Page 14 of Release Me

The mention of Preston’s unceremonious, and not at all optional, ejection from the club last night makes my heart sink. Desiree and the girls gave me all these assurances about being able to make money at Ludus without having sex, but I’d been hard pressed to find the unicorn they spoke of until Preston came along. I’ve spent the last two weeks building a relationship with him, gaining tips that got incrementally bigger every night. I had high hopes that last night’s tip would be the biggest one yet, the one that would give me just enough money to pay the operation fee at Ludus if I wanted to.

Want.

It’s still such a foreign concept for me. Wanting something. Being able to have it. My budding situation with Preston made me feel like I could want things again, like I had options in front of me that were within reach. All of that went away when he got carted off by Russ and another bouncer who’s name I think is Bobby. They were stone faced and professional as they escorted an irate Preston out, taking all of my hope with them.

“I don’t know anything about why Preston got kicked out.”

“Right, which is all you need to tell him.”

I stop walking, spinning on my heel to look Desiree in the eye. “Do you really think this could be about the argument I had with Marcus at the bar?”

I don’t mention the other person I got into it with. The man I’d met in the lobby of the hotel the day I interviewed for the job at Cerros. The man who appeared out of nowhere with the same smug smile and air of superiority swirling around him as the first time we met. Dark eyes laughing at me, overly familiar hands touching me, a commanding tone sweeping down my spine as he ordered me back to the table with the wrong wine.

“Maybe.” Desiree starts moving again, heading toward the staff area where the girls get ready. “Marcus does like to file complaints. For a former boxer, he’s kind of a cry baby. I’m sure it’ll be fine, though.”

I bite my lip, finding myself worrying about losing a job I’m not even sure I want. “Right. It’s going to be fine.”

“At least try to sound like you believe it.” She bumps my shoulder with hers and chucks her chin towards the end of the hall. “Owner’s office is down there, come find me when you’re done.”

“Okay.”

She gives me a reassuring smile and turns off, leaving me to make the last of the journey on my own. The hallway isn’t long, but it feels like it takes me hours to reach the end of it. My feet are heavy and my mind is racing with possibilities, scenarios that end with me being escorted from the club just like Preston was. Drawing in a deep breath, I lift my hand and knock.

“Come in.”

The voice on the other side of the door is dark smoke, billowing through the small crack between the door and its frame in a deep, rasp of a timbre that’s too familiar to belong to a stranger. I push the door open, already knowing in some part of my mind, what, or rather who, I’m going to find sitting at the desk in the center of the room.

Pools of champagne greet me first, and tonight they’re not laughing. They’re serious. Like, deathly serious, as they move from my furrowed brows to my wide eyes to my mouth that wants to drop open to fully convey the shock rolling through my body right now.

“You’re the owner?”

“Miss Hendrix.” He pushes to his feet, and I wonder how he looks bigger today than the last two times I saw him. It takes me a moment to realize it’s because he’s not wearing a suit jacket. Yesterday, and a few weeks ago at Cerros, the full impact of the broad expanse of his chest and shoulders was dulled by the additional layer of fabric, but today it’s on full display. Every slab of well defined muscle emphasized by a white button up and slate gray vest that matches perfectly with his pants, turning his thick torso and even thicker legs into a long, continuous line of power.

Power I can tell he’s used to wielding without thought or consideration for the people on the receiving end of it. People who might feel a flare of panic move through them when they realize there’s a bull coming towards them and they’re wearing red. Power like that on a man like him can only be one thing: dangerous.

I take a step back, giving in to the desire to put some distance between us, and he stops moving. He tilts his head to the side, eyes filled with confusion roll over my features as I push the panic away. Tipping my chin up, I give voice to my own perplexity once again.

“You own this place?”

“Have a seat.” The order is punctuated by a wave of his long arm as he gestures towards the chairs in front of the desk. I’m still standing in the doorway, and I can see his impatience building as he lowers himself back into his seat. He’s surprisingly graceful for such a large man. “Come in, Nadia, and close the door behind you.”

It’s only as I hear my name on his lips, that I realize I don’t know his. I don’t know anything about this man, and now I’m in a room alone with him because despite my instincts telling me not to, I do exactly as he says. The silence in the office wraps around me as soon as the door is closed, and his gaze is a heavy weight on my body. I roll my shoulders back and turn around quickly before I lose my nerve and run out of here screaming.

I take a seat and cross my legs, suddenly aware of the length of my dress that leaves very little to the imagination. To his credit, he doesn’t allow his eyes to move away from my face, and I’m quietly appreciative of the fact that he’s not a creep. At least he’s got that going for him because the rest of his personality leaves a lot to be desired.

“Are you going to answer my question?”

He smirks, and it takes every bit of control I have not to let the growl of frustration building in my chest out. “Yes, Nadia, I’m the owner.”

I already knew the answer to the question when I asked it, but something about getting verbal confirmation from him sends my heart free falling into my stomach. It lands in a heavy, broken heap at my feet, crushing the little flower of hope that started to bloom when Desiree first brought me here. Knowing that he owns this place casts our interaction at the bar yesterday in a whole new light. A bright, blood red flood of certainty that spells my demise.

“You’re going to fire me.”

It’s not a question because asking him would be stupid. I was rude to him yesterday. I disrespected him in front of his employees and while he doesn’t look particularly upset, I can’t imagine he would take that in stride. The chair he’s sitting in creaks under his weight as he sits back and links his long thick fingers together, allowing them to come to rest on his stomach.

“That would be hard to do since you don’t technically work for me.”

He’s right. I don’t work here. I couldn’t work here even if I wanted to. The operational fee is steep, and the money for keeping men company while they work up the nerve to go to one of the back rooms is slow. I’ve saved every dollar I can—building up a small, cash based, nest egg because I don’t trust my new driver’s license to hold up under the scrutiny of a bank—but existing is expensive and deciding whether I should pay the operational fee or keep saving to secure somewhere safe to live is hard.

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