Page 11

“Next, we have topless waitressing and bartending,” she says. “Those pay one hundred dollars per hour.”

I’m speechless.

“And then we have the dancers,” she says. “There are three tiers. Tier 3 are on stage. Tier 2 are on the dance floor with the men. And Tier 1 dance in private. These positions pay at one fifty, two hundred, and four hundred dollars per hour, respectively.”

I blink.

“And finally, we have the house girls. They’re the only ones who participate in sexual intercourse of any kind. These girls will be paid a solid five thousand dollars per nine-hour shift.”

My head is reeling now.

I can’t believe I’m actually considering this. This is the kind of money that can turn my whole life around.

“It feels like there’s a catch,” I whisper.

“There is no catch,” she says. “My club is a safe environment for all of my girls. And should you decide to be one of the house girls, it’s not just the man who gets to decide who he wants to spend the night with. The girl has to choose the man back. You’re never forced to do anything you’re not comfortable with.”

I glance down at my hands. They’re cold, like my blood decided to stop circulating there for some reason. This is way out of my comfort zone, but maybe it’s time for me to start taking some risks.

“What’s the name of this club?” I ask.

Mrs. Hendricks leans back in her seat and smiles at me. “Elysium.”

4

KLAUS

Awoman in red-soled stilettos twirls around the pole. Her long hair trails behind her like a dark halo. Her movements are fluid and graceful, like the laws of gravity don’t apply to her.

I’m looking at her, but I see someone else.

Emma Turner haunts my head like a long-forgotten melody I forgot the lyrics of. She has infiltrated every corner of my mind and taken control of all my senses.

I swear that I can even smell her here.

Cupcakes.

It was a scent that reminded me of childhood. Of a simpler time when I was actually happy.

I don’t know how she did it, but the girl sank her claws into me. She infected me with her poison, and I don’t think I’ll ever be the same again.

“How are you already in a terrible mood?” A man places his drink down in front of me.

I stand to greet Alaric, my oldest friend. We grew up across the street from each other, and he’s basically like a brother to me.

“What took you so long?” I ask.

“Calm down. I know you got here like nine minutes ago,” he says.

“How do you know that?” I glare at him. That’s an oddly specific number, and he’s not wrong.

“I know everything.” He wiggles his eyebrows. He points at the open bar in the distance. “I was standing over there.”

“Doing what exactly?”

“Arranging a little something special for you,” he replies with a coy smile.

“Alaric—”