing Cartier. I figure she was happy. She wasn’t broke, at least. And right now, not-broke was all I could focus on.

  Well, that, and Rita.

  One Facebook Message from her. “I’m in too deep. And I don’t know how to get out.” Sent from the Grand Blue Towers, a luxury hotel where the Blue Girls were frequently put up for the night. She never answered my c
alls. She never answered my emails.

  I was going to find out what happened to her.

  “Staci?”

  Did Terrence use this voice on Rita, I wondered? That smooth voice, so husky with need. I knew I couldn’t trust him. But when I felt my nipples harden, involuntarily, I knew his voice had the desired effect.

  “What do you want?” My voice was soft. I couldn’t stand to look up into his eyes.

  His fingers on my bare shoulders seemed to burn into my skin. I could feel him tightening his grip on me. “Man . . . I was so turned on watching you on stage just now, Staci. I’ve seen a lot of girls at this club. And not one of them has a delectable pair of tits like yours. I just want to take them in my hands . . .”

  I didn’t move. I let him touch my breasts. I froze.

  “I want to take them in my mouth . . .”

  “Is that part of my job description?” I jerked back. Got control over myself again. “Because I’m pretty sure that’s illegal.”

  “Your job,” Terrence leans in so close I can smell the musk on him, masculine, sensual, and delicious. “Is to create a fantasy. To make men’s fantasies come true. And not just any men. Only the most prestigious, the most powerful of men come here, knowing how exquisite our tastes are in selecting women for the Blue Room. That’s why we put you up in the nicest hotels, give you everything you could desire. Food, beauty treatments, etiquette training, pampering beyond belief . . .”

  “So I can fuck whoever pays you?” Now I’m getting mad.

  “You’ll do what you’re willing to do. Nobody is forcing you to sing.”

  “I came here to sing,” I say, still barely believing Terrence’s words.

  “You did sing.” Terrence leans in and, before I can jerk away, takes my lower lip into his mouth, sucking it gently. It tingles and I almost moan. “You taste just as good as I imagined.”

  I pull away. I’m not going to let him distract me, not for a second.

  “You’re expecting me to have sex with patrons if I want to keep your job.”

  He doesn’t listen. He’s pressing me up against the wall, kissing me passionately, his tongue flicking against mine until I moan again in spite of myself. I despise him, but somehow I don’t push him away.

  I have to stay calm. To keep my job. To find out what happened to Rita.

  But it’s hard to stay calm when a boy who looks like Terrence Blue is pressing his body against mine.

  “You surprise me, Miss Atussi. From the look in your eyes, I thought you wanted something else entirely. You’re more than you seem.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You may act all sweet and innocent, Atussi, but when you’re on stage, you’re the sexiest woman alive. You want something. You have a hunger in you. And I want to find out what it is.” He presses my hand to the hard-on in his pants. It’s enormous. Bestial.

  But I push him away.

  “I want you to stay . . .” he groans.

  I want to stay, too. But I won’t let him take advantage of me that easily. I took a deep breath, forcing myself back into control.

  “Another day,” he says. “You get another chance. Understood?”

  “I’m not going to whore myself out, Terrence,” I say.

  I think I detect a hint of a smile. “Good,” he says. “But if you change your mind—remember, wealthy and powerful men take very good care of themselves. They have the money to. And they often make wildly passionate lovers. Most women would love to be their mistresses, to be taken care of by them, to be fucked by them.”

  “Not me.” I make it as clear as possible.

  But still, somehow, I let him trace his fingers up my inner thigh. I let him rub his fingers against my panties, then slide them aside. I feel those gasping tremors of pleasure as his fingers gently and tantalizingly rubbed the most sensitive and heated part of me to the point where I clench down on my lower lips to keep from moaning loudly, but my voice deep from the center of my chest groaned softly, “Oh, Terrence.”

  His voice is husky with need.

  “What if that patron was me?”

  Chapter 4

  My whole body is tingling. I’ve never felt like this before. The shiver running up and down my spine; the way my blood is boiling in my veins. The way my heart is ricocheting against my chest so hard that it feels like I’m being beaten up from the inside out. All of that is new to me—so new.

  Sure, I’ve felt desire before. Or, at least, I think I have. I’ve kissed boys, and fumbled here and there, and from time to time explored the outskirts of that land of pleasure I’ve never visited, not really. I’m experienced enough, I suppose. Although—I think with a sigh—by the standards of the Blue Room I’m practically celibate. I’m certainly the only virgin here.

  It’s not that I have anything against sex. Sex is what brought me into the world, after all, the only good thing my father ever did for me. I never held out for any particular reason. Except maybe idealism. The idea that when I knew, I’d know. That this was the person I wanted to lose my virginity to. In my head it had been a romantic realization. All about love, about pretty pink clouds and princess ribbons, about rings and promises of undying devotion. I’d never dreamed that my body would respond to the touch of a man like this. I’d never dreamed that it would respond without any promises of romance all—and to the most repulsive man I’d ever met, a player, a huckster—and maybe more. Whatever happened to Rita, I have no doubt that Terrence, even if he’s not behind it, knows what’s going on. He knows where she is.

  I have to remember that. I tell myself that much. I have to remember that, even when his hand is on my thigh, his fingertips tracing ever so slightly the contours of my knee, then sliding upwards toward my panties again, I have to remember that, even when his musk is filling my nostrils, driving me wild, driving me mad. I have to stay calm. Stay cool. Stay in control.

  But I couldn’t deny what my body wanted. Physically, all I wanted was for Terrence to have his way with me then and there. I wanted it so badly I felt I could taste the need. I’d never known that sure a desire existed, a desire so strong, so potent, like the hottest spice or the most intoxicating wine, to make everything else in the world seem so vague in comparison. I’d never known temptation like this.

  But I wasn’t about to lose my virginity to Terrence. I know what it’s like, after all, to get knocked up to a man who doesn’t deserve you. I’ve seen men like him before. Players. Men who don’t care about women except as receptacles for their desire and need. Good-looking men who have it all—wealth, looks, power, and that mysterious brand of sociopathy that so often comes along when you’ve got all those things in one package.

  Men like my father.

  Norma Rae, that was my mother’s name. Stage name, of course—she wanted it to be Norma Jean but her managers said that was too on the nose. She wanted to go Broadway, go Hollywood. Instead, she went to my father’s bedroom. He saw her in the chorus line and wanted her then and there, just like Terrence wanted me, just like I wanted him. In a movie, this would have been her ticket to fame and fortune, real romance. In a movie, he would have lifted her out of poverty and ambition and made her a star.

  But life isn’t like the movies. Life isn’t like Hollywood. In real life, the men who seduce you knock you up and abandon you, leave you without a penny—a penny they could well afford. Just because they can. I mean, my dad wouldn’t even have had to talk to my mother again, just to make sure she was taken care of. Men like him have secretaries to do things like that, remembering important things like their wives’ birthdays and how many illegitimate daughters they have. But my dad, he didn’t even care enough to send along enough money to keep my mom’s health insurance going.

  Pregnancy destroyed my mother’s body. She always pretended like it didn’t—joked she ate too much—but beneath the smile, beneath her attempts to spare me the guilt I always felt for existing, I saw the truth. Hollywood chewed her up and spit her out. Nobody wanted a showgirl
with stretch marks. She never got married, never even had a boyfriend. Worked five or six jobs at once. None of them enough to give her insurance. None of them enough to treat the cancer that now ravaged her body.

  She’s in hospice, now.

  And my father? He’s probably here tonight. Sitting in the crowd. Putting those hundreds down another girl’s G-string.

  A girl no older than my mother was twenty-two years ago.

  I would never have come back here, to dance for men like him. Not if I didn’t want to know what happened to Rita. Not if I didn’t want to get my own back on the Blue Room, and places like it—places that ruined the lives of the people that I loved.

  I clung to that, and it gave me strength. It gave me the strength not to give in, even as Terrence moved his fingers over my most intimate part, giving me so much pleasure that I couldn’t help myself when I moaned his name.

  So, this is what desire was like. Scorching desire. The kind that leaves nothing in its wake but ash.

  “So . . .” His voice is in my ear, tickling my earlobe, making my throat close up and my heart race. “What do you say?”

  “To what?” I already know what.

  “Me taking caring of you. Making sure you’re at your peak, in terms of health and beauty. And if you so choose, you’ll get first pick of the many, many men who will want to pick you. Move into Blue Towers. Get a King-Sized bed, a jacuzzi—all the luxury a girl like you could want.”

  A girl like me. Like he knows me.

  Like he knows what I want.

  I want the truth. That’s what I hope to find in Blue Towers.

  “Will you be there?” I try to sound sassy, but it comes out a whisper.

  “Do you want me to be?” He looks me up and down, his smile so sure, like he’s already won.

  I don’t answer him. I don’t trust myself to answer intelligently. I think my body will do the talking for me the second I open my mouth.