by H. M. Ward
I said no.
I stepped away and zipped up. I refused head. What the fuck is wrong with me? I needed this. I’m Cass’s friend. I can’t fuck her even if I want to, so why say no to the blonde? Why send away those tits and that ass when it was so ready to be taken?
At one time, that would have never happened. At one time, I would have fucked her face, then tossed her on my desk and plowed into her until she shattered while screaming my name. I could take her high and leave her walking funny for a week. Refusing pussy isn’t me. Yet, that’s exactly what I did.
I sit in the grimy office behind my desk and run my hands over my face. Who the hell am I and how did I get here? My life is a goddamned mess. I don’t even know who I am anymore. I’m surrounded by naked women every day, but I don’t care. It’s like they’re not here. I used to get hard coming to clubs like this. My cock strained against my pants, and I was ready to take care of it, to nail any girl I wanted. They always said yes. Every single one.
Except Cassie.
And now I can’t have her. That fuck messed her up so bad I can barely touch her. I should be grateful for what I have, but it kills me to see her flinch when I reach to stroke her face or take her bag. She acts like a kicked cat, skittish to the core. That’s only the Cassie that’s on the surface. The woman I knew is still in there, buried under a shitload of pain. Once in a while, I see it in her smile and hope floods my chest like a goddamned moron. Within seconds, she vanishes and days go by without touching her at all. She spooks and asks me to give her space, to sleep on the floor, to not touch her. When she showed up one day offering to screw me, I nearly lost it. She’s hot and cold, and I know why. I get it. Shoving her into the wall was a mistake. It probably conjured memories of that sick fuck and that’s the last thing I wanted.
Elbows on my desk, I hang my head between my shoulders and lace my fingers together behind my neck. I wish I knew how to free her. She’s standing right in front of me, trapped. The chains aren’t visible, but they’re there. I don’t know what to do. I can’t treat her the same as the others. She’s not the same and never will be.
I love her.
But that’s not enough, so I tell her to stop screwing around and go strip.
I grab the hair at the nape of my neck and groan. I didn’t want this for her. I can’t change her. I can’t fix it and make her better. The scars she bears will always be there, and they’re much deeper than anything I’ve got.
The lie burns in my mind. That’s not true. There’s one scar, one thing still festering inside of me. I don’t know how to deal with it, so I act like it’s not there. That woman poisoned me and every relationship I’ll ever have. There’s a noose around my neck, and she can yank it whenever she wants to string me up.
“Fuck,” I mutter to myself. When I look up, Trystan is standing there. He’s got that look on his face—the one that says serious shit is about to drop. “What’s wrong?”
He blinks rapidly and steps toward the desk with a blank look on his face. His lips part like he wants to say something. Day old ripped jeans and that leather jacket he’s always wearing look wrinkled like he slept in his clothes. Trystan sits down hard on a club chair across from the desk. He stares at his shitkickers for a long time before finally meeting my eyes.
“Too much to fathom. But the main issue at the moment is there’s some dick causing problems on the floor.”
CHAPTER 13
CASSIE
My puffy eyes sting from crying. I wish I could rub them, but my makeup will smear all over my face. I focus my thoughts on the spotlight shining down on me and the pole in front of me. I’m on the center stage. Beth is to my right and a new girl—Tiffany, maybe—is to my left. The music pounds, and I perform my routine without thought. I unlace the corset, pulling the string hard. I breathe in deeply, grab the pole, kick my leg up and rest my ankle on the cold metal. I’m doing a standing split until I kick up my second leg, wrap it around the pole and hang upside down. The girls are no longer contained by the corset. The guys in front of me stare, lean forward, and toss money my way. I slide down the pole until I’m on the floor, pressing my stomach to the stage. I arch my back and tip my head back. I’m right in front of an older guy. He shoves a twenty in my corset and makes a comment I tune out. I smile coyly at him.
When I’m working, my mind is a million miles away. I’m not teasing some guy I don’t know or popping my boobs on purpose. I’m simply not there. So when I sit up and perch on one leg with my hands in front of me like an animal, I no longer feel humiliation.
I feel nothing.
A familiar burn shoots up the leg I’m perched on and I right myself again. I slide my other ankle out, parting my legs in front of a younger guy with a shaved head and a gangly body. There’s a piercing on his left lobe and a tattoo wrapping around the back of his neck.
He’s watching me without blinking, his mouth watering, thinking about things he’d do to me if we were alone. He holds out a fifty and waves it at me. “Take it off honey and this is yours.”
Guys say all sorts of things to me. This one is tame in comparison, but the waving cash never sits right with me. It slams me back into the present and reminds me of what I’m doing. I reach up to the first clasp on the corset and pop it. I work my way down, one by one, unhooking them all. I’m topless, tossing the garment toward the back of the stage. I crawl forward and part my lips, allowing him to put the money between my teeth. I purr when he does it, which makes the guy next to him fish out another twenty. More money juts up from greedy hands surrounding the stage. They all want my attention. They want to make me purr.
They think I’m a goddess, a sex kitten. I never say anything to any of them. I just smile, wink, and lick my lips. My voice would give me away. The shame I feel would be obvious. I’m not some exhibitionist that enjoys swinging on a pole.
I don’t know what I am anymore.
I rise and strut slowly back to the pole, money still between my teeth. I’m wearing a black thong, matching thigh highs, garters, and a pair of stilettos. I know which assets guys like the best and work them. Throwing my hip out, I slowly bend to pick up some cash, pushing the curve of my spine out, and making my ass look curvier.
As I pick up the bills and stuff them onto my garter, more money waves in my direction. Coy smile in place, I glance up and freeze.
“I always knew you were a slut, Cassie.” Mark is standing there in a cowboy hat, a pair of tight jeans, and a denim jacket with a smug look on his face. “You know what I had to go through to find you. Get your ass down here now. We’re leaving. You’re my whore, and I don’t fucking share.” He snaps at me and points to the spot beside him.
I glance around for Bruce. He’s not there. The man who’s always on the floor, right by the door, isn’t there.
Mark knows who I’m looking for. He jabs his thumb towards the door. “That guy is long gone, and if you don’t want to find out where he is, I suggest you get your skinny ass down here. Right. Now.”
Panic is choking me. The guys around my section of the stage turn toward Mark. The man with the shaved head turns and tells him, “Fuck off!”
Without a word, Mark walks over and cold clocks him. The guy falls on the floor and Mark kicks him in the gut twice. No one says anything. No one helps the man. I stand there, mute, my mouth gaping open.
Mark’s beyond pissed now. The veins on his neck are popping up one by one. “Don’t make me come up there to get you.”
My stomach swirls with ice as I walk to the edge of the stage. Beth calls out to me, “Cassie, don’t! Bruce! Where the hell is Bruce!”
People are yelling all around me, but the words sound like buzzing. My heart thumps in my ears, and I break out into a cold sweat. When I get close enough to the edge of the stage, Mark grabs my wrist and jerks me hard. I topple forward, and he lets go. I fall about three feet, landing on my hands and knees next to the guy on the floor. My hair drapes across my face, hiding the thoughts in my head.
; Get up before he kicks you.
Run away before he locks you up again.
Fight back before he has his hands on you.
It doesn’t matter how much I want to fight. I’m paralyzed. I see the bright lights and hear the blaring horns. Fuck, I even feel the rumble of the massive engine barreling down straight toward me, but there’s nothing I can do. It’s too late.
Mark’s fingers wrap around my arm, and he jerks me to my feet, hissing at me. “You always played the part of the virgin so well, I bought it at first, but you’re nothing but a first class skank. I’ve missed playing our little games, Cassie." His voice drops to a cold whisper. "I brought your favorite.”
I can’t breathe. A shiver races through me, panic jamming my thoughts. I can feel the metal spikes scraping my skin even though that nightmare happened years ago.
A haze of fear overwhelms me as he shoves me toward the door, not bothering to cover me as he marches me out into the parking lot. I hear Beth screaming, but no one stops him. Why would they? Mark says the same lines he always does—that I’m his wife, a whore who can’t get enough. He jokes about locking me up better next time, explains this is a little game we play. They believe him. They always do—why would an honest woman work as a stripper? Why would someone who isn’t a sexual deviant be in a place like this?
Tears roll down my cheeks as I stagger, topless, into the parking lot. I’m not moving fast enough, so he grabs my arm to drag me toward his truck. “You stupid bitch. Do you know how much trouble you've caused me?” His hand flies and a sharp slapping sound echoes through the dark parking lot.
My skin stings, but I can’t feel it after a second. It’s dark, and we’re alone. If I fight to get away, I can’t run. I’m half naked in heels. Even if I find a cop, he’s more likely to arrest me than save me. It's happened before. It only delays the inevitable. Mark bails me out, then does what he wants.
As Mark reaches for the door of the truck, something comes from behind and slams him into the fender. There’s a loud crash and a shriek. Beth is there in panties and a bra, holding a pointy heel in her hand like a weapon. “You’re not taking her.” Breathing hard, she raises the hooker heel to swing at Mark’s head.
She caught him by surprise when she body-slammed him into the side of the truck, but Mark sees the shoe coming. He grabs Beth’s wrist and twists it so hard there’s a crack. She screeches and tries to pull her arm back. I swing at his face, finally coming to life, but he grabs my fist and twists my arm behind my back. I get slammed face first into the side of the truck. He holds me there as he dangles Beth by her broken wrist with his other hand.
He laughs at her. “You pathetic little bitch. You can’t hurt me. You couldn’t save her even if you pulled a gun out of your ass, you filthy—”
The sound of a weapon cocking cuts Mark's words off cold, but his hands continue to push me firmly against the truck. It’s quiet for a moment. “Release both girls and step away.” Jon’s voice is gravel, tar, and death. I’ve never heard him like that.
Mark laughs and raises his hands, pulling both of us. Beth screams and tries to kick Mark, but he shoves her down. Beth falls backward and scrapes her elbows on the ground. He acts like it was nothing, like what he did will have no repercussions. It never has before. He drops me, letting me fall to the ground, clapping his hands in Jon's direction as if applauding a theatrical performance. “I have to hand it to you—with ample titties and ass inside and the Ferro name plastered outside, the club certainly isn't hurting for customers. You're a brilliant businessman, Ferro.”
Jon aims the gun at Mark’s chest. “Shut the fuck up. Cassie, get her inside. Now.” I help Beth up and start for the door, but I can’t walk away from Jon like this. He never falters, his eyes stay riveted to Mark, but his voice softens. “Please, Cass, just do it.”
I help Beth to the door and pull it open. As we cross the threshold, the gun explodes, shattering the night behind us.
CHAPTER 14
JON
Trystan comes around from the back door like I told him. Bob, Trystan’s bodyguard, is nearby. That guy is never far away. If he gets here before this asswipe takes off, no one will ever find the body. I consider it. I want Mark to pay for what he did to Cassie. She was frozen with fear when I walked out. Her face was so white she looked like a corpse. I’m not letting him near her again.
Trystan rushes toward me. “Holy shit, you shot him?” We’re both staring at the dark stream of blood coming from the guy’s leg just above the knee. It soaks his jeans making a big brownish red oval on the denim.
“Walk away, Trystan. There’s no reason for both of us to get messed up with this. Odds are someone reported the gunshot. Cops will be here shortly. Move.” Trystan rushes off, circling the building to wait out of sight by the side street.
"You just made a mistake, son." That dipshit Mark speaks with a Southern drawl, that good ol' boy thing going on all over the place. I want to beat the crap out of him for that alone. He’s a classic prick, the kind of asshole that thinks women are trash. I heard what he said to Cassie and Beth. I knew guys like that. They beat their bitches, using them for pussy then tossing them aside when they finish. I can't comprehend how a girl like Cassie, with her whole virginity-is-sacred thing, ended up with this tool.
I cock the gun again, knowing I’m out of time. “Where’s my bouncer?”
“How the fuck should I know?” He’s pissed, but still staggering backward, away from me trying to stay clear of the gun.
I lift the weapon. “I don’t have time for this, shitface. Where is he?”
He swears and doesn’t answer at first. When I rush him and shove the barrel under his jaw, aiming straight up into his skull, he sings a different song. “Behind the trash. He’s not dead.”
It would be so easy to slide my finger back and pull that trigger. This guy would be out of Cassie’s life forever, and she could breathe easy. Forever is a long time. I’d do it for her. I’d end him and not feel a fucking ounce of regret. The guy is a worthless asshole. I’m suddenly aware of how hard I’m pushing the barrel into his skin, and it takes a few breaths, but I manage to pull it away.
I shove him into his truck, hard. “Get the hell out of here, and if I ever see your cock-sucking face again, I'll put a bullet in your fucking skull.”
As I lower the gun, pointing it at the ground, that douchebag has the audacity to laugh. “I hear it in your voice, Ferro. You think you can handle her, but you can’t. That bitch will stab you in the back if she hasn’t already.”
I lift the pistol again and aim for his head. “I didn’t miss. Your leg was a pity shot, so leave before I change my mind.”
* * *
The rest of the night races by in a blur. Bob finds Bruce, who, unlike me, has a legal gun. They make up a story and feed it to the cops. Since Bruce has a hole in the side of his head, courtesy of a two by four with a few nails sticking out of the end, the cops don’t have issues believing there was a fight. They want to see the other man, though. We tell them he ran after he attacked Beth and broke her wrist. Cassie hides in the dressing room among the other strippers. The police ignore her.
I can see her face. I know those walls shot up so high that they scrape the sky. She’s never going to talk to me again. I can’t believe that twat got around Bruce. I close the club early, send that blonde to help Beth get her wrist set, and tell everyone else to go home. Trystan hangs around with Bob in case the jackass comes back. Cassie is still here, waiting for me to take her home. I don’t want to face her yet. I failed. I let that asshole get to her. He nearly succeeded.
I rub my palms over my face. I’m sitting in the circle of black club chairs next to the stage. The bar is behind me. Trystan walks over with a bottle of bourbon and two glasses. He pours amber liquid into both and hands me one. “Shitty night.”
I slam the drink back in one swallow and put the glass down on the table beside me. I glance up at him. “You ever make a promise you can’t keep?”
/> He nods once. “Yep. I have.”
I’ve never heard that story, but he’s not offering, so I don’t press. “I told her I could keep her safe, but that asshole managed to yank her right off my stage. She shouldn’t even be here.”
Trystan is sitting across from me, slouched back into the chair, swirling the bourbon around the edge of his glass. “Where should she be?”
“With me, somewhere else. I didn’t want this.” I point at the walls and stage. “It’s a fucking nightmare. There’s pussy everywhere, but I don’t want any. And her! I sleep next to her, but I can’t touch her either. This isn’t me. I’m an asshole. I’m selfish. I like to dick around, and somehow I linked myself to a prude stripper with a sociopath husband.”
Trystan smirks, his eyes riveted to the whirlpool of liquor. His dark lashes obscure his eyes when he speaks. “That’s not why you’re mad.”
“What?” I snap at him. “I’m a fucking god, and I’m slumming it here with her.”
He shakes his head. “This is what love is at its core. You’d do anything for her, even if she doesn’t care. Even if she’s someone you can never have. For once in your life, your motivation has nothing to do with fucking, and you don’t know what to do with it.”
I glare at him. “And you do?”
“Not a damned clue. There was this girl a long time ago, but I screwed it up. She’s better off without me, but she’s always there, in the back of my mind.” He looks up at me. “Never before and never since. It doesn’t matter how many women I’m with—it doesn’t go away.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose and swallow hard. “I did this to her. I sent her away without listening. I thought she stabbed me in the back and sold me out.”