Page 14 of Driving My Obsession

Whoever slammed the door saw what was happening to me and while I feel so many emotions, the one that prevails is embarrassment. What a stupid emotion to feel right now. Anger lurks somewhere in my mind, but the shame overwhelms it. Regardless, whoever it was, I’m thankful for them. Even though it was probably my nutty—in more ways than one—stalker. If I ever find him, I’ll be sure to thank him before I call the police. That’s if Jake doesn’t find him and kill him first.

ChapterNine

Ambrose

Acold sweat collects on my brow and slicks my palms as I pull my Jeep around the corner of the building. The back door flies open, but I don’t stick around to see who opened it. I slide into traffic, then turn around and head back to the club. Pulling into a parking spot, I chuckle to myself. The greasy fuck who had his hands on Oaklyn stomps through the parking lot and peeks into cars, but he’s too dense to realize the source of his outrage sits less than ten feet from him. As far as he knows, I’ve just arrived.

Emotions cyclone inside me, crashing into each other in a shower of sparks and chaos. The pictures I plastered around the dressing room netted the anguish I hoped for. As she ripped apart those little pieces of paper, her pain enthralled me and left me nearly breathless. Peering through the slender crack between the metal door and concrete wall, I could almost taste the torment, and it was fucking delicious. I wanted to hurt my little tragedy, and I did. I really did. But so did whoever the fuck that was inside that back room.

That’s where my emotions and rationality collided, locking into a battle fiercer than any fight I’ve ever been part of. I loved every moment of the emotional catastrophe I created, but Oaklyn ismineto torture. That piece of shit had no right.

So I stopped him.

I shouldn’t have, but my hands gripped the door and slammed it shut before my mind could register what was happening. Oaklyn is a whore, and she was getting the whore treatment she deserved. What mymotherdeserved and what I was probably born from. So why did it bother me so much?

Anger swells like a tidal wave inside me. It crashes against the destructive cyclone and turns my emotions into a tornadic waterspout. As much as it pains me to do so, I’m forced to admit that jealousy played a small part in slamming the door, but that wasn’t what bothered me most. It was the face I saw in the mirror. It was the way her hands clenched into fists that couldn’t fight back. She didn’t want him to touch her, and that goes against everything I believe about her. If she isn’t a whore, she isn’t my target. I’ll just need to wait a little longer before I make a decision I can’t take back. I have to be sure.

I stare at the club entrance. The black doors call to me even though I never want to set foot in that place again. It’s like walking up to a tragic car crash and knowing what I’ll find as soon as I pry the doors apart. Deceptive agonal breaths may trick others into believing there are signs of life, but those women are already dead inside. They’re martyrs for their chosen profession, willing to die for enough cash.

Pathetic.

I switch off the ignition and head inside, unable to stop myself from complying with the magnetic pull. I have to know the truth. I have to know if Oaklyn is who I believe her to be.

A large crowd packs the main floor, which isn’t surprising for a Friday night. I blend in with a sea of other men. We become faceless to the women on stage, I’m sure. These men are an ocean of skin, ebbing and flowing with cash, and the dancer on stage is the moon, pulling them toward her by an unseen gravitational force. I’m not one of them. I’m a goddamn island, and I won’t be moved.

The sensual music fades as the dancer ends her show, and generic pop music filters through the rising sound of conversation and drink orders. The whore cleans up the cash littering the stage, then rushes through the curtain with her earnings. A hefty bouncer climbs the riser on the lip of the stage and wipes at the pole with a rag, though I don’t see the point. The stained piece of cloth appears just as soiled as the pole itself, if we’re being honest here.

I sit up in my seat when I see the signature red hair bobbing through the crowd. I expected her to appear on stage, to dance for me, even though it’s not for me at all. She’s probably too shaken up by what happened earlier and chose to work the floor instead of performing. If that’s the case, she needs to put on her game face. No one will request anything from her with her lips drawn down in a permanent frown. Then again, they aren’t paying to stare at her mouth, and a man proves that point when he waves his hand and flags her down.

The frown dissipates and a smile slips into the vacancy it leaves behind. Either she’s a very good actress or a very good whore. Maybe she just disliked the guy in the dressing room and this guy is more her speed. A whore can still be choosy, I suppose.

Her full breasts spill from her skimpy top and rest on the man’s shoulder as she eases her ear toward his mouth. A renewed rage floods my system.

I regret helping her earlier. I had it right the first time.

She’s a whore.

After a nod of her head, she grips his hand and leads him toward the back of the building. The private dance section. The place I’ve never been led to like that. I stand out of instinct, my feet determined to follow them behind that velvet curtain, but the bouncer standing at the doorway to the promised land makes me think twice. They let people get away with a lot of shady shit around here, but there’s no way he’ll let me into that area without a whore on my arm.

A strung-out blonde fumbles past me, and I take a step toward her and grab her wrist. Maybe the copious amount of alcohol running through her system will blur my scars. She smells like she bathed in Everclear. If someone lit a match in her vicinity, she’d likely become a human Molotov. The image puts a smile on my face, which is good since I want her to see me as likable enough to take into the private area.

She turns to face me, but her deadened blue eyes seem to glare straight through me.

“I need a private dance,” I tell her.

She stumbles and licks her lips, her lids dropping and rising again in the slowest blink I’ve ever seen. When her eyes pinch together in a tight squint, I know she’s finally focused enough to see me because her muscles tense.

Yeah, I know. Iknow. I’m fucked up, but I’m not the worst looking guy in this place.

If I’m being honest, however, she may be the worst looking girl in this place. With her stringy blonde hair and the stink of desperation and one-too-many oozing from every pore, she should be glad I’ve even asked for her company.

This realization appears to dawn on her as well because she gives a slow nod before taking my hand and leading me toward the curtain over the doorway. The bouncer waves us in, seemingly oblivious to her inability to make safe decisions in her current mental state. Actually, he probably doesn’t care. He doesn’t get paid extra to be a voice of reason, after all.

The moment we cross the threshold, the ambience shifts. Instead of body odor and aftershave, I’m engulfed in a cloud of vanilla and spun sugar. The floor stops fusing to my shoes in a sticky death grip. Low lights set the mood, and soft music plays overhead as the thumping bass from the main floor becomes a distant memory. This is the money room.

Tall partitions separate the space into four separate sections, probably to keep others from stealing free glances. This is very much a pay-to-play area. Purple curtains drape from brass rods above each doorway. Three are open, but the one on the very end has been pulled shut.

Found you, tragedy.

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