Page 28 of Painkiller (Sin Records #3)

T hick clouds choke the atmosphere, a toxic miasma of nicotine, weed, and whatever other substances are filling the air, poisons riding the haze.

The disgusting stench clings to my flesh like it’s becoming part of me.

If I don’t get a contact high from the noxious fumes, I will from them seeping into my pores.

Raucous roars blast in my ears as the crowd cheers for whatever is happening in the ring. I’m unsure why Dominic was concerned about whether I had a strong stomach. I haven’t been able to watch even a second of the fights.

But for the record, I do. I enjoy mixed martial arts, watching and practicing. My Pop Pop liked fights, whether it was boxing or martial arts, and I enjoyed watching with him.

Then, a few years ago, a fighter asked me to teach him ballet.

It’s not unusual. Many athletes have adopted ballet to assist in their training for flexibility, agility, and balance.

I didn’t intend to agree. My schedule was chaotic enough, and at seventeen, I wasn’t sure I was the person to teach him.

My Pop Pop suggested I accept in exchange for self-defense training. He was always concerned with my safety, but it was a way to assuage my guilt over taking someone’s money when I was ill-equipped to train them.

As it turns out, it helped my ballet technique as much as ballet helped him.

I also liked it a lot. It was a fun way to deviate from my conditioning without actually deviating—a way to work off stress without breaking my own training.

Plus, hitting things was a blast. I’m no black belt, but I think I learned enough to handle myself in a pinch.

The only fight to ever affect me or make me ill was Jagger. I’m still unnerved by my reaction to seeing him getting attacked. And the look in his eyes—hollow and haunted—still gives me chills.

I weave between rows, gathering orders and bets.

The club has an app where bets can be placed using digital currency, but some still prefer cash.

They could place their bets at the cages themselves, but they prefer to get us to do it for them.

The lifestyles of the rich and privileged, maybe.

Or maybe it’s a bunch of pretenders, trying to look like big shots.

Unlike the upper levels, there is no membership for The 7th Circle. Only a cover charge.

That’s if you know it’s here at all.

All I know is that it’s lucky for all of them I’m honest with the amount of cash I’ve had in my hands. More than enough to pay my debt at the bank—and then some—has slipped through my fingers, and the temptation has been real, but my conscience wins every time.

It doesn’t hurt that I’ve heard rumors Dominic is Mafia with a flair for limb removal. I need all my appendages in my line of work.

I go to the betting cages, handing the slips to the teller behind the plexiglass, then make my way toward the bar to get the drink orders filled. Someone behind me calls my name. “Dom wants to see you,” Leo tells me, jerking his head toward the back rooms.

Leo is nice and easy to work for. He’s mostly quiet, only really speaking when necessary.

He also takes no shit. It doesn’t matter how much money they have or if they’re some powerful, important person, Leo handles them all the same.

The fighters are no exception. On my first night, he took down a big-mouth, arrogant jackass who thought he could touch one of the other girls before he ever made it to the cage.

“I will as soon as I deliver these drinks.”

He lifts a brow, and the corner of his mouth twitches. “Sure. I’ll let you tell him when you get back there.”

Remember who I’m dealing with, I gulp. “On second thought, they can wait.”

Leo winks. “Good girl.”

A minute later, I’m walking into the break room where Dominic sits at a table with his back to me, swiping through his phone. A strange sense of awkwardness twists my stomach. I consider clearing my throat or something. Anything to let him know I’m here.

“Are you just going to stand there, or are you going to sit?”

A yelp rips past my lips as my heart stutters. “Yeah. Sorry,” I mumble as I walk around the table and take a seat.

Several moments pass while he swipes, and I sit here like an idiot, not saying a word. I pick at my cuticles. My knee bounces under the table. Impatience and nerves eat away at my stomach.

When he finally looks up, I’m ready to snap. “Do you have something to say?”

It takes everything in me not to reply with some sort of sarcastic remark, so I shake my head instead.

“Did you lose your ability to speak?”

“No,” I reply through gritted teeth.

“Then, when I ask you a question, you answer me with words. Understand?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, I understand.”

“Yes, I understand…sir.”

Heat explodes beneath my skin. My head feels like it’s about to explode.

I don’t know what the hell is going on here.

If this is a test or a game, but I’m not playing.

Since my first day, I’ve been respectful as possible—even with the handsy assholes.

I’ve never been late. I get along with the other girls.

Unless there’s something I’m missing, I’ve been a great employee.

And I know I should say sir to my boss. I really do, but the way he says it…like a command from the king. And maybe he is the king of his world, but he’s not the king of me. If he wants respect, he needs to give it. And at this moment, I’m not feeling very respected.

“If you think I’m going to say that, you’ve lost your damn mind.

” I lean forward in my chair, making hard eye contact with him.

“You’ve been nothing but rude since I walked in, demanding I sit as if I’m a dog.

Then, ignoring me for ten minutes while you played on your phone.

Time is money, in this case, mine, and I fucking need the money, but instead of being out there earning it, I’ve been sitting here waiting for you to deem me worthy enough to speak to so fuck you and your ‘sir’.

I don’t respect people who don’t respect me. ”

If he is the slightest bit affected by anything I just said, there’s no sign on his face, but after a moment, he nods. “Good. Keep that attitude when you’re upstairs. Don’t take shit from anyone.”

“U-upstairs?” I stammer, unsure if I heard him right.

He nods once. “We’re shorthanded, and I’ve watched you on the cameras. You can handle the clientele without breaking a sweat.”

My heart pounds against my ribs, remembering what goes on up there. It’s not just serving drinks or even dancing on the stage. Other services are offered. And while I’m far from a prude, my stomach revolts at the thought of getting paid to have sex with absolute strangers. How does that even work?

I mean, I know how it works, but are there rules or something? Am I expected to just do whatever they want?

A single bead of sweat trickles down my spine. “I-uh… What do I have to do?”

“You don’t have to fuck anyone if you don’t want to. No one does. It’s just…an option for those willing and wanting to make extra money.”

Relief slams into me like an anvil, and I nod. “Okay. What do you need me to do?”

“Whatever is needed. If they need servers, you serve. If they want a dancer on the stage, you dance. If they want a private dance in a room, you go.”

“Private rooms?” The anxiety threatens to shred me again.

“Just to dance unless you want to do more. No touching allowed without consent. Running prostitution doesn’t mean we tolerate assault.”

My heart races. This could be exactly what I need to save my apartment. It’s what I came here to do last week. “Is it just for tonight?”

His shoulders lift. “We’ll see. Get upstairs and do well, and I’ll consider letting you up there permanently. Though I will admit I need you down here, too. I need five more of you down here.”

I nod, doing everything I can to keep my tears at bay. It feels stupid to cry for joy that I get to take my clothes off, but it really does seem like a massive break after everything that happened last week.

I still don’t know where the money went, and no one has answers.

Just as I’m reaching the door, something occurs to me. “So, uh, Will won’t be up there, will he?” I do not need him saying anything to Graham, Casey, or Jagger. Though I’m aware it’s possible Jagger will show up and recognize me.

Then again, the uniforms are different, as are the masks. Not to mention the lights will be low. Perhaps he won’t realize it’s me. Although considering I haven’t heard from him in a week, I’m not sure why it matters or that I care.

“Will won’t say anything to you. If he does, ignore him.”

I press my lips together and nod. It’s not the answer I want, but it will do.

It only takes me a few minutes to grab my bag and take the employee access upstairs to The 1st Circle.

Like downstairs, Lana, the club manager, has her office right next to the employee lounge.

My knuckles rap against the frame despite the door being open.

She glances up from whatever she’s looking at on her computer, hope glimmering in her eyes as she takes me in. “Please tell me you’re here to work.”

I nod. “Yep. That’s me.”

“Oh, thank God. I told Dom if he didn’t get me some help I was quitting, and God fucking knows I don’t want to quit. He pays too well. Come. Sit. Close the door behind you.” She waves me to the chair across from her desk.

Stepping inside the office, I smile at how she’s made the small space her own.

The brick walls have been painted a pristine cream, making the room seem larger than it is, while a cream and navy abstract rug covers the floor.

On either side of a small bookshelf behind her sleek, yet simple matte black desk is a matching pair of tall lamps with glittering shades casting a soft glow, and above the shelf is a set of three canvases, each with different words and their definition.

None of it is what I expected from the manager of a strip club. No. An illegal sex club.