Page 3 of Driving My Obsession

Darby lords over the fighters like a king, but I’m no one’s property. He masquerades this business as legitimate when it’s anything but. These fights are not only illegal but the last resort for those of us too desperate and broken to do anything else. We’re the forgotten, abandoned by society and by the law. It’s a shame that our only hope lies in this depraved, violent world he created.

He shoves his hand into my face. “Give me what you swindled off people or lose your spot next week, Mr. Sinclair.”

My muscles tense as I fight the overwhelming urge to snap this man in half and leave him in a shallow, unmarked grave. But I know if I do, I’ll have no future. Without this gig, there’s nothing for me. With an animalistic growl, I reach into my pocket and fling the money near his feet. The cash flies into the putrid mix of pooling water, sweat, and urine.

“Oops, sorry,” I say, though I’m not the least bit sorry. If I could whip down my jeans and add to the piss leaching into those bills, I would.

Darby reaches up to put a hand on my shoulder. “You know, scar, you’re one of my best fighters. Piss-poor attitude, though.” His voice lowers as he squeezes, and I’m about three seconds away from sending him across the locker room.

I shrug out of his grasp. “My attitude is what makes me a good fighter.”

“You won’t go far in this industry with it. Learn to be good without it.”

The corners of my vision blur. He’s hitting every last nerve I have. Does he see what I do to people’s faces? He’s coming dangerously close to being next.

Holding back is not my strength. It never has been.

“Get out of my face, Darby. Unless you want me to rearrange yours.”

He juts a finger at my chest. “Thin fuckin’ ice, scar.”

The thinnest.

ChapterTwo

Oaklyn

Nerves flutter in my stomach, spreading their wings and taking flight with every quiet moment. Once the music begins, it will pass. I’ll find the tempo and move with it. I’ll forget the people in the audience for a moment as the bass beats in time with my heart. The raised eyebrows and pursed lips will disappear as the song pulses through the speaker, and it’s just me and the stage.

My body remembers this feeling all too well. It longs for it. Dance is so natural for me. It was the most important thing in my life before my life changed forever. My body remembers how to accentuate each note with a movement and make the most of every beat. As I step onto the stage, it doesn’t matter what the patrons think of me. All that matters is what I think of myself. I may shed my clothes, but in my mind, I’m wearing the familiar outfits that gave me life.

I close my eyes, and the tacky neon lights shift into elegant spotlights that shine down on me. I’m not half naked, dancing for a bunch of men. I’m in a costume, preparing for my debut on a stage.

The song starts, and I begin my show. The men throw money instead of roses. They demand a private dance instead of an encore. But I’m dancing, and that is all that matters at this moment. I lose myself to the song, which is better than what most of the other girls lose themselves to.

When the song ends, I’m brought back to my sweaty, half-dressed reality. No longer in top condition from hours of rehearsals, I’m winded and sore. The ache in my leg reminds me I’m not the person I used to be. That I’ll never be that person again.

My skin itches from the sweat and glitter, and I fight back the urge to run off the stage and wipe away the icky feeling as I scoop the money from the floor. I avoid looking at the crowd as I lean over to pick up the last bill. Dancing isn’t the most demeaning part of this job; it’s the scrounging up the cash at the end that makes me uncomfortable. I can avoid their eyes, but I can’t avoid their hoots and whistles and greedy hands. They reach for me as if they’re owed a pound of my flesh for every dollar they tossed my way. My ankles wobble in my clear heels when I stand upright again. They always do by the end of the night, and the blisters between my toes don’t help.

I hold the money to my chest and race off the stage to the safety and solitude of the dressing room. I lay the cash on my little desk in the back and slip off my shoes before I start to count it. No matter how much I make, I feel as if I’ll never have enough for the car I so desperately need. Everything comes with a price in this life, and the cost of a ride is more than I’m willing to pay.

A deep groan comes from behind me. He’ll notice the look of disgust in the mirror if I react, so I keep my face stony and continue counting the bills. Jake’s arms wrap around my waist, and I swallow the clawing urge to push him away and scream for him to never touch me again. He’s the club owner, and he’s taken a liking to me, as much as I wish he hadn’t. His favoritism comes with the burden of unwanted advances instead of the perks of preferential treatment.

His fat hand rises to my chest and squeezes my nipple. My cheeks flush, not from arousal but discomfort.

“How’s my girl?” he whispers in my ear. Alcohol dances on his sour breath, and my stomach twists.

“Tired,” I say. I try to step away from him, but he’s determined to hold me in place.

“You’ve been working so hard.” He brushes back my red hair with his other hand. “If you give in to my offer, I’ll give you a little something that will help you with your car situation. You’ll make as much as a whole night, if you let me inside you.”

My spine tightens. Even a shiny new Mercedes wouldn’t be enough to get me to agree to sleeping with him. I may not have much left to my name, but I still have my dignity. People may think that removing my clothes for money makes me less than dignified, but they’re wrong. I still have limits, and Jake is a hard no.

“Maybe another night,” I tell him.

He gives my cheek a light smack. “Then you’ll need another ride tonight.”

“Really?” My heart sinks to my aching feet.

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