Page 62 of Filthy and the Beast

I blink.

I’m at the sex club, Pistil and Stamen, where I’ve been talking and mixing drinks with the manager and a couple of the staff. It’s late afternoon, a couple hours before they’re open to the public, the workers drifting in and out of our conversation as they get the place ready.

“That’s it?” I ask. “That was the interview?”

Ares chuckles. He’s a short, sturdy guy with a septum ring and endless tattoos. “Unless you want to talk me out of it.”

I laugh. “No! Absolutely not.”

The club is amazing: a big open stage and dance floor, a few scattered platforms, and private rooms of varying sizes along the rear. It’s decorated minimally, sleek surfaces with plenty of tastefully placed bars and benches. From some past recreational visits, I know how enthusiastically and creatively the members of the club enjoy the architecture.

Yes. I definitely want to spend a few nights a week working here.

“I accept!” I say with a quick laugh. “Although I’m pretty sure we just spent the last hour gossiping.”

Ares shrugs. “You made every drink I asked you to without even having to think about it. But the rest of that wasn’t gossip.” He leans forward. “You’re smart about sex, Damian. We need someone with the right kind of open mind to work here. Not just the type who will let anything go. You’ve got to recognize the bullshit, too, and know how to handle it.” He finishes the old fashioned I made for him. “We’ll put you on a trial period, but I imagine you’re just what we’re looking for.”

So excited I can't stop grinning, I perk up. My life is finally falling into order.

“I won’t let you down,” I promise.

Ares nods. “I’ll train you myself. Wednesday night? We’ll go easy at first, save the Saturday mayhem for later.”

Right as the sun is setting, I leave the club, buzzing with excitement. Without rent or utilities, my savings are quickly growing. Enzo keeps me busy, so I’m earning my paycheck, but I’m still grateful for the generous arrangement. He’s apparently so rich he doesn’t think twice about doing this kind of thing, but the combination package of housing and regular pay is life-changing.

And with this new job, I’ll have the money for school much sooner than expected.

The nearest bus will require a bunch of transfers, so I elect to walk through the crisp, early winter day to a more direct line, following hilly blocks through a slightly unfamiliar Seattle neighborhood. On the way, I call my moms to tell them about the job. After many promises to strictly limit my drinking if I’m going to work in a bar, they evolve to celebrating the offer.

Like Mom says several times, it will “certainly be fascinating.”

I pick up my pace, impatient to get back home and share the news with Enzo. I made him exchange numbers and tried messaging, but he kept responding with one word and a period, which was too horrifying to accept, so we don't text.

When I tell him about the job, I know he’s going to act perfect about it. He’s going to squirm because it’s a sex club and he’s still working through his discomfort, but he won’t judge me. He’s just shy and awkward when it comes to sex and discussing his feelings, which isn’t at all surprising, considering how out of practice he is and how his first love ended.

When he pushes through his discomfort to celebrate me, my heart melts.

I’m so lucky to have found him.

As though I didn’t already have enough reason to celebrate, the video of the dogs has quickly become my most popular post in the history of Damian online. Glancing at my phone, I walk up another hill, grinning. The likes and comments roll in, TikTok views stacking up and Instagram flooded with hearts.

Fast footsteps slap the pavement behind me, pulling me from my distracted glee. Two guys are gaining on me, both with their hands shoved in their pockets. Even though it's cloudy out, they’re tall and wearing sunglasses, and somehow, I instantly know this isn’t right.

We’re on a quiet street with brick buildings. Heart jumping, I pick up my pace and search around with my eyes, confirming which crossroad I’m approaching, too scared to look over my shoulder until their walking quickens into running.

I look in panic. They’re charging toward me.

I turn and run, but after only a few steps, I trip over my own feet and sprawl across the pavement, pain scraping my arms and face. I scramble up, but one of the guys is on me, hand rough on my shirt. “Give us your fucking wallet,” he demands, barking in my ear.

I don’t know how, but in the chaos, I’m free again. Tears streaming down my cheeks, I sprint, my legs burning. The men are right at my feet, but down the block, the bus is arriving. The adrenaline must super-charge me because I manage to outpace them.

I’m bleeding and gasping for breath as I pay my bus fare. When I look back out, the men have vanished.

My hand tightly squeezes the pepper spray I didn’t even realize I had pulled out.

“You okay, sweetheart?” the old bus driver asks as she pulls away.

I glance down at myself, in shock and not sure how to answer.

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