Chapter 2: The New Recruit
The condom hit the floor of the private booth with a wet sound that seemed louder than the bass bleeding through the velvet walls. Rico was still catching his breath, leaning back against the leather, his shirt sticking to his chest in places he didn't remember sweating through. Blake was already pulling her dress over her head, smooth as a snake shedding skin, no hesitation, no awkwardness, no trace of the woman who'd just ridden him like he was the last horse out of a burning stable.
She found her panties, stepped into them, and turned to face him with that same calculating smirk. "So. Do I get the job?"
Rico laughed, a genuine sound that surprised him. He couldn't remember the last time a woman had left him speechless and then made him laugh. "Yeah. You get the job."
She nodded once, crisply, like she'd expected nothing less, and followed him out of the booth. He tucked his shirt in as they walked, adjusting his belt, feeling the eyes of a few regulars on them as they emerged from the private area. Blake didn't so much as glance at them. She had the stride of someone who'd already won a race everyone else was still running.
Candi was waiting by the bar, nursing a vodka soda with ice that had long since melted. Her platinum wig caught the neon, turning her into a ghost in the half-light. She watched them approach, her eyes flicking from Rico to Blake and back again, reading the situation with the accuracy of a woman who'd spent eight years decoding male body language.
"So," Candi said, setting down her glass. "You hired her."
"I did." Rico gestured between them. "Blake, this is Candi. She's been here since before I took over. She's the one who'll show you the ropes."
Candi looked Blake up and down with the clinical detachment of a mechanic inspecting a used car. "How old are you, really?"
"Old enough to work here."
"You've done this before?"
Blake smiled, that slow, wolfish expression. "I've done a lot of things before."
The two women regarded each other for a long moment. Rico watched the interaction carefully, knowing how this could go. Candi was territorial, protective of her spot at the top of the food chain. But she was also pragmatic. She saw the hunger in Blake's eyes, recognized it as something she'd once had herself.
"Alright," Candi said, pushing off the bar. "Let's see what you've got. You'll start tonight, trial shift. VIP only. One customer. If you impress me, you can stay."
Blake's eyes narrowed slightly, but she nodded. "Fine."
Candi led her toward the dressing room, a cramped space behind the main stage cluttered with costumes, makeup, and the lingering smell of hairspray and desperation. The other dancers were scattered around, some touching up their makeup, others scrolling through their phones, all of them stealing glances at the new girl.
"These are the girls," Candi said, gesturing vaguely. "You'll meet them properly later. For now, you need to get ready. Your customer's already here."
Blake looked around the room, taking in the chaos with an unreadable expression. "Who is he?"
Candi's face flickered with something that might have been warning. "His name's Sterling. He's a regular. Comes in every few weeks, always asks for the new girl. He's got money, but he's demanding. Real demanding."
"How demanding?"
"One girl quit after a night with him. Another one cried in the bathroom for an hour." Candi paused, letting the weight of that sink in. "But he tips like a man who's trying to buy forgiveness for something. If you can handle him, you'll walk out with at least three grand in your g-string."
Blake didn't flinch. "What does he like?"
Candi studied her for a moment, searching for something in the younger woman's eyes. "He likes control. He'll test you, try to push you around, see if you'll break. You don't break. You give him just enough to keep him interested, but you never let him actually win. You get it?"
"I get it."
Candi nodded slowly, a flicker of approval crossing her face. "Get changed. He's in Booth Four. And Blake?" She paused at the door. "He's got a thing for red. Wear the red."
The dressing room cleared out as the other girls filed toward the main floor for their sets, leaving Blake alone with the rack of costumes. She ran her fingers over the fabric, assessing her options, then pulled out something that wasn't from the rack at all but from her own bag — a scrap of crimson mesh that had been cut to leave nothing to the imagination. She slipped it on, adjusted the thin straps, and examined herself in the cracked mirror.
The woman looking back was different from the one who'd walked into the club two hours ago. There was a hardness there now, a glint in her eye that hadn't existed before. She traced the line of her collarbone, studying the pale expanse of her own skin like she was mapping out a battlefield.
"You've got this," she said to her reflection. "You've always got this."
The VIP lounge was quieter than the main floor, the bass muted to a low throb that seemed to pulse through the soles of her feet. Booth Four was in the corner, half-hidden by a sheer curtain that shimmered with holographic patterns. Blake approached it slowly, letting her heels click against the floor, announcing her presence.
Sterling was already inside, sprawled across the leather like he owned it and everyone in it. He was older, mid-fifties, with silver hair and a face that might have been handsome once before too many deals and too many drinks had worn it down. His suit was expensive — Italian tailoring, bespoke — and his watch probably cost more than Blake's entire wardrobe. He looked up as she parted the curtain, and his eyes traveled the length of her with the slow, deliberate weight of a man who was used to getting what he wanted.
"Fresh meat," he said, his voice a low rumble. "They told me you were new. I didn't expect you to be this new."
Blake stepped inside, letting the curtain fall shut behind her. The booth was smaller than the one she'd been in with Rico, more intimate, the walls closing in like they were conspiring. She settled onto the couch across from him, crossing her legs with deliberate slowness.
"I'm new," she said. "But I learn fast."
"I'll bet you do." He reached for his glass, took a long sip of whiskey, watching her over the rim. "Do you know the rules of this place?"
"I'm learning them."
"Rule one," he said, setting down the glass. "When a man pays for a private dance, he expects the dancer to come to him. Not sit across the room like she's waiting for a bus."
Blake held his gaze for a moment, letting the silence stretch. Then she rose, crossed to his side of the booth, and settled onto his lap with a fluid grace that made his breath catch. She straddled him, close enough that he could feel the heat radiating off her skin, the mesh of her costume scratching against his expensive suit.
"Better?" she asked.
Sterling's hands found her hips, gripping them with a possessiveness that bordered on aggression. "Much better."
The music shifted, something slower and heavier, and Blake began to move with it — rolling her hips in slow, deliberate circles that pressed her body against his. His hands tightened on her waist, pulling her closer, and she let him. For a moment. Then she pulled back, just slightly, just enough to make him chase her.
"That's a tease," he said, his voice rough.
"That's a warm-up," she replied.
She reached behind her back, unhooked the clasp, and let the crimson mesh fall away. The dim light caught her skin, painting her in shadows and highlights that made her look like something out of a fever dream. Sterling's eyes darkened, his grip on her hips tightening almost painfully.
He reached for her, his hand going to her throat, not squeezing, just resting there — a reminder of who was in control. Blake didn't tense, didn't pull away. She just looked at him, unblinking, and kept moving.
"That's a nice trick," he said. "Not flinching."
"Honey, I've been through worse than you."
"Oh, have you?" He leaned forward, his mouth brushing her ear, his breath hot and sharp with whiskey. "I doubt that."
His other hand moved up her thigh, fingers digging into the soft flesh, and Blake felt her instinct kick in — the urge to pull away, to slap his hand, to end this before it went somewhere she couldn't control. But she'd been raised to slide through the world's cracks and never make a sound. She held his gaze, and he held hers.
Then he shoved her.
It was sudden, violent, a sharp thrust that sent her tumbling off his lap and onto the floor of the booth. She landed hard, the breath knocked out of her, her shoulder cracking against the side table hard enough to rattle the glasses. For a second, she just lay there, stunned, staring up at the ceiling while a bloom of pain spread through her.
Sterling leaned forward, looking down at her with cold satisfaction. "You see? Control. That's what I'm paying for."
Blake pushed herself up slowly, nursing her shoulder. Her lips were pressed into a thin line, but her voice was steady. "Three grand. And I want an extra hundred for the bruise."
Sterling laughed, a genuine sound that dissolved some of the tension in the air. "You've got some nerve, girl."
"I've got a lot of nerve," she said, meeting his eyes. "And you've got a lot of money. Seems like we're a good match."
He reached into his wallet, peeled off a stack of bills, and tossed them onto the couch. "You'll do. Tell Rico I'm impressed."
Blake gathered the money, tucking it into her G-string with a practiced hand, and rose to her feet. She slipped the costume back on, concealing the bruise already forming on her shoulder. When she stepped out of the booth, her legs were steady, her expression unreadable.
Rico was leaning against the bar, watching with an unreadable expression. When Blake reached him, she held up the stack of bills.
"Told you," she said, smirking. "I'm memorable."
Rico's eyebrows rose as he counted the cash. Three thousand and a hundred. "He gave you the extra? For the bruise?"
Blake rolled her left shoulder, wincing slightly. "He likes me right there on the edge, but he wants to know I can take a blow and stay in control. That's his little game."
Rico studied her, something shifting in his expression. "You've done this before. The kind of thing that leaves bruises."
"Everyone's got a past." She pocketed the money. "You gonna run my background check, or am I good to keep working?"
For a long moment, Rick said nothing. Just watched her with those dark, calculating eyes. Then he smiled, the gold tooth glinting under the neon.
"You're good," he said. "For now. But whatever you're running from? It'll catch up eventually. It always does."
Blake's smile didn't falter. "Then I'll just have to outrun it."
She walked toward the dressing room, leaving Rico at the bar with the bass thumping and the neon buzzing. He pulled out his phone and finally read the message he'd ignored earlier — the one from the unknown number.
The screen glowed in the dim light, casting his face in shadows as he smiled.
Blake was already halfway to the dressing room when the message arrived. Her phone buzzed, a distant ache against the lean muscle of her thigh. She pulled it out, glanced at the screen, and stopped mid-stride.
A single line of text from an unknown number: They're still looking for you.
She read it, considered it, then pocketed the phone without a trace of emotion. When she reached the dressing room, she was smiling again, ready for her next dance. The club hummed around her, the bass thrumming through the floor, the night sprawling out in front of her like an endless, dangerous road.
She walked into the dressing room, let the door swing shut behind her, and leaned against it, pressing her fingers to the bruise blooming on her shoulder. The smile was gone now, stripped away in the privacy of the empty room. She looked at herself in the cracked mirror, and the reflection stared back at her — a woman on the edge of something bigger than she'd let herself believe.
Her phone buzzed again. A second message. This time, just a picture.
She looked at it for a long time, her face unreadable, then deleted both messages and got ready for her next dance. The night was far from over, and the road ahead was getting longer.
The dressing room mirror caught her reflection in pieces — cracks splitting her face into fragments that didn't quite align. She pressed her palm flat against the cool glass, feeling the vibration of bass through the wall, and watched herself breathe until the animal in her chest settled back into its cage.
The door swung open and Candi slipped inside, closing it behind her with a practiced silence. She didn't say anything at first. Just leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, studying Blake with those eyes that had seen every version of this story play out before.
"Three grand and a hundred," Candi said slowly. "That's not bad for a first night."
"He's an asshole."
"Yeah, he is." Candi pushed off the doorframe, walking past Blake to grab a bottle from the cluttered makeup table. "But he's an asshole who pays on time and never gets rough enough to leave marks that show. There are worse customers. Trust me."
Blake laughed, the sound dry and hollow. "He shoved me off his lap."
"He did?" Candi paused, her hand hovering over the bottle. "And you still took his money?"
"I made him pay extra for the privilege."
Candi turned, something shifting in her expression — a flicker of respect, grudging and reluctant. She unscrewed the cap, took a long drink, and held the bottle out to Blake.
"You've done this before," Candi said. "And not just dancing."
Blake accepted the bottle, wiped the rim with her palm, and drank. The whiskey burned going down, a warm ribbon cutting through the cold knot in her stomach. She handed it back without meeting Candi's eyes.
"Why do you care?"
"I don't," Candi said. "But I've been here eight years. I've seen girls walk in looking like they're running from something, and I've seen them leave in body bags. You've got that same look — like you've got a ghost on your heels."
Blake's jaw tightened. "Maybe I do."
"Then you better figure out whether you're running from it or running to it." Candi set the bottle down, her voice dropping. "Because this city has a way of catching up with people. And when it does, it don't matter how fast you were running."
The door opened, cutting through the moment. One of the other dancers — a young girl with red hair and a face that hadn't quite hardened yet — poked her head in.
"Blake? There's a guy asking for you by name. Says he's a friend of Sterling's."
Blake's blood went cold.
For a moment, she didn't move. The mirror showed her frozen, caught in the cracked glass, the bruise on her shoulder a dark bloom against her pale skin. Then she turned, pulling herself together, letting the mask slide back into place.
"Friend of Sterling's," she repeated. "He say what he wants?"
"Just said he wants a dance and he's got cash."
Candi's eyes narrowed. "That's not my favorite kind of request at two in the morning."
"It ain't gonna be your problem." Blake grabbed her costume bag, already moving toward the door. "I'll handle it."
"No," Candi said, stepping into her path. "I'll come with you. Just to watch."
Blake met her eyes, something unspoken passing between them. After a moment, she nodded.
The main floor had thinned out, the last call crowd nursing drinks and watching the stage with glassy eyes. The man was waiting in one of the semi-private booths near the back, half-hidden in shadow. He was younger than Sterling, maybe late thirties, with a hard face and hands that looked like they'd seen work. He smiled when Blake approached, but the smile didn't reach his eyes.
"You're Blake," he said. It wasn't a question.
"And you are?"
"Call me Danny." He gestured to the seat across from him. "Sterling said you were something special. I wanted to see for myself."
Blake didn't sit. "What kind of dance are you looking for?"
"The kind where we talk first." He reached into his jacket, pulled out a stack of bills, and laid them on the table. Five thousand, maybe more. "I got questions. You got answers. We can do it here, or we can do it somewhere more private."
Candi moved closer, a shadow at Blake's elbow. "We don't do interviews in the VIP room."
Danny's eyes flicked to her, cold and flat. "I wasn't talking to you."
Blake felt the tension crackle between them, electric and dangerous. She reached out, resting a hand on Candi's arm, a silent signal. Then she looked at Danny, meeting his gaze without flinching.
"Five grand buys a lot of questions," Blake said. "But it don't buy me. If you want to talk, we talk here. If you want something else, you're gonna have to be more specific."
Danny studied her for a long moment, the smile never quite reaching his eyes. Then he leaned back, his hands spread in a gesture of mock surrender.
"Alright. Here's a question." He picked up a bill, folded it once, twice. "Where did you get the scar on your left shoulder?"
Blake's stomach dropped.
She didn't look at her shoulder, didn't flinch, didn't give him anything. But the words hung in the air between them, heavy and deliberate, loaded with a meaning she couldn't escape.
"I don't know what you're talking about," she said.
"Sure you do." Danny unfolded the bill, smoothed it flat, and set it back on the stack. "You got a scar about three inches long, right where the deltoid meets the trapezius. Old wound. Knife, maybe. Or a piece of glass from a car crash."
Candi's eyes flicked to Blake, a question forming on her lips. Blake cut her off before she could speak.
"That's a very specific guess."
"I'm not guessing." Danny stood, his chair scraping against the floor. "I'm telling you. Because whoever did that to you needs to know you're still alive. And I'm here to find out if that's true."
The words settled over the booth like a cold fog. Blake felt a coiled tension in her chest, a pressure building between her ribs. She didn't know how he knew about the scar. She didn't care.
"You've got the wrong girl," she said, her voice flat. "I don't know who you're looking for, but it's not me."
"We'll see." Danny picked up the money, tucked it back into his jacket. "We'll see."
He brushed past her, shouldering his way out of the booth and heading for the exit. Blake didn't watch him go. She stood still, her breathing steady, her expression unreadable, waiting until the door swung shut before she let herself feel anything at all.
"Blake," Candi said quietly. "Who the fuck was that?"
"I don't know."
"Bullshit."
Blake finally turned, meeting Candi's eyes. The mask had slipped, just slightly, revealing something raw and bruised beneath it.
"I don't know," she repeated. "But I'm gonna find out."
Candi's silence was heavier than any question she could have asked. She just stood there, arms crossed, reading Blake like a witness statement, her painted lips pressed into a thin line that said I've seen this before and you're in over your head in equal measure.
The club's bass thumped through the floorboards, a distant heartbeat that kept the night alive. Somewhere out on the main floor, a girl laughed too loudly at a joke that wasn't funny, and a bottle clinked against a glass, and the world kept spinning on its greasy axis like nothing had happened.
Blake picked up her bag and walked toward the dressing room. Her shoulder ached where Sterling had shoved her, a dull throb that pulsed with each step. She closed the door behind her, leaned against it, and let herself breathe for the first time in what felt like hours.
Her phone buzzed. A new message from the same unknown number: I'm still here, Blake. You can't outrun what you are.
She read it twice, then deleted it. Her thumb hovered over the call button for a moment, but she pocketed the phone instead. Calling him would mean admitting he was right. Calling him would mean giving him exactly what he wanted.
The door creaked open and Candi slipped inside, her expression unreadable. She crossed the room to the makeup table, picked up a brush, and started fixing a smudge of lipstick that didn't need fixing.
"You don't have to tell me," Candi said, not looking at her. "But if he's coming back, I need to know who I'm dealing with. This club is my livelihood. I don't let it burn for a stranger."
"He's not coming back."
"You don't know that."
Blake pushed herself off the door, walked to the cracked mirror, and studied her reflection. The woman looking back was older than she'd been this morning, harder, more brittle at the edges. She touched the scar through her costume, dragging her fingers along the raised tissue like she was reading braille.
"His name is Marcus," she said quietly. "He's my ex-husband's business partner. I owe him money. A lot of it."
Candi's hand stilled on the brush. "How much is a lot?"
"Enough that he'd track me to Vice City eight years later."
The silence stretched between them, thick enough to cut. Candi set down the brush, turned to face her, and for the first time, the armor cracked—just a little, just enough to show the woman underneath.
"Eight years is a long time to hold a grudge," Candi said. "That's not about money. That's personal."
Blake laughed, the sound rusty and broken. "Yeah. I know."
She sank onto the worn couch in the corner, the springs creaking beneath her weight. The dressing room smelled like cheap perfume and desperation, like the thousand other dressing rooms she'd sat in over the years, waiting for her life to change.
"I met him when I was nineteen," she said. "My ex, not Marcus. He was older, charming, had money to burn. I thought I'd hit the jackpot. Turned out he was the dealer and I was the product."
Candi didn't interrupt. She just sat down across from her, her eyes never leaving Blake's face.
"He got me hooked on the good stuff first—the expensive cocaine, the glamorous lifestyle. Then he got me hooked on him. By the time I figured out what was happening, I was in too deep. I was dancing for him, for his friends, for anyone he told me to please. I was his personal cash cow."
Her jaw tightened at the memory. "I ran when I was twenty-one. Stole ten grand from his safe and hit the road. I thought I was free."
"But you weren't."
"No." Blake shook her head slowly. "He found me a year later. Beat me within an inch of my life, took the money, and told me if I ever thought about running again, he'd make sure I ended up in a ditch somewhere. And he meant it. He would have killed me that night if Marcus hadn't stopped him."
Candi's eyes flicked to the scar. "That's what that is?"
"That's what that is. The thin cut on the shoulder, where he held me down and..."
She trailed off, unable to finish the sentence. The memory hung in the air between them, heavy and dark, a shadow that had followed her across the country and into this dimly lit dressing room.
"Marcus stopped him," Candi said slowly. "But you still owe him money?"
"He paid my ex to let me go. Thirty grand. I was supposed to pay him back." Blake laughed again, the sound hollow. "I paid him five thousand before I ran again. I couldn't do it anymore. I couldn't stay in that town, with those people, living that life. So I left."
Candi sat back, processing it all. The night hummed around them, the bass thumping through the walls, the muffled sounds of the club drifting in like static.
"Thirty grand is a lot of money," Candi said. "But it's not infinite. You could pay that off in a few years, working the VIP room, making the right kind of money."
Blake's eyes snapped up, sharp and defensive. "I'm not going back to that. I'm not going back to working for someone who—"
"I'm not talking about going back to Marcus." Candi leaned forward, her voice low and measured. "I'm talking about working for yourself. You've got something, Blake. I saw it tonight. You know how to read a man, how to handle him, how to make him pay for the privilege of your time. That's a skill, and it's worth money. Real money."
The words hung in the air, tempting and dangerous. Blake looked at Candi, searching her face for the angle, for the catch. But all she saw was a woman who'd been in the same position, who'd made the same calculations, and who'd come out the other side.
"I don't trust people," Blake said quietly.
"Good." Candi smiled, a sharp, knowing expression. "That means you're smart. Trusting people in this business gets you dead." She stood, walking to the door, then paused with her hand on the handle. "But trusting yourself? That's different. That might just keep you alive."
She left, the door swinging shut behind her. Blake sat alone in the dressing room, the silence pressing in around her, her phone warm in her pocket.
She pulled it out. The screen glowed in the dim light, illuminating her face.
One message. New number. Same effect: You look good in red. But you'd look better on your knees.
She stared at it for a long moment, her heart hammering against her ribs. Then she typed a reply, her fingers steady, her breath even.
You can try. I bite back now.
The response came almost immediately: I'm counting on it.
She turned off her phone and stepped onto the main floor. The music was different now, faster, angrier, and the neon felt brighter and more desperate. Rico was where she'd left him, leaning against the bar with his eyes combing the crowd. She'd thought about telling him—about the scar, about the fight, about the wound on her shoulder that had finally closed. But some heaviness sat in the pit of her stomach, a name she'd spent eight years leaving behind.
"He's gone," she said, her voice flat. She slid onto the stool next to him, letting the tension bleed out of her shoulders. "Forget it."
Rico gave her a long, unreadable look. Then he reached down and nudged a drink toward her.
"Forget what?" he said. "You killed tonight. That's all I need to know."
She picked up the drink, raised it to him, and downed it in one long swallow. She was still hurting, still wondering if Danny would be back, still tasting the old copper shame in her mouth. But the bar was warm, and Rico's approval was a currency she understood. For now, that was enough.
The night rolled on, the crowd thinning out as the hours crawled toward closing time. Blake worked the floor, moving from booth to booth, charming and deflecting, giving just enough to keep the money flowing without giving anything that mattered. Her shoulder throbbed with every movement, but she'd learned long ago how to smile through the pain.
It was almost three when she finally stepped outside, the cool night air hitting her face like a slap. The street was quiet, the neon of The Delights casting long shadows across the empty sidewalk. She lit a cigarette, leaning against the brick wall, watching the smoke curl into the dark.
"Long night?"
She turned. Danny was leaning against a car across the street, arms crossed, watching her with that same flat, knowing expression.
"You're still here," she said.
"I told you. I'm not going anywhere."
She took a long drag, letting the smoke fill her lungs, tasting ash and regret. "What do you want, Danny? You've been following me for days, you know my name, you know about the scar. You've made your point. So what's the play?"
"Sterling's not the only one interested in you." He pushed off the car, crossing the street toward her. "There's a man, a high-ranking official in the city. He's got a taste for red-haired dancers with a history. I'm his fixer. He wants a private show."
Her eyes narrowed. "I'm not a fucking clown at a birthday party. I don't do private shows."
"He's willing to pay ten grand."
The number hit her like a punch. Ten grand. Enough to chip away at the debt, enough to buy her a few more months of running, enough to give her a sliver of hope.
"For what, exactly?" she asked slowly.
"Exactly what he asks for. Nothing more." Danny's eyes were dark, unreadable. "But he's got a thing for control. He likes to watch. He likes to touch. Sometimes he likes to hurt."
Blake crushed the cigarette under her heel, the ember hissing against the pavement. "And if I say no?"
Danny smiled, and it was wider than before, a shark's smile in streetlight. "Then I make sure Sterling knows exactly who you are. The whole story. Every sordid detail."
The threat settled between them like a live grenade. Blake felt the weight of it, the inevitability of it. She'd worked so hard to build a life, to leave her past behind, but the past had a way of wrapping its hand around your throat.
"One night," she said finally. "If I do this, he gets one night. And that's it."
Danny nodded, pulling a card from his jacket. "Be at this address tomorrow. Midnight. Come alone."
She took the card, folding it into her palm. He turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing in the empty street, leaving her standing in the neon glow of a club that was supposed to be her fresh start.
Her phone buzzed. A new message: I heard you've been talking to old friends. I'll find you. Always find you.
She deleted it without reading the rest, let the emptiness of the street fill her lungs, let the burn of cheap whiskey chase the cold out of her bones. Then she lit another cigarette, the smoke rising into a sky that had forgotten the stars.
Tomorrow was coming. She'd walk into the fire or step aside.
The smoke clung to her tongue, still tinged with the cheap whiskey and the bitter taste of all she'd said. Somewhere behind her, the final notes of the closing song died, and the night exhaled.
He gav henne ett leende, ett som inte nådde hans ögon. Hans händer fann hennes midja och drog henne närmare, och hon förstod.
In i det mörka, in i det okända, där gamla synder viskade och nya löften ljög. Och när den första beröringen kom, var den hård och hänsynslös, precis som hon lärt sig att förvänta sig. Hon kände hans fingrar gräva in i hennes höft, pressa henne mot den kalla väggen, men hon gjorde inget motstånd. Istället blev hennes kropp mjuk, formbar, accepterande. Hon visste exakt vad som komma skulle. Hans ena hand slet upp den tunna meshklänningen, rev sönder tyget som om det vore papper, och hon log inåt.
Det var inte kärlek. Det var inte ens lust. Det var makt. Och hon tänkte, i det skarpa mellanrummet mellan hans andetag, att hon skulle överleva honom också. Hans händer famlade över hennes nakna bröst, hårda och krävande, tummarna svepte över hennes bröstvårtor tills de var hårda. Hennes hud var slät, varm, täckt av en tunn hinna av svett som fick henne att glänsa i det svaga ljuset. Hon vred sig lätt, inte för att undkomma, utan för att testa honom.
Han är precis som alla andra. Hans andra hand fann hennes lår och pressade hennes ben isär med brutal effektivitet. Hon kände hans knän tränga in mellan hennes, trycka henne mot väggen, och hon lät det hända. Hennes andetag var stadiga, hennes ögon vidöppna, iakttagande, när han drog upp hennes kjol runt hennes midja, blottade henne för honom.
Han var grov och snabb, precis som hon förväntat sig. Hans händer låste fast hennes handleder ovanför huvudet, pressade henne mot väggen, och hans röst var ett raspigt mullret i hennes öra. Hennes nakna kropp darrade inte. Hon gav efter, men hon gav aldrig upp. Varje rörelse var en betalning, varje beröring en valuta hon förstod.
Och i den mörka, förbjudna stunden, med smaken av gammal sprit och nya lögner på tungan, visste hon att detta inte var slutet.
Bara ännu ett kapitel.