Page 6 of Claimed By the Boss

“Damn,” hisses one of the new hires as I shove my coat into my locker. “What happened to your face?”

He goes by Phoenix Storm on stage, but I don’t know his real name. Most of the dancers are like that.

I close the door with more force than necessary. “I fell.”

“Sure you did.” His eyes sweep over my face. “And I’m a natural blond.”

The dark roots at his hairline say otherwise, but I just grunt.

“The mask won’t cover that.” Phoenix grabs my hand and tugs me over to one of the vanities against the wall on the other side of the employee room. “Sit.”

With no energy to resist, I collapse onto the chair.

He rummages around in an open makeup bag on the counter, muttering about my lack of a tan.

Finally, he pulls out a compact and clicks it open. “The light’s shitty on the floor, so this should be good enough.”

I wince as he taps a sponge over my temple and under my eye, where a bruise had slowly blossomed during the day.

Phoenix’s gaze catches mine. “You should dump him.”

My brow creases with confusion. “What?”

“The reason you fell.” He snaps the compact closed. “Once they start swinging, they don’t stop. So get out now.”

If only it were that easy. I lean toward the mirror to peer at his handiwork.

Under the bright lights of the vanity bulbs, the makeup over the left side of my face turns my skin sallow yellow, but it’s better than the black and blue hue that I walked in with. Maybe I should ask him to do something about the shadows under my brown eyes, too.

“Thanks.” I bite my lip and glance at him through the mirror.

Servers and entertainers don’t interact much, but Phoenix seems nice enough.

I turn to face him. “Hey, do you have a suppressant to spare? I can pay you for it when I get tipped out tonight.”

He freezes, eyes darting toward the door. Without looking at me, he selects an eyeliner and leans toward the mirror. His voice drops to barely above a whisper. “You should have called in sick if you didn’t have any.”

“I can’t afford to miss work.” Nausea roils through me as I stand. “I thought I had more doses than I did.”

He skillfully outlines his right eye. “You keep them in your locker?”

A sour ball forms in my stomach, and the lock on the metal door no longer feels so secure. “Yeah.”

“Don’t do that.” He tosses his eyeliner into the makeup bag, glances toward the door, then pulls out a lipstick tube.

When he opens it, though, instead of lipstick, he taps out two blue and red pills.

He quickly hands them to me. “They’re only good for six hours. Stash yours better next time.”

“Thank you.” I toss them into my mouth and swallow them dry. “I’ll pay you back.”

“Don’t worry about it.” He tosses the lipstick tube back into his bag. “Just make sure you’re quick to refill the drinks of the guys next to the stage when I’m up there.”

“Deal.” An awkward silence follows, and I take the hint, shuffling out of the room.

At the server station, I collect my apron and single mask for the night. As soon as I slip the elastic bands over my ears, the stench of the club fades, though it doesn’t completely vanish.

Maybe I should have waited a few hours for when my mask loses effectiveness before I took the suppressants. But it’s too late now.

---