Page 2 of Devoured
“Fake it. Pretend like you don’t care what he’s doing. You just happen to be in the same place. Like you’re everything that he’s missing.”
“That’s easier said than done.”
And she was right. For years, I had pumped myself up before starting a shift at the Dahlia District, telling myself that I might have been flat-chested, short-haired, a gothic outcast, the opposite of what the billionaire club members were looking for, but that I was still a goddess. I could slip into black latex and transform into the woman I knew I was on the inside, shoving the spike of my heel into a man’s balls as he paid me for the privilege. Until finally, I wasn’t playing pretend anymore. I was that woman.
But on nights like tonight, where I was completely out of my element, I still had to play pretend. Pump myself up. Remind myself that I might not have had my platform boots or my riding crop, but I was still that same goddess, just in a different skin.
“You might never truly feel that way,” I said, telling her the honest truth, “But if you can pretend—if you can show him what he’s missing, and smile like he’s always watching you, and always wanting you, then he’ll see what he’s missing.” I shifted my weight, nodding to her. “Make him work for it,” I winked. “Because girl,” I held her eyes, making sure we were staring at each other, “You are gorgeous. You are the goddess he could never have. It’s justyouthat needs to believe it.”
“Really?” she whimpered. “You think I’m pretty?”
“Oh, come on,” her friend said. “You’re gorgeous.”
“You’re my best friend. You legally have to say that.”
My heart dropped, missing my own best friend. “Yes,” I said. “You’re not just pretty. You are flawless. He should be paying you for the privilege to buy you a drink.”
She laughed, and a lightness filled me. I wasn’t great at being warm and fuzzy, but occasionally I could do it when it came to a fellow woman in need.
I tilted my head. “Really, though. Let him see what he’s missing. Who knows,” I paused, putting a finger to my lips, “You might find someone better.”
She smiled then, the tears nearly gone. “Thanks.”
I walked past the two women and out to the main floor of the nightclub, the purple-tinted pearl walls surrounding me, music thudding in my chest. If nothing else, I had done one good thing that night. But now, there were other matters to attend to.
Roland Price, the new owner of the Dahlia District, was finally in the area. The Dahlia District was an entertainment club for the wealthy elite, but there were rumors that Price wanted to make the Dahlia District into something new, probably somethinglikeVanish, his nightclub line. As a long-time server of the Dahlia District, it was my job to convince him to leave our club exactly as it was. We might have been going through a rough patch, but all businesses had slow periods. With a little investment, the new owner could force the club into another golden age. Why change it if it was already successful?
I stared up at one of the nightclub’s many bars erected on a raised platform, glowing blue lights twinkling from behind the top shelves. Everything was in shades of blues, purples, and greens. The VIP section was marked off to the side, a red rope separating it from the rest of the club. A group of three blonds giggled at the security guard standing beside it. He unhooked the rope, letting them through, then locked it again.
I pulled off my sweater, tucking it under my arm. More skin to show. More tattoos to intimidate, the only piece of my usual getup that I couldn’t leave at the Dahlia District. People were less likely to start a conflict if they thought you were scary. And at work, I always attracted the right kind of clients. But that wasn’t my goal tonight. I had to be what Roland Price wanted. The image of mainstream perfection, like those women in the bathroom. I would never be that, but at least I could tone down the goth vibes and go undercover.
As I walked up the steps to that sectioned off area, the bouncer stood in front of the rope and crossed his arms.
“VIP only,” he barked.
“I’m here to see Roland Price,” I said. He didn’t move. “I’m here to make a business proposition.”
“Prostitution is illegal in—”
“Not that,” I said as sweetly as I could muster. “I’m a big fan of his. I was wondering if I could—”Be like Teagen, I thought, channeling my best friend. Sweet. Innocent. Like I had no ulterior motives. Like I would never hurt a fruit fly. I forced a grin. “I want to pick his brain on a few things. It’s for my internship.” I winked, but felt stupid. Channeling Teagen was not me at all.
But being in this club wasn’t me either.
He held his thumb to his earpiece, listening to it with his eyes up towards the ceiling.
“Up the stairs,” he said to me, motioning with his hand. He unhooked the rope barrier.
“Thanks,” I said, trying to hold back the sarcasm. With each step, I nodded my head, keeping to the beat, trying to self-soothe my nerves. The new owner was a man, and I didn’t trust men, not since my foster-dad, but I could be reasonable and pretend to trust men when it counted. And right now, I needed to be strong for all of the women who worked at the Dahlia District, women who depended on the club for their livelihood. Women like me.
I took the last step onto the spacious balcony. A clear guard rail lined the edges, with several sofas, covered with scantily-clad women and suited men. A few tables. A mini-bar with the trio of blonds surrounding it. I focused on a man standing in front of one of the long, white tufted sofas, pouring vodka into several shot glasses.
Dark hair you could wrap your fingers in. Secretive brown eyes. Trimmed facial hair lining his jaw. Plump, biteable lips. A physique like a movie star. He might have been a man, and someone I instantly knew I didn’t like, but that didn’t mean I could ignore his appearance. I knew a good-looking man when I saw one. Roland Price was hot.
But that didn’t mean anything.
He glanced up, a half-smirk crossing his lips as he made eye contact with me. As if he knew me. He put the bottle back in the chiller and lifted one of the shot glasses, offering it in my direction. He was taller than I expected. I’m tall for a woman, even without my platform boots, so it throws me off when I have to look up to someone. I put on my best flirtatious smirk and took the shot. We clinked our drinks, then tossed them back. The vodka burned in my throat. I held back a cringe, pretending like I drank straight liquor all of the time, then faced him. He held out a hand.
“I’m Roland Price.”
