Page 3

Samantha

I pull the e-brake and sit in the driver’s seat for a moment, looking at the pestilent eyesore of a building that is Club Sin. It oozes with one part Las Vegas flash and one part Idaho drab, and injects a full dose of depression in my heart. Though it’s universally true that strip clubs look like bastions of sadness and despair in the light of day, Club Sin exceeds expectations every time I look at it.

I’m going to need a shower and a bottle of wine when I get done here.

But I’m determined. I’m not leaving Club Sin until I’ve solved Jake’s problem. Even if that means establishing some kind of payment plan and making him confess and spend some time in jail to account for the fact that he has gone above and beyond to screw his life up with whatever he pulled working for this criminal named Grub.

I mean, really? Grub?

The name alone should’ve tipped Jake off — he’s smarter than that.

I hope.

Even though the name doesn’t hint that I’ll be facing off against an intimidating criminal mastermind who will force me to name-drop the police officers, city officials, and even the one FBI agent who owe me favors — some favors even big enough they’d come looking for me, Liam Neeson-in- Taken style if I should fail to turn up for work — it takes me a minute of staring at Club Sin and psyching myself up before I can open the door and step out of my car.

When I do, I take two steps before I realize I’ve been holding my breath and force myself to inhale, exhale like a normal person.

For all the times I’ve bailed Jake out of one problem after another, this time feels different.

And each step closer that I get to that gaudy abomination of a building with a sign that features a neon outline of a naked woman’s busty body and a subscript promising ‘Boobies and Booties galore,’ something akin to dread builds within my stomach alongside the churning bile of disgust.

I push open the heavy door, and the stale smell of cigarettes, cheap perfume, and desperation hits me like a wall. The club is dimly lit, with pulsing neon lights that fill the stinking air with an otherworldly atmosphere of sickening debauchery. A few early morning stragglers are scattered about the place, all of them nursing drinks and staring vacantly at the stage where a tired-looking dancer with a blue streak in her hair and a lifetime’s worth of sorrow in her eyes halfheartedly gyrates to a thumping bass line.

I approach the bar.

A burly man with arms like tree trunks looks up from wiping glasses to eye me suspiciously. "This ain’t the place for you, lady," he says. Then his grim face takes on a sick smile. "Unless you're looking for work?"

He gives me a once-over that lingers for a suspiciously long time on my feet. Ew.

I straighten and meet his gaze. "I'm here to see Grub."

"Who's asking?"

"Tell him it's about Jake. He'll want to talk to me."

The bartender grunts and disappears through a door behind the bar. A short time later, he returns.

"Back room," he says, jerking his thumb.

I follow his direction, my heart pounding. The back room is even darker than the main area, lit only by a few red bulbs that cast an eerie glow. A heavyset man sits behind a desk, his face buried in shadow.

"So," he says, his voice a low growl. "You're Jake's sister."

“You know who I am?”

“Of course. Jake talked about you a lot.”

"I'm here to work out his debt."

Grub leans forward, and I can see his face now—pockmarked and cruel, with small, piggish eyes. "Work it out? Your brother stole from me. Your brother took product worth fifty grand, and now it’s gone. He was supposed to mule it, and he knew the consequences if he failed. Yet, despite it all, he still did. And worst of all, he insults me to my face with an idiotic fucking lie by claiming he ditched it because the DEA was onto him and that he was doing me a favor by ditching it and saving me from some fucking investigation. Do you believe that, Samantha?”

“It doesn’t matter. I’m here to take care of it,” I say, trying to sound strong, though with each passing second, this dirty, dingy, barely lit room seems to shrink in on me.

“It does. You and I both know he probably shot it all into his arm. Now, despite it all, he adds insult to injury and sends his sister to clean up his mess? Does that feel fair to you?”

I want to stand up and scream. But not just at this wormy, paunchy, sick man who is eying me like I’m nothing more than a hunk of meat. I want to scream at my brother: Jake, when are you going to learn?

“I’m trying to be reasonable. We can work something out. And it would be better to work things out before it gets too messy, right? I’d hate to call some of my friends in Boise PD or in the FBI to have them help me out with this.”

Grub chuckles and fatty, greasy parts of his throat wiggle in ways that make me nauseous. “That’d be fun. Do that. Open it all up to investigation and see where that gets all three of us.”

I blink. All three of us?

“What do you mean?”

“Jake talks, Samantha. Especially when he’s riding high. You know, he’s quite proud of you. And the people you know. He thinks that connection means he’s worth more than a regular junkie. So, when he approached us about doing some work and tried to leverage his connection to you to get a bigger payout, well, we were happy to give it to him, provided he do us a favor in return. See, we asked him to do something that would make your connections a little less useful to you in the event things took a bad turn.”

Jake, what did you do?

I frown. “What are you talking about?”

“Jake knows a lot about you. More than enough to open up a bank account in your name… especially when the bank teller’s done some work for us before. Some of the money we gave him, we made him run it through that account. Thoroughly.”

“No.”

“Yes. So, go ahead, open your mouth, and then you’ll be investigated for laundering our money. I’m sure that’ll do wonders for your career. And even if you make it through that investigation without going to prison, there will be a fucking cloud over you that’ll keep you from working in this state ever again.”

By biting my tongue, I hold in my scream. Just barely. Every bit of backup I thought I had — my connections, my friends, my experience dealing with unsavory people — it all means nothing. Time ticks by as I sit in silence, processing the potential end of my professional life, all while it feels like a vise tightens crank by agonizing crank around my throat.

“What do you want?”

Grub leans forward, his bulk shifting, his fatty neck jiggling, and he grins.

“You, Samantha. I want you.”

“No.”

“Yes. You’re going to cover your brother’s debt. And after you’ve emptied your meager fucking bank account of every single cent to pay me what you owe, you’ll work the rest off by working here. In Club Sin. Starting tonight.”

I stand up on shaking legs and look toward the door, contemplating a run. “No. No way.”

“Yes, you will. You have no other choice. But don’t worry, darling: I’ll start you off easy with some fucking waitressing work. If you’re lucky, you’ll work hard. You’ll show your tits and ass and get enough tips to clear the debt before I lose my patience and have you fucking my customers in the back room.”

I look again to the door, and take a single step before Grub’s icy voice freezes me in place.

“You belong to me, Samantha Brooks. Me. And until I’m through with you, you are nothing more than my property.”

His words seep over me like an oil slick and worm their filthy darkness into my heart. He’s sick, and his vileness turns my tongue dry, my knees wobbly, and my stomach upside down.

But even worse than his sickness is the fact that he’s right.

I’m trapped.