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“Lori! Get a move on,” a voice called to me.
I wrapped a stained black apron around the shortie shorts that Rafael thought were appropriate for bartenders. “I’m coming,” I hollered.
The boss slapped the bar and fixed me with an angry stare. Rafe was an asshole—a king asshole if the night was right—but I needed the job.“We have some important guests in VIP tonight. Make sure that they’re catered to. Whatever they need.” The glint in his eye warned me that the things they needed might not be something I was planning on giving away for tips.
“Lori, table three needs an ice refill,” Tanya, my line manager and the scariest woman I’d ever met, called to me, saving me from the staring contest with Rafe.
He turned his dark, angry eyes to Tanya and shrugged, unfazed. He didn’t care who looked after his sleazy business acquaintances, and they sure didn’t give a fuck. They’d probably be too drunk or high to care which pair of lips fastened around their floppy cocks.
“Thanks,” I muttered to Tanya.
She nodded, expressionless. She knew I didn’t serve anything other than drinks at tables—yet. A word Rafe liked to goad me with. His mindset was that all staff were free game as there would always be a day when a sudden bill was too important or you needed to bail someone out of jail. You’d make an exception, and then… you’d set a new low. But you had the money, and it wasn’t so bad, was it? There was a special place in hell for men like Rafael Navarro.
“Table three does need ice, though,” she prompted me.
I nodded, jolted from my daydreaming. I pulled a heavy bucket from the rack and scooped shiny balls of ice into it. I hated going out on the floor, and tonight, a strange electric energy made me dread it more. This place got like that sometimes. A chemical charge of men rushing into the weekend from their stressful, pressure-filled week dealing with millions of dollars. They wanted to get wrecked and destroy things.
In the Blue Rabbit, the women were the ones who got destroyed. Every. Single. Time.
Women were disposable, paper dolls for men to slake their anger—it was a lesson I had truly learned, even before I came to the hallowed, somewhat sticky halls of the Blue Rabbit. My father had been my teacher in that particular lesson, and those childhood memories were the hardest to forget. They were etched on my memory like tattoos burrowing into bone.
In my life, I’d met one man who’d broken the pattern I’d come to expect from those in power. Not even a man—a boy. He’d given me hope for a long time, but even that youthful optimism faded with the relentless toll of time.
I left the safety of the back of the bar and weaved through the tables. The music was pounding so loudly that it vibrated through my soles and up my legs. Samantha was shaking her beautiful body on stage, her burlesque outfit doing her curvy body justice. That pin-up costume cost more than my monthly rent, and The Blue Rabbit was one of the best burlesque shows in the city. A special privilege for a chosen few. There were no greasy poles at this gentleman’s club. Sam spun on stage, stripping off one long, black elbow-length glove. She was gifted. She favored her right side, and I knew she was protecting an old injury. She’d been a teenage Julliard hopeful once upon a lifetime ago, and a bad injury had ended that young dream.
The Blue Rabbit was where dreams came to die.
“Hello, gorgeous. Are you on the menu tonight?”
A brash voice filled my ear, and a hand landed on my ass.
I continued without a backward glance. Just last month, I’d have turned back and argued with the lech and tried to make him understand that grabbing women without consent wasn’t a nice thing to do. I’d been so ridiculously naïve. Even after my ruined childhood, I’d kept that naivety for a while. Seven days into my job here, I’d gotten the message.
No one will help you here, little lady.
I wove around crowded tables toward the VIP section. Further back from the main stage, the music was dimmed. The smell of expensive cologne reached me, and murmured voices filled my ears. In the VIP section of the exclusive, members-only club, you could find titans of industry, princes of small countries, and kingpins of the underworld sitting at the same table.
Tonight, it was a small group of businessmen, their bespoke suits sharp enough to cut, their intense expressions predatory and empty. Businessmen, kingpins, corrupt politicians—they all looked similar, with small differences. I’d learned them well. I avoided eye contact as I picked up the empty ice bucket and slipped the new one into the cradle.
“Just in time,” a voice called.
I shuddered. During the last week, I’d been recognized by an old classmate. The wealthy green-leafed town where I’d been the first version of myself–Mallory Madison–was only a short train ride away. Every person I went to school with was here in New York—or so I hoped because it would include the one I was looking for.
Kirill.
Last week, one of the most obnoxious men I’d ever had the displeasure of meeting, Kaplan Holmes, had walked in. He’d been coked out his head, but not so far gone he hadn’t recognized me. He’d looked at me wide-eyed before throwing his head back and laughing.
“Mallory fucking Madison – you’re still alive?”
He’d been in every night since. Even in high school, Kap had been a rich kid bully who’d loved to make others squirm. Nothing had changed. He’d caught me up on his boring, privileged life as I attempted to avoid him. He’d racked up over five grand in charges, sending me back and forth to his table. He knew my real name, the one I’d had a lifetime ago, and he seemed to know he had me over a barrel. I fantasized about poisoning his drink nightly but had to settle for spitting in it for now.
“I’m starting to think you have a problem,” I noted, swapping the ice bucket before giving the table a bland smile. It was best not to focus too clearly on any one face. It encouraged conversation.
Kap smirked. “Maybe I do, sweetheart. Everywhere I go lately, I hear about you.”
I paused, finally looking at him. “Meaning?”
Kap settled his bulk against the leather booth. Kap was around my age, but he had the middle-aged spread that rich former athletes developed when they were past their prime.“Meaning, little Mallory Madison, someone is looking for you.”
