Chapter 6: Guilt and Greed
The soreness was a living thing. It curled in Ashanti’s lower back, a deep, persistent ache that pulsed in time with her heartbeat as she stood before the smudged mirror in The Fuzzy Kitten’s dressing room. Every small movement—reaching for her eyeliner, bending to tie the lace of her corset—sent a flash of memory through her: James’s hands, the scratch of the rug, the weight of him. She tried to focus on her reflection, on the transformation into the stage-ready witch, but her amber eyes looked back at her, haunted and tired.The guilt was worse. It sat in her stomach like a cold, heavy stone, untouched by the two ibuprofens she’d dry-swallowed in the cab. The scent of Logan’s sheets seemed baked into her skin, no matter how vigorously she’d scrubbed in the club’s grimy shower stall.
“You move like you got run over by a bus full of regrets,” Jackie’s voice floated from a ratty velvet couch in the corner. The succubus was a splash of vibrant purple against the dingy maroon, lazily braiding a section of her pink hair. Her purple eyes, half-lidded, tracked Ashanti’s every flinch. “Or, you know, a particularly enthusiastic werewolf.”
Ashanti stiffened.“I’m fine. Just slept wrong.” The lie was brittle.
Jackie snorted, a puff of violet smoke curling from her nostrils.“Uh-huh.On a floor? Because your bed was occupied?” She let the question hang, a knowing smirk playing on her lips. “The ‘walk of shame’ has a very specific energy, Ash.It’s all clenched jaw and loose hips. You’re radiating it.”
“Drop it, Jackie.”
“I’m just saying. If you’re gonna let James bend you over the furniture, maybe invest in a better mattress pad. Or at least some industrial-grade liniment.” Jackie’s tone was light, but her gaze was sharp, probing. “He leave any marks?”
Before Ashanti could fire back a retort that would probably fizzle and die, the dressing room door swung open. The bass from the main stage throbbed into the room for a second before it was muffled again.James stood in the doorway.
He looked utterly relaxed, a stack of crisp bills in one hand, his hazel eyes already locked on Ashanti. A slow, possessive grin spread across his face. It was the same look he’d given her on the floor, in the bed.The look that said mine.
“Hey,” he said, his voice cutting through the hum of the neon lights.He nodded briefly at Jackie. “Sup, Jacks.”
“Living the dream,” Jackie drawled, not moving from the couch. Her eyes flicked between James and Ashanti, the smirk settling into something more calculating.
James’s attention never wavered from Ashanti.He held up the cash. “Came to settle last week’s bar tab.And to see my favorite witch.” He stepped inside, letting the door swing shut. The room suddenly felt smaller, warmer. He moved past the vanity littered with glitter and bobby pins, his presence overwhelming the small space. He stopped right in front of her, close enough for her to smell that same woodsy cologne from last night, now mixed with the club’s stale smoke and whiskey.“You look tense,” he murmured, his voice low, for her alone. One hand came up, his thumb brushing over the bare skin of her shoulder. She shivered, a traitorous response that started a fresh wave of heat in her core.Her body remembered. Her body wanted.
“James, not here,” she whispered, acutely aware of Jackie’s pointed silence behind them.“Why not?” His hand slid down her arm, his fingers linking with hers. He held the cash in his other hand, a mundane excuse for his presence.“VIP booth three is empty. We gotta talk about the liquor order.”
It was a flimsy pretext, transparent as glass. His eyes told the real story.They were dark, hungry. The same look he’d had before he’d taken her to the floor.She should pull away. She should tell him last night was a mistake, a lapse in judgment.She should invoke Logan’s name like a shield.
Instead, she let him pull her toward the door.
He led her through the dim, pulsing hallway behind the main stage, past stacked crates of cheap champagne and a sleeping bouncer. VIP Booth Three was a carved-out alcove shrouded in thick, red velvet curtains, soundproofed enough to muffle the thumping music to a dull roar. It smelled of spilled beer and old velvet.He drew the curtain closed behind them, sealing them in a private, crimson-lit world.
The second the fabric fell shut, his demeanor shifted.The casual pretense dropped. He backed her against the padded wall, his body caging hers. The stack of money was tossed carelessly onto a small table.
“Couldn’t stop thinking about you,” he said, his voice rough.His hands gripped her hips, fingers digging in.“All day. The way you came apart.The sounds you made.”
“James—”
He cut her off with a kiss. It wasn’t slow or searching like the first one on the couch.This was demanding, all teeth and possession. He kissed her like he was trying to erase the memory of anything else, anyone else. One hand came up to cradle her jaw, holding her in place, while the other slid down to bunch the short skirt of her stage outfit, pushing it up her thighs.
She met the kiss with equal ferocity, her guilt momentarily incinerated by a fresh, desperate need. Her hands fisted in his shirt.This was easier. This was just sensation, friction, a way to burn out the gnawing anxiety. He broke the kiss to trail his mouth down her neck, biting at the junction of her shoulder.She gasped, her head falling back against the velvet.
“Gotta have you again,” he growled against her skin. His hands were everywhere, pulling at the laces of her corset, cupping her breasts through the satin, his thumb finding her nipple and the metal bar beneath the fabric.He pinched, not gently.A sharp, bright pain-pleasure shot through her.
He spun her around, facing the curtain. “Hands on the wall.”
She obeyed, bracing her palms against the velvet-covered partition. She heard the clink of his belt, the tear of foil. He pushed her skirt up to her waist, tugged her panties aside, and entered her in one smooth, relentless thrust.It was deeper, harder than last night. The soreness from before flared, then melted into a different, fuller ache.
“Fuck,” he hissed, his hands gripping her hips, pulling her back onto him with each drive.The velvet scratched her cheek. The music was a distant throb. All she could hear was the sound of their bodies, his ragged breathing in her ear.
“You’re mine when you’re here,” he whispered, his lips against her ear.His pace was punishing, a steady, deep rhythm designed to overwhelm. “Mine.Not his.Not the club’s.Mine.”
She couldn’t speak. Her world had narrowed to the point where he joined her, to the building pressure coiling tighter and tighter. Her climax approached not as a wave but as a sudden, violent crack—a seismic release that shattered her silence into a choked cry against the curtain. He followed immediately, his own groan muffled in the braids at the nape of her neck, his body locking, shuddering, as he emptied into her.
For a long minute, they stayed like that, joined, breathing hard in the silent, red gloom. He finally pulled out, and she slumped forward, her forehead resting against the cool velvet.She felt raw, used, and utterly, shamefully satisfied.
He took care of the condom, tucking himself away. When he turned her around, his expression was softer, satiated.He brushed a sweaty braid from her face. “You okay?”
She nodded, unable to form words.The cold stone of guilt was already settling back into her gut, heavier now.
“Good.” He kissed her forehead, a strangely tender gesture. “I’ll put the bar tab money at the register. See you at home.” He gave her one last, long look, then slipped out through the curtain, leaving her alone in the booth.
Ashanti leaned against the wall, trying to steady her breathing. She felt hollowed out and full of lead. She needed to fix her makeup and get back to the bar. She pushed the curtain aside.
Across the hallway, leaning against a stack of kegs with her phone held up, was Jackie. Her lavender face was illuminated by the screen’s glow, her expression unreadable. She’d been watching. Of course, she had. Their eyes met. Jackie didn’t smile. She just lowered her phone, gave a slow, almost imperceptible nod, and pushed off the kegs, disappearing down the hallway toward the stage. Alone, Ashanti stumbled back to the dressing room. Her corset felt like a cage. In the mirror, her reflection looked shattered. She reached for a makeup wipe with a trembling hand.
Out on the main floor, Jackie leaned against the bar, the blurry, dark photo on her screen showing two silhouettes pressed against a red velvet curtain. One with distinctive braids. The other was tall and broad-shouldered. She tapped Logan’s contact, her thumb hovering over the send button. Her purple eyes, for once, held no mischief, only a grim resolve. She typed a caption, her lip curling. Your brother is very generous with tips.
She hit send. The message whooshed away into the digital ether, a tiny spark shot into a powder keg. She ordered a double whiskey, drained it in one go, and vanished into the crowd, leaving only the faint scent of ozone and trouble behind.
Logan’s phone buzzed against the gritty laminate of the stock room table, skittering near a box of frayed pricing guns. He wiped his hands on his jeans, leaving grey streaks on the denim. The preview of Jackie’s message glowed on the cracked screen: a blur of red velvet and two familiar shapes.
His thumb hovered. A cold prickle, the one that usually meant a territorial challenge or a stubbed toe, traced his spine.He opened it.
The photo clarified into a damning chiaroscuro of shadow and neon outline. The caption burned beneath it. Your brother is very generous with tips. He stared. The world didn’t narrow so much as sharpen, every detail in the grimy stockroom coming into a harsh, hyper-real focus: the dust motes suspended in the air, the hum of the broken fluorescent light, the acidic smell of floor cleaner. His knuckles tightened, the plastic casing of the phone creaking in his grip. He didn’t text back. He stood, the metal chair screeching against the floor. His coworker, a tired-looking vampire named Marc, glanced up from a pallet of paper towels. “Break’s not for another twenty, man.”
“Gotta go,” Logan said, his voice strangely flat. He was already shoving his arms into his jacket, the warehouse-issue neon vest hitting the floor with a soft thwap. The photo was seared into his vision. He moved through the loading bay doors, the night air hitting him like a physical slap. The scent-trail from his morning was faint, but his brother’s was everywhere, fresh and overlapping with Ashanti’s. James had been at the apartment after he’d left. Of course, he had.
His motorcycle roared to life beneath him, a guttural echo of the snarl building in his own chest. The city lights bled into streaks as he gunned it toward The Fuzzy Kitten.
Back in the dressing room, Ashanti stared at the glitter-strewn face in the mirror and saw a stranger. The wipe in her hand was smeared with black mascara and bronze foundation, a messy streak across her palm. Her magic, usually a quiet pool she could draw from, churned inside her, restless and hot. A faint amber glow pulsed once in her irises. She closed her eyes, forcing a breath. It was just a thing. A mistake. It doesn’t change anything. The curtain rustled. She jumped, but it was only Sheila, a shifter who worked the pole on Tuesdays. “You’re up after Zara, Quinn. You look like hell. Cute hell, but still.”
“Thanks,” Ashanti muttered, her voice sandpaper-rough. She turned to re-tie her corset, her fingers fumbling with the slippery laces. The soreness between her legs was a relentless, accusing ache. She could still smell him on her skin, layered under cheap perfume.
Out in the main room, Jackie watched the entrance from a shadowed corner near the DJ booth. She sucked the last drops of her whiskey from the ice cubes, the cold clinking against her teeth. Her phone screen, now dark, felt heavy in her hand. She’d lit the fuse. Now she gets to watch the fireworks. Part of her, the small, buried part that wasn’t pure chaos, twinged with something like regret. But Ashanti’s tight-lipped silence and James’s smug possession had scraped against her protective instincts in all the wrong ways. Logan deserved to know. Even if knowing would burn everything down.
The roar of a motorcycle cut through the bassline outside, dying abruptly. Jackie’s purple eyes snapped to the front door. Showtime.
Logan shoved the door open, the familiar wall of sound and scent hitting him. Cheap liquor, sweat, pheromones, and beneath it all, the sharp, electric trace of witch and the musky, dominant signature of his brother. They were both here, now, their trails fresh and mingled. His vision tinted at the edges, a precursor to the shift he fought down. He was not his brother’s keeper. But Ashanti… she was supposed to be under his protection. In his bed. His friend.
He moved through the crowd, people instinctively parting for the grim-set jaw and the wildfire in his gold eyes. He scanned the booths, the bar, the stage. He saw James first, leaning against the far end of the polished wood, laughing with the bartender, a stack of cash still in his hand.Tips.Logan was across the room in seconds. He didn’t speak. He grabbed his brother’s shoulder, spinning him around.
James’s smile vanished, replaced by a wary calculation.“Logan. What’s up? You’re supposed to be—”
“What did you do?” Logan’s voice was low, a vibration that carried under the music.
James’s hazel eyes flickered, just for an instant, toward the hall to the dressing rooms. It was all the confirmation Logan needed. The photo was true.“Man, relax. It’s not what you think.”
“What do I think?” Logan’s grip tightened on James’s shirt. “Tell me what I think, James.”
Before James could fabricate an answer, a shift in the light caught Logan’s attention. Ashanti emerged from the back hallway, stepping into the dim glow of the stage lights. Her braids were perfectly arranged, her makeup re-done flawlessly, but her walk was stiff, careful. The careful walk Jackie had mocked. Her gaze swept the room, landed on them, and froze. Her amber eyes widened, the glow in them flaring visibly for a heartbeat before she shut it down, a mask of professional calm slamming into place. It was the most telling thing he’d ever seen her do.
She looked from Logan’s furious face to James’s guarded one. Her own face drained of color beneath the stage makeup.
Jackie materialized beside Logan, as if from the smoke itself. She plucked the empty whiskey glass from a nearby table and sighed, a sound of profound boredom. “And here comes the part where everybody yells. Can we skip to the part where we get more drinks instead?” Her joke fell into the tense silence between the brothers, lifeless and heavy.
Logan finally let go of James, shoving him back a step. He didn’t look at Jackie. His entire focus was on Ashanti, who stood stranded near the stage, looking like she wished the floor would open and swallow her whole. The music transitioned to a syrupy, slow song. The spotlight swung, searching for the next performer. It settled on Ashanti.
“Go on, Quinn,” the stage manager’s voice crackled over the PA. “You’re on.”
Trapped in the light, she was a stunning, haunted statue. Logan took a step toward her, the crowd blurring into irrelevant shadows. James moved to intercept, his stance a silent challenge. The bass thumped, a dull heartbeat syncing with Logan’s own. He didn’t know what he would say when he reached her, only that the fractured trust hanging in the air between them was a physical thing, sharp enough to draw blood.
The spotlight burned. It pinned Ashanti to the stained floorboards, transforming her from a person into a spectacle for the Friday night crowd. Her professional smile felt like cracked plaster over a scream.
Logan took another step, his boots sounding a final, heavy note against the sticky floor.James shifted his weight, a subtle block. “Not here, little brother.” His voice was low, a warning wrapped in velvet. “This is her work.”
“Work?” Logan’s laugh was a brittle, ugly sound. “That what you call it?”
Ashanti flinched.The music swelled, a saccharine pop ballad mocking the scene. She had to move.The stage manager’s impatient glare cut through the gloom from the wings. Trapped between the audience’s expectation and the wreckage of her private life, she forced her leaden feet toward the polished brass pole.Her hand closed around the cold metal. It grounded her, a little.She turned her back to the brothers, presenting herself to the faceless crowd. The first familiar chords of her routine thumped through the speakers. Muscle memory took over where her mind had shorted out. She arched, rolled her shoulders, let the music dictate the swing of her hips.Every movement pulled at the fresh soreness James had left in her muscles.A brutal reminder. Her gaze, against her will, flicked to the mirrored wall behind the bar. In its warped reflection, she saw them: Logan, a statue of coiled fury; James, watching her with a dark, proprietary satisfaction.
“Just talk to me.” Logan’s voice, strained, reached her over the synthesized beat.He was speaking to James, but it felt aimed at her spine.
“Nothing to talk about,” James said, easy as ever. He took a sip from a bottle of beer, his eyes never leaving Ashanti’s gyrating silhouette. “You’re making a scene in her place of business.Show some respect.”
“Respect?” Logan spun on him. The ambient noise of the club dipped for a second. “You got a funny way of showing it, fucking my—”
Ashanti missed her cue. Her foot slipped on the stage edge, a clumsy stumble she covered with a desperate spin.The crowd didn’t notice, but Logan did. He saw the raw panic in her mirrored eyes.His own anger suddenly folded, replaced by something colder, clearer.
He looked from James’s smug face to Ashanti’s terrified performance. The puzzle pieces—the late nights, the guarded looks, his brother’s constant, looming presence—snapped into a perfect, sickening picture.It wasn’t a one-time mistake.It was a pattern.
Jackie appeared at his elbow, holding a fresh glass of something clear and fizzy. “Told you,” she murmured, not looking at him.“Walk of shame. Now it’s a run.”
Logan ignored her.He walked away from James, toward the edge of the stage. He didn’t shout.He just stood there, waiting for her to see him. When her spinning finally brought her face-to-face with him, she froze mid-motion, one leg extended.
Their eyes locked. The gold in his hand held no warmth, only a deep, weary hurt. Her amber glow flickered, a magic surge responding to her sheer distress. In that silent exchange, everything was confessed. The guilt, the complicity, the bitter, honeyed secret. The song was ending. The spotlight began to fade. In the growing darkness, Logan spoke, his voice flat and carrying. “We’re done here.”
He didn’t specify who he was talking to. He turned and walked out, pushing through the crowd without looking back. The door swung shut behind him, cutting off the thump of the bass.
Ashanti stood alone on the suddenly dark stage, the final notes dying around her. The applause was a distant, hollow rain. James was already moving, not toward the exit Logan had taken, but toward the backstage hall, expecting her to follow.
From her perch at the bar, Jackie took a long, slow sip. She watched Ashanti stumble off the stage into the shadows where James waited. She watched the curtain fall back into place behind them. Then she pulled out her phone, deleted the photo she'd sent to Logan, and ordered another drink. The fuse was lit. Now she just has to watch it burn from a safe distance.