Page 40 of The Masked King

10

DEMI

“What did you do to him?” I try to get back into the room, but the door is locked.

The building is like fucking Fort Knox, like they’re guarding the Hope Diamond or the Crown fucking Jewels.

“Come. It is time to leave.” Michael Douglas is wearing his kind face today, almost as if he pities me for getting involved with the clients, who are here simply to booster the owner’s bank balance.

I bang on the door with my fists. “Let him go! He did nothing wrong!”

I know they can’t hear me, even if they’re still on the other side of the door. The rooms are soundproofed as well as blacked out; the guys at the top are taking no chances with their VIP guests.

The bodyguard grips my left arm and tries to pull me away, and I reflexively karate chop his lower arm with my right hand. His eyes widen with surprise momentarily, then he picks me up, slings me over his shoulder as if I’m a rolled-up carpet, and strides away from the room.

“Put me the fuck down!” I pummel his back with my fists, but the guy is made of stone. My hands are on fire, and he doesn’t even react, doesn’t even tell me to shut up.

When we reach the changing room, he sets me down and blocks the doorway, arms folded across his chest, eyes steely.

“What did they do to him?”

“Get dressed.”

I plant my feet squarely apart, ignoring the pain shooting up my leg from my swollen ankle and tilt my chin upwards. “He didn’t try to touch me. You know you can’t⁠—”

“Three…” He doesn’t move, doesn’t blink, doesn’t acknowledge that I spoke.

“—give someone a fucking electric shock. He didn’t break the rules. All he did⁠—”

“Two… Get dressed or I will take you outside as you are.”

I’m only wearing panties—white panties—my nipples still hard from my brief session with Brian. I believe him. They treat their paying guests like criminals if they get too close to the women, so they’d have no qualms about leaving me outside naked. I’m nothing to them but a money-earner, and my gut clenches at the thought of them getting away with treating women like shit and laughing about it in their exclusive fucking clubs over a bottle of Hennessy and a stinking cigar.

I grab my sweatshirt and tug it over my head, stuffing my arms through the sleeves like a teenager sulking over not being allowed to stay out past curfew. I glare at him, and he stares straight back at me, unfazed.

I step into my running tights, wobbling when I put all my weight on my sprained ankle, and slide my feet into my sneakers without untying the laces.

Dressed, I grab my purse and face him. “I want to speak to the boss.”

His top lip curls into a smile that’s more like the snarl of a wary dog. “Time to go.”

“The guest did nothing wrong. I want to make sure he isn’t hurt.”

His expression is neutral when he says, “I will pass your message on.”

The anger raging inside my chest turns white-hot like barbecue coals reaching their peak grilling time. “I don’t believe you.”

“Not my problem.” He shrugs.

“What will happen to him?”

“Why do you care? You’re not paid to care about the guests.” He says this with such sincerity that I almost laugh.

Almost.

“Um, perhaps because it’s common decency? Have you never heard of compassion? Kindness. Consideration for your fellow human beings?”

I know I’m wasting my breath, but while I’m here talking, I still have a connection to the club. I can’t walk away now. I need to do something to redeem myself and ensure I still have a job to come back to even if it grates on my every nerve like a screeching mic.