Badlands (Hqn)

by Jill Sorenson

  Tiffany shrugged, sipping her bottled water. Despite her edgy outfit, tousled blond hair and heavy eyeliner, she had a dewy innocence about her that men loved. “I’ve got no prospects. I’m so tired of dating jerks.” She wiggled out of her costume. “Your sweetheart brother-in-law can hit me up anytime, though.”

  Owen wasn’t her brother-in-law, but Janelle knew what she meant. “Did he ever call you again?”

  “No,” she said, sighing.

  Janelle wasn’t sure why Tiffany considered Owen a sweetheart if he’d used her once and dropped her. Judging by her wistful expression, she hadn’t minded. But Tiffany struggled with emotional issues, and her behavior was often self-destructive.

  Speaking of jerks. “Did you see that guy I took to VIP last night? Black T-shirt, big shoulders?”

  “Yeah,” Tiffany said, her blue eyes lighting up. She pulled on a lacy white thong and turned to study her perfect backside in the mirror. Janelle’s had never looked that firm or round. “I’d have done him for free.”

  “Has he come in before?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  The more Janelle thought about him, the more uneasy she felt. Men became fixated on certain girls and requested private dances all the time. Normally they browsed the merchandise before making their selections, however. This guy had zeroed in on her from the start. His attention had seemed personal.

  Maybe this business had jaded her. She didn’t suspect every customer of being a psycho predator, but her opinion of the opposite sex slipped a notch lower every year. And it hadn’t been high to begin with. She’d learned to be wary of men early in life.

  Desiree and Ginger joined them in the back room, sipping fruity alcoholic beverages. They weren’t supposed to drink on the clock, but it was last call. Chuck didn’t work on Sundays, and Kevin didn’t care.

  Desiree was the newest dancer at Vixen, and already popular. Janelle had caught her giving a guy a hand job in the VIP room. Although she hadn’t reported Desiree, Janelle had warned her against repeating the offense. It was illegal, and it sullied the club’s reputation.

  Desiree wasn’t her given name, of course. It was Dolores. Ginger was really Jennifer. Janelle went by Jezebel on stage. They all teased Tiffany about her alter ego, Tara, saying she’d gotten the two names mixed up.

  “Do either of you girls want to earn some extra cash?” Desiree asked.

  “How?” Tiffany asked.

  “Table ten just invited us to a party at Twin Palms. Two hundred each for an hour of topless, plus tips.”

  “I’m in,” Tiffany said, nodding.

  “No way,” Janelle said at the same time. “Are you crazy?”

  Desiree rolled her eyes. “They only want three girls, so that’s fine.”

  “Is Kevin going?”

  “What’s it to you?”

  “I wouldn’t do a private party without a bodyguard.”

  Desiree’s pretty mouth twisted. “Because you’re so much better than us?”

  “Just older and wiser,” Janelle said, tamping down her temper. She knew from experience how dangerous men at parties could be.

  “You got the ‘older’ part right,” Desiree said.

  Janelle glanced at her reflection and acknowledged the harsh reality. Her makeup was stale, her skin sallow and her eyes dull. She still had a dancer’s figure, slim and lithe, but her muscle tone wasn’t what it used to be. Her breasts were neither large nor perky. She couldn’t compete with Tiffany’s fresh beauty or Desiree’s surgical enhancements.

  She was still the best dancer in the joint, but already washed-up at twenty-eight, her beauty fading.

  Kevin poked his head into the dressing room. “Some guy wants a double VIP. Brunettes.”

  Shit. Janelle and Desiree were the only dark-haired girls on tonight.

  “There’s no accounting for taste,” Desiree said. “Ready?”

  Janelle’s feet groaned in protest as she rose. She didn’t mind doing doubles, a deluxe kind of lap dance that catered to the common girl-on-girl fantasy. Janelle was comfortable with her body and with the other dancers. It was a performance, like any other. Doubles paid well and felt safer because of the two-to-one ratio.

  She didn’t want to go into the VIP room with Desiree or anyone else, but work was work. Mood didn’t matter in this business. If she waited until she felt sexy to take her clothes off, she’d never earn a dollar.

  “Break a leg,” Tiffany said, sounding envious. She liked doubles.

  Their customer was an older man in a suit with square-framed glasses and balding hair. An oil company executive, maybe. He looked harmless. When the music started, Janelle faced Desiree, skimming her hands along the other woman’s curves. There was no rule about touching each other or themselves, as long as they didn’t engage in sex acts. After a moment of choreographed almost-kissing, their tops came off.

  Janelle felt even more disconnected than usual. She stared at the rings on the businessman’s soft hands, picturing the man with the tattooed knuckles. He hadn’t come in tonight, to her...relief.

  She tried to refocus, aware that she was putting on a mediocre show. Turning around, she bent over and wiggled her hips. Desiree raised the ruffled skirt and spanked Janelle’s bottom. Her slap was a little too hard to be called playful.

  Ignoring the sting, Janelle straightened. Desiree went down on her knees and removed Janelle’s skirt with an exaggerated pout. When she sank her teeth into Janelle’s thigh, Janelle fisted her hand in Desiree’s hair and gave it a sharp tug.

  Desiree rose, her dark eyes flashing. Janelle unzipped Desiree’s skirt and tossed it aside. They gyrated together in thong bikinis, front to front, and then front to back. For the finale, they were supposed to kneel at the customer’s feet, arms entwined. Desiree bumped Janelle’s shoulder, perhaps on purpose, and they both fell across his lap.

  The customer took advantage of the mistake by grabbing a handful of Janelle’s ass. Feeling trapped between two bodies, she panicked. When she shoved at Desiree, her elbow slammed into the man’s groin. He roared in pain and let go, cupping his crotch. Janelle went tumbling to the ground with Desiree.

  Janelle scrambled to her feet. An apology stuck in her throat. She’d overreacted, but he’d touched her inappropriately.

  Kevin came to investigate. “Is there a problem, sir?”

  “Yes,” the man said, his teeth clenched. “One of your whores punched me in the balls.”

  “There’s no reason to use offensive language,” Kevin said.

  “Fuck you! I want my money back.”

  He nodded, signaling at the girls to leave. “Of course.”

  Desiree and Janelle collected their clothes and retreated, hair disheveled. As soon as they were in the dressing area, the claws came out.

  “Nice going,” Desiree said.

  “It was your fault, bitch.”

  “I was trying to get us a better tip! All you had to do was giggle and apologize and we’d have an extra fifty to take home instead of jack shit.”

  Janelle didn’t want to argue. “If you ever do that again, I’ll punch you in the crotch.”

  “Fine,” Desiree said.

  Tiffany watched the exchange with worried eyes, nibbling her lush lower lip. Janelle’s hands trembled as she wiped off her face and changed into her street clothes. It wasn’t the first time a customer had copped a feel or called her a whore. It wouldn’t be the last. What upset her more was the confrontation with Desiree. The dancers always had each other’s backs. They were a close-knit group. But lately she’d felt like an outsider. Maybe it was because she’d dared to step above her station by pursuing a college degree.

  Or maybe she was just getting too old for this crap.

  She grabbed her keys, stuffed her costumes into her bag and gave Tiffany a goodbye hug. “Be careful tonight.”

  “I will.”

  “You don’t have to go to the hotel. We could watch a movie at my mom’s house.”

  Tiffany gave h
er a distant smile. She didn’t like to be alone. When the demons were chasing her, a quiet night with a girlfriend just wouldn’t cut it. Already in party mode, she left with the other girls, ponytail bouncing.

  Janelle searched for a cigarette on her way out, cursing as she remembered smoking the last one. Maybe she had an extra pack in her glove compartment. She stepped into the parking lot, which had been full when she’d arrived. Now it was dark and dead, with only a half-dozen cars near the entrance. The orange halogen lights gave off a dull, Halloween-like glow that failed to permeate the black night.

  She hurried toward her car, gripping her keys like a weapon. Drunk or disgruntled customers were known to harass dancers on their way out. In addition to the recent break-in and Tiffany’s attack, there had been other...incidents.

  A few years ago, Janelle had found a crude message on her rear windshield. The word slut was smeared across the glass with a sticky substance. She’d actually touched the letters and smelled her fingertips before she realized what it was: semen. Some sicko had masturbated on her car and written in his own fluids.

  She shuddered at the memory, feeling violated anew. At that time, it hadn’t occurred to her to call the police. They probably wouldn’t have done anything.

  When she reached her vehicle, her heart dropped. There was no message scrawled in jizz, but the covering for her back window was ripped. The plastic edges fluttered in the evening breeze, as if someone had shoved their fist through the opening. Maybe their entire body. She couldn’t see inside the cab.

  Pulse racing, she glanced around the parking lot. An engine revved in the distance, tires squealing down a deserted road. She took a tentative step forward, trying to peer into the backseat. It looked empty, but she wasn’t quite sure. Grasping her keys tight, she inched closer, eyes straining.

  “Last chance.”

  She yelped, almost jumping sky-high. Placing a hand to her hammering heart, she looked over her shoulder. Her coworkers had pulled up in Ginger’s noiseless hybrid car. It was a cute little silver bullet, smart and silent.

  “You sure you don’t need the extra cash?” Desiree asked with a smirk. “Maybe you could use it to fix that window.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Okay, then. Have fun at your trailer in Slab City.”

  “Salton City,” she corrected. Slab City was a wasteland of nomads and homeless freaks. “Have fun sucking cocks.”

  “We will!”

  Ginger stepped on the gas pedal, and they zipped away. Tiffany waved from the backseat, and Desiree whooped like a banshee. Three fast, beautiful girls, hell-bent on self-destruction. Why did she wish she was with them?

  She had nothing against sucking cocks. If she could find a decent guy attached to one.

  Blinking the tears from her eyes, she unlocked the car door and inspected the interior. It was free of intruders, so she climbed in. Forget them. Forget everything. She had Jamie to take care of. Tomorrow, she’d wake up early and make him breakfast. Those girls might have someone to grab on to tonight, but come morning, they’d be alone again.

  She pulled out of the parking lot, sniffling. There were no cigarettes in the glove compartment. Typical. She always smoked more than she planned and forgot to stash an extra pack.

  Time to quit: stripping and smoking.

  She switched on the radio to keep her company and settled in for a long drive. She’d have to stay at her mother’s house again tonight, which meant getting up at the crack of frickin’ dawn to take Jamie to school. Her eyelids grew heavy from lack of sleep. Yawning, she found a piece of sugar-free gum to chew on.

  About halfway to Niland, on a lonely portion of the 115, she hit a pothole. Or something. Jerked into a more alert state, she clenched her hands around the wheel. It sounded as if a chunk of asphalt had flown up into her engine.

  Another thunk followed, louder than the first.

  She pulled to the side of the road and idled for a moment. Maybe she’d run over a rabbit or a big lizard. She couldn’t afford to drive around with damaged engine parts, possibly a mangled carcass twisted around her fan belt. Groaning, she turned off the ignition and popped the trunk.

  Getting out of the car, she released the mechanism under the hood and propped it up with the lever. She didn’t have a flashlight—of course—so she used the butane flame of her Bic to inspect the engine. The problem was easy to identify. Her battery had come loose from its mount.

  “Damn it,” she muttered, trying to shove it back into place.

  While she was busy under the hood, a truck passed by, slowing down to rubberneck. During the day, she’d have welcomed help from a stranger. At three o’clock in the morning, she prayed the driver would move on.

  He didn’t.

  The man pulled over and got out. While his car door was open, the interior lights illuminated his face, just for a second. It was the tattooed man from Ace Demolition. She froze, considering the implications of his presence.

  This was not a coincidence.

  He hadn’t come inside for a lap dance, but he’d followed her from the club. He’d sabotaged her vehicle and followed her from the club.

  Janelle didn’t shut her open car door, slam the hood or pause to grab her purse from the passenger seat. She just took off running, her cowboy boots kicking up gravel. She hadn’t gone far, maybe twenty feet, when a searing jolt struck the back of her thigh. Her muscles stiffened, and her entire body convulsed.

  She collapsed on the asphalt, twitching.

  “Sorry,” he said, scooping her into his arms. He carried her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. After depositing her in the front seat of his truck, he tied her wrists and ankles with the swift ease of a cattle roper. She couldn’t move, could only weep. He locked up her car and retrieved her purse before climbing behind the wheel.

  She realized he’d shot her with some kind of stun gun. Her thigh burned from the sting, as if a swarm of wasps had descended on her. When he reached across her body, she flinched, expecting the worst. But he merely locked her door and secured her seat belt. Starting the engine, he drove away.

  Janelle had heard somewhere that the majority of abductions turned into murders, not just sexual assaults. She was as good as dead. Her instincts had warned her about this brooding pervert. He was going to rape her and cut her into little pieces.

  Thoughts of Jamie filled her head, making her eyes well with fresh tears. She didn’t want to leave him.

  “My—my son,” she stammered.

  “What about him?”

  “He’s all I’ve got.” She’d said that wrong; she’d meant the opposite. Jamie couldn’t count on Shane to stay out of prison, let alone take care of him. If this man killed her, her son would have no parents. “I’m all he’s got.”

  Maybe it was true both ways.

  Her captor offered a nod of acknowledgment, driving on in silence. Her mind must have been playing tricks on her, stretching minutes into hours, because it was still dark when they arrived in Bombay Beach, a coastal ghost town just thirty miles down the highway. After traveling down the dark, empty streets, they passed by what appeared to be an abandoned motel. He circled around the block and parked in a secluded area.

  Then he lit up a cigarette and sipped from a mug. Coffee, she suspected, her nose detecting no alcohol. His body language suggested they weren’t leaving soon. She followed his gaze to the motel parking lot. The only occupant was a dusty Jeep.

  “What are you going to do with me?” she asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “Are we going inside?”

  “No.”

  This waiting scared her more than any action could have. Her tension and anxiety grew until she felt as if her mind might snap. She was thirteen again, staring at the knob on her bedroom door.

  Why did he have to smoke?

  “Do you—do you want me to blow you?” she asked, remembering his dissatisfaction with the lap dance. If she could please him, maybe he’d go away. It had worked with her s
tepfather.

  He studied her, considering. His gaze traveled along her bare legs, from the tops of her boots to the frayed hem of her jean shorts. “Do you want to blow me?”

  “Yes,” she said immediately.

  He laughed without humor, glancing away.

  She smothered a sob of desperation. He didn’t like her scared face, was that it? She tried to guess what he preferred, based on his actions the previous night. “I’ll do it for free,” she said. “You don’t have to pay.”

  He gave her an impatient look. This wasn’t a selling point; she was at his mercy.

  “It would pass the time,” she blurted.

  “That it would,” he said, making no move to unzip his pants.

  Why was she begging to give this guy oral sex? His dick wasn’t a cigarette. She squirmed with a mixture of fear, discomfort and embarrassment. The back of her thigh ached where he’d struck her.

  “Why don’t you tell me what you really want,” he said.

  “Besides my freedom?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll take one of your Marlboros.”

  His brows rose with surprise. Shuffling another smoke from the pack, he lit the end and passed it to her.

  She tucked her knees to her chest and bent her elbows, bringing her bound hands closer to her face. Inhaling deeply, she closed her eyes and wallowed in the nicotine’s effect. It swam in her head and stirred her blood. “Thank you.”

  “Don’t.”

  Don’t thank him? She found it ironic that he’d laugh at her blow-job offer and take offense to her gratitude, but whatever. This guy was weird. Weird and cold and dangerous. She shrugged and kept smoking, resting her chin on her knee.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  OWEN TIGHTENED HIS ARM around Penny as he woke, disoriented.

  They were naked on the bathroom floor, a pile of blankets underneath them and a thin sheet over the top. Penny was asleep on his shoulder, which felt numb from the hard ground. Her eyes were closed, her dark hair spread across his chest. A disturbance outside warned him that Shane was about to come in.