Page 2 of Where Broken Wings Fly

“Suit yourself, newbie.”

Turning on my heel, I stumble away before she can force the drugs up my nose. All of the girls here do it. Some even take it from the customers, uncaring of the risk.

It makes it easier to do this job every day, I suppose. The sultry smiles come far more naturally, and your hips sway that little bit extra when you’re too high to be disgusted.

Heading out onto the main floor of the club, the oppressive heat hits me first. Heady smoke and expensive aftershave come next. The smells are eye-wateringly strong.

I follow the click of high heels on sparkling marble floors, my head already pounding from the thud of bass music from the DJ spinning tracks in the corner of the huge room.

Some of the women here enjoy this job. They find some sense of liberation in it. I already hate this place and everything it represents, even after two shifts.

I’m only here to pay off my deadbeat father’s significant drug debts and clear my name so I can finally get off the streets. I am sick of being scared and hungry. This is my ticket out of this life.

By halfway through my shift, I’ve found my not-so-happy place. Numb is safe. My ass hurts from being slapped so hard, but I’ve learned to tune the throbbing out.

Retreating to a quiet corner of the club, away from prying eyes, I take a breather and wipe sweat from my forehead. Every inch of me is exhausted and hurting from the night.

“Willow! There you are, my beautiful girl.”

“Mario,” I greet, dropping my eyes.

The nightclub owner is a slimeball, but he’s also my boss. Even though he spends half the night staring at my ass rather than making sure the other women aren’t swindling him.

He’s a stone-cold asshole, no two ways about it. I’ve met bad men like him before; my father used to get his backside beaten by them for owing too much money.

“Having a good shift, darling?”

“I suppose,” I whisper back. “Keeping busy.”

“So obedient. You’re a quick learner. Fancy earning yourself an extra cheque?”

Perked up by his offer, I nod and stare at his designer trainers. There’s another pair of shoes standing directly behind him, as if waiting for something. We have company.

“I’ve got someone special here for you, Willow. A dear friend. I want you to show him a good time. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir. I understand.”

Mario hums his approval, turning away from me. “She’ll take good care of you, Mr Sanchez. Willow is brand new, like you requested. She’s yours for the price we discussed.”

The other man advances, marked by his Italian-leather dress shoes that scream wealth and high standards. The scent of cigar smoke burns my lungs while unease trickles down my spine.

I don’t dare to lift my eyes from the floor. I’m surrounded by sharks, and a single wrong move might just end my life. These people aren’t to be trusted—even I know that.

“She’s a virgin?” a deep voice rumbles.

“Of course. Nothing but the best for you.”

“How can you be sure?”

Mario runs a hand over my lowered head. “Feel free to take her out back and inspect for yourself. Willow will be a good girl, won’t you?”

Frozen by terror, I can’t respond. Check? Virgin? This isn’t right. I’m supposed to be giving lap dances and taking drinks orders, nothing more like the others sometimes do.

A large, rough hand grabs my chin, forcing me to look up. I meet a pair of ice-cold blue eyes, framed by thick lashes that accentuate the frosty depths of his irises.

“Hello there, chica. You’ll do nicely, hmm?”

This man is middle-aged and, admittedly, very handsome. His appearance screams of foreign charm and confidence. But that doesn’t stop dread from pooling in my gut.

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