Page 1 of Owning Nicci

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NICCI

Iused to have everything.

Standing in front of the dirty mirror in the staff bathroom, I don’t even recognize the woman looking at me now. Somewhere under the thick makeup, dark lipstick, and heavily lined eyes, I could probably find my features if I looked long enough. But I don’t want to. If I look for too long, I can’t help but see that there’s something missing from my eyes—a spark, an arrogance, aconfidencegutted out of those green depths.

Swallowing hard, I touch up the deep berry lipstick once more.It’s not your color,a faint voice in my head whispers—the one left over from a life of designer clothes and expensive makeup, the same one from a life where I paid someone to tell me if my skin tone was better for gold or silver, jewel tones or earth.

I’m finding it hard to remember that, just now, as I smooth my hands over the sides of the painfully short, pleated black skirt I’m wearing. I tug at the edge of it, like I’m a teenager again trying to pass the dress code at school, but it’s pointless. The skirt isn’t going to cover my ass, or much of anything else.

“Nicci!” A shrill voice cuts through the bathroom door, and I hear a fist bang against it. “Some of the rest of us need to use the bathroom, too.”

I bite my lip, not wanting to leave the small space, even if it does smell like acrid floor cleaner and a hint of musty pipes. But in here, no one is leering at me. No one is laughing at me. No one is touching me.

I can’t hide in here forever, though.

Swallowing hard, I unlock the door and step out. Mariah, one of the other girls who works at this dump known as theGilded Lily, doesn’t bother stepping aside so I can get out. She stays right where she’s standing, forcing me to push past her as her upper lip curls.

“You should get out on the floor, princess,” she sneers. “You’re already late for your shift. I might have to tellmanagement.” She laughs, a bright, harsh sound. “I bet your daddy would love to hear that his little girl is hiding in the bathroom instead of showing up to work on time. There’s a table already asking for you.”

My stomach curdles at that. If there’s a regular asking for me, that means that my night is going to be shit from the very beginning. I get the roughest tables, the rudest men, the ones who want to pinch and grab and try to get as much out of the girls as they can without paying for a private room. No one else takes them. No one else is supposed to. My punishment, for all the ways I’ve failed.

This is my own private hell, and all of the other girls who work here are in on it.

“Fine.” I shoulder past her, striding down the dim hallway, my platform heels sticking to the tile with every step. I’ll never be able to take enough showers to wash the grime of this place off of my skin. Every night when I go ‘home,’ it feels like I climb into bed dirty, even if I scrub myself pink and raw beforehand. I feellike I can always smell it on me—the cigarette smoke, the sweat, the sticky-sweet smell of cheap alcohol, and the slick film of the scented, glittery lotion that I’m supposed to wear. It makes me smell like faux apples and sugar, and I hate it.

I hate all of this.

Pausing at the end of the hallway, I swallow hard as I reach for the doorknob. I can feel the thumping bass of the music from the other side, hear the catcalls and yells from the men already crowding the place for the night. It’s eleven p.m. on a Saturday, and just from the sounds, I can tell the Lily is already packed. It’ll only get crazier before the night is over.

“Jesus, Nicci. Get out on the floor or get out of my way.” Another one of the girls, who I only know by her stage name—Barbie, for her long blonde hair and doll-perfect figure—forcefully shoves me out of her way, sending me teetering back on my heels as she reaches for the doorknob.

I grab the wall to stop myself from falling, feeling my stomach flip with a wave of nausea as my palm touches the tacky surface of the wall. Barbie flings the door open, and I catch it with my other hand before it can slam into me, gritting my teeth to stop myself from lurching forward and grabbing a handful of her silky hair. I can picture it in my head: how I’d drag her backward by it, sending my fist right into her gorgeous face. She wouldn’t make so much money by the time I was finished with her.

The anger burns red hot for a second, and then fades, replaced by a pervasive hopelessness that’s far more familiar to me now. As much as I’d like to send Barbie home with a bloody nose, I’m not going to. It would feel worth it in the moment, but the punishment I’d face later would far outweigh the brief pleasure.

With the door hanging open, the sounds from the main floor of the club are loud and oppressive, making my head hurt beforeI even step outside the room. I hear the clicking of Mariah’s heels as she comes out of the bathroom, and that’s what ultimately sends me out onto the floor—the possibility of having to interact with her again.

As soon as I step out onto the main floor, all of the sights, sounds, and smells assail my senses at once. It’s dim except for the flashing bright lights over the central stage, leaving everything else doused in shadow while the girl spinning around the pole is bathed in garish light. Smoking isn’t allowed inside the club, but I can still smell it, mixed with the scents of cheap cologne, the girls’ perfume, and male sweat and lust. There’s a feral hum to the air, a particular sensation that comes with being in a room filled with dozens of horny men waiting to pounce. I can feel it vibrating off of them, and it makes my skin crawl. My body knows that I’m prey, and I have to fight the urge to run.

Though there’s nowhere for me to run to, any longer.

“Table six,” Mariah hisses in my ear as she clicks past. “They’re going to be antsy by now. You’re only making it worse for yourself.”

I glance towards table six, my stomach twisting with dread again. There are four men sitting at the table, all of them older, all of them wearing leather vests with patches and rockers that mean they’re in some kind of motorcycle club. There are pitchers of beer in front of them already, and two of them look like they’re halfway to drunk.

There’s no escaping it. I ignore Mariah and head toward table six, choosing not to respond. I’ll be here until three in the morning, so they’re going to be the first of many.

The man closest to me leers the moment I’m within view, his gaze drifting over me with a sickening slowness. I can see him taking in every inch of my body—the sheer black long-sleeved shirt that I’m wearing over a black satin push-up bra, the impossibly short skirt with nothing but a thong under it, thesky-high stripper heels. “Onyx,” he calls out, and I look at him, answering to that name as if it’s my own. It’s the only concession I’ve been given, this fake name that gives me some separation between who I used to be, who Iam, and this hell that I’ve been shoved into.

I force a smile onto my face, swaying closer. He grabs my hip, pulling me in close, and I smell the sour scent of alcohol clinging to him.

“It’s my buddy Mark’s birthday,” he says, fingers digging into my ass through the thin fabric of my skirt as his friend leers at me. “Show him a real good time, will ya, honey? Here’s a tip for your trouble.”

He pulls out a crumpled five-dollar bill from his pocket and slides his hand under my skirt, up my thigh to where the string of my thong is stretched tautly across my hip. I try not to wince as I feel his fingers play along the skin there, touching me more intimately than I would ever let any man like him touch me of my own free will.

But that’s not something I really have any longer. Free will went out the window months ago for me, and now what’s left is this—standing next to a group of men I never would have given the time of day to before while they eye-fuck me. One slides what would’ve once been pocket change to me into my thong with meaty fingers.

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