Page 18 of Scarred King
“Try me,” he replies coldly.
“So basically, what you’re saying is that if I won’t be a hooker tonight, I’m fired?” I grind my teeth until they nearly crack.
“No, what I’m saying is that if you won’t pretend to be a hooker tonight, you’re fired.”
That’s pure blackmail, and not even the emotional kind. “That’s illegal.” I carry on putting the napkins on top of each other in their piles.
“Then press charges.” A small smirk plays over his face.
My head spins with thoughts and I close my eyes.
“So…” he urges.
“Be quiet! I’m thinking,” I answer angrily and disconnect myself, my mind. I’m no longer at the bar. I’m not surrounded by prostitutes and my boss is not trying to make me play a scary and dangerous game. Instead, I’m standing on the stage in the auditorium, looking at the whiteboard, holding a blue marker in my hand and drawing a table on it. On one side I fill in all the reasons to run from this place: drugs, perverts, police raids, and the shame. There are so many reasons. On the other side of the table I need to write down all the reasons why I should give in to his threat. I write down one line: graduated bachelor’s degree in physics with honors.
Damn it. I open my eyes and see that he is staring at me.
“What did you just do?” he asks quietly. “It looked as if you were concentrating on solving the atomic theory.”
“No. That’s already been solved,” I answer calmly. “I was thinking.” I point at my head. “You know, some people do that sometimes.”
“And what did you decide?” He looks tense.
“That you’re my boss, so I’ll come with you tonight. But you have to pay me for the shift I’ll miss.”
“Of course.” He sighs in relief and puts his hand out to help me off the barstool. “Why don’t you ever call me by my name?” he asks once I am standing. “You don’t have to call me boss. We aren’t formal around here.”
“I’ve formed some strong opinions of you in my head,” I answer honestly. “It’s still hard for me to shake them off.”
“Interesting,” he smiles, and once again I see that angelic side of his face that makes my stomach clench. “Maybe you can tell me about them on our way.”
“Maybe not,” I reply shortly and walk over to Carly. “I’ll do it. So get me some makeup and I’ll fix myself up.”
She bursts into laughter and the two men join in.
“Even I wouldn’t think you’re a hooker,” says Mike as he takes a sip of his beer and burps. “And I think all women are hookers.”
“You need more than just some makeup,” Carly explains and starts walking toward the door that connects to the dance club. She opens it and I get a quick glimpse of the neon lights and a split second of loud music. The door closes, and I sit back down on the barstool at the counter.
“Don’t look so miserable,” Charlie tries to cheer me up. “Look at it like an adventure.” He pours me a glass of wine and I shake my head no. I don’t need alcohol now. I need to be sharp; I need to look after myself inside the chaos that they’re drawing me into.
Carly comes back, holding two large plastic bags. She signals me to join her and we go into the restroom as she closes the door behind us.
“Strip,” she asks and pulls black leather leggings out of a bag.
“That won’t fit me,” I protest as I look at the thin straps.
“Don’t worry,” she dismisses me, and I take off my jeans and try to squeeze into the tight leggings. They get stuck over my backside and she bends down, pulls them up and arranges the top part over my stomach. “You have a great ass.” She feels it and I hold my breath, fearing that if I inhale the leggings will rip apart. “You know that there are girls who get plastic surgery to make their asses bigger?” she asks seriously, and instead of answering I exhale in small puffs. “But none of them look this good.” She pats me on my ass and looks up at me. “Breathe normally!” She orders jokingly, and I take a deep breath just before my face starts turning blue. “See?” she smiles. “It’s perfect.” She takes a cropped leather vest out of the bag, and the shocked expression comes back to my face. “Come on…” she points to my shirt and ignores my horror.
“So turn around,” I demand embarrassed, and she laughs.
“You think you’ve got something I haven’t seen before?” she mocks. “Come on, we don’t have a lot of time.”
I peek at the door to make sure it’s closed and quickly take off my shirt. “Wow!” I hear her exclaim and I cover my breasts with my hands. “Let me see.” She pulls my hands away and inspects my breasts in awe. “So big and juicy.” She screws up her eyes and comes closer, I try to pull myself away but the sink is behind me. She pokes my right breast with her finger. “Real, too,” she says, and I smack her finger away, shocked.
“What are you doing?” I cover myself up again.
“Why do you wear a bra?" She asks me irritated, “you should show those off, not cover them up in more fabric.”