Page 2 of Ruining Hattie
BASTION
T he bass from the music at the front of the house thumps through my office at the back of the club. The Black Orchid has more than twenty locations in four different states, but I run the business out of the first club I started in Seattle.
A decade ago, when my sister married billionaire Obsidian Voss and a bunch of fucked-up shit went down, I made a promise to my sister, Ariana, that I’d get myself on the straight and narrow. So did our dad, but I knew if we were together, we’d likely revert to our old ways at some point.
So I moved far enough away that he wasn’t in my life every day.
He’s used the past decade to moderately straighten himself out, even got married five years ago.
I used the time, and some seed money from my brother-in-law, to build the most successful chain of elite membership strip clubs throughout the West Coast. I wonder what that scrawny, frail kid would think of himself now.
What makes my strip clubs different isn’t the lush interiors or the top-of-the-line talent, but the fact that the women who dance here want to be here.
Too many strip clubs take advantage of the women who are the sole reason they have customers.
I take care of my girls, giving them a more-than-healthy living wage, health benefits, and they keep all their tips.
And if they offer extra services in the VIP rooms, that’s their decision and their earnings.
I only have one rule. No drug or alcohol use on the premises.
My patrons don’t want to see some glazed-eyed woman give a half-assed effort when she’s shaking her tits and ass in his face.
My girls sell the fantasy. Every man in my club better feel as though they’re the one the dancer desires—whether it’s because she’s grinding her pussy on his lap and her tits in his face, or because she throws him a look from the stage that reads “I need you and only you.”
I sell the make-believe fairy tale, but the man’s version.
That they’re the hottest, wealthiest, biggest alpha dog in the room.
Men are such simple creatures that they buy into the illusion without question.
As a result, they pay the ridiculous membership charge to get in here and the inflated price of the drinks, and they stay longer than the average consumer at a club like mine.
They don’t even balk at the upcharge for a lap dance or a visit to the VIP room.
Everyone benefits—me, the dancer, and the clientele—which has been the key to a long-lasting, successful enterprise. And it’s made me filthy rich. Which is all I’ve ever wanted, but somehow, there’s still an emptiness inside me.
I push away the uncomfortable gnawing feeling and shake my head.
Now that I’ve had time to calm down after nonstop building the business, the past has been creeping into my psyche more and more, which is probably why, during a weak moment last week, I did something so fucking stupid. I still can’t believe I did it.
There’s a knock on my office door and I say, “Come in.” I’m thankful for the interruption.
The door swings open, and my right-hand woman, Steph, struts in. She’s worked for me for five years now, and once I knew I could trust her, I assigned her the task of traveling to all the different Black Orchid locations to make sure things are running smoothly.
I used to do it myself, but I don’t enjoy traveling from place to place all the time.
Maybe it’s from never having a solid home growing up—at first because my mom didn’t pay the rent, and then with Trent and Ariana because we’d done enough damage in one town that we had to get out before we caught any heat.
Either way, I quite like having a home these days.
Sure, I still visit all the locations, but it’s more of a biannual thing than a monthly thing at this point.
Steph smiles and sits in the plush leather chair opposite my desk.
Her tight-fitting skirt cuts off mid-thigh, and her blouse has the top three buttons undone, revealing her considerable assets.
It’s an outfit that would never be accepted in corporate America, but in a strip club, she somehow manages to look demure.
“You’re back. How’d everything go?” I lean back in my chair and steeple my hands in front of me.
“Everything’s in order, though the Sacramento club is going to need a new manager. Riley put his notice in while I was there.”
I frown. “Where’s he going?”
Steph rolls her eyes. “Said his wife is on him to quit. She doesn’t like that he works around half-naked women all day.”
My lips press together. “Happy wife, happy life, huh?”
“It’s bullshit. If a man wants to cheat, he will. Simple as that. Doesn’t matter if he’s around naked women or not.”
I shrug, not entirely agreeing. Desire and proximity together can be a potent cocktail.
“Do you want me to make him an offer he can’t refuse? He’s a decent manager.”
She’s not wrong, and I don’t want to lose him, but if he doesn’t want to be there, what’s the point in trying to convince him otherwise? We’ll just end up back here at some point.
She crosses her legs slowly, and my gaze drags across the movement. Steph has a great set of legs.
I shake my head. “No, let him go. But once you’ve picked someone to fill his position, I want to do the final interview.”
She smirks. “Don’t trust me?”
Tilting my head down, I look at her from under my brows. “You know I do, but I get the final say.”
She nods before filling me in on some more details from the California clubs. I give her a few tasks, and when we’re done, she stands and walks over to the office door, then flips the lock.
Like some Pavlovian response, my dick twitches. Steph saunters to my desk, squeezing herself between where I sit in my chair and the desk.
I don’t fuck the dancers, and truth be told, I shouldn’t fuck Steph either since she works for me. But she understands the deal, and she’s never tried to make it anything more than it is—two adults getting their rocks off when the mood strikes.
“Something I can help you with?” I arch an eyebrow.
“The business stuff is over now. Time for a more pleasurable experience.” She sets her hands on the armrests of my chair and pushes it backward, making room for her to drop onto her knees in front of me.
I groan low in my throat. “What did you have in mind?”
The corners of her lips tilt up. “You’re a smart man.” Steph runs both hands up my thighs until she covers my now hard-as-a-rock dick with her hand. She squeezes my length, eliciting another groan from me.
“Do your worst.”
Always loving a challenge, she smiles up at me while unfastening my belt. As I’m admiring her with my dress pants splayed open and my zipper down, my phone buzzes on my desk with a text. Unable to stop working, I glance at the screen. When I see who’s texted me, my entire body stiffens.
Steph tugs my cock out and is stroking it as I reach for my phone.
1 new message from Mr. Smith
My chest grows tight, and that familiar nausea churns in my stomach. Cursing my impulsive decision weeks prior, I open the message as Steph wraps her lips around the tip of me. I’m not even enjoying her blow job. That’s how fucked up this situation is.
I located the individual. I’ve sent a report to your email along with my invoice. Let me know if you need anything else.
Sitting up straight, I push Steph’s shoulders, and her mouth pops off my cock.
“What the hell, Bastion?” Her lipstick is smeared, and her eyes are narrowed.
“Something’s come up.”
“I’m aware.” She reaches for my dick, but I push her hand away.
“You need to leave, Steph. I have something I have to deal with privately.”
Her cheeks redden, and her jaw clenches. She’s about to argue but seems to think better of it when she takes in my expression. “Fine.”
She stands and tugs her skirt down, trying to muster up some kind of dignity, but that’s hard to do when you just had your mouth wrapped around your boss’s cock and he abruptly called things off. I hate doing that to her or making her feel that way.
“I’ll be in the Nevada clubs next week. I’ll let you know if there’s anything pressing that needs your attention,” she says.
I nod, not bothering to look at her. There’s probably confusion written all over her face, and I can’t blame her. I don’t even understand myself these days. After the door shuts behind her, I stare at my phone’s screen, unsure if I want to go through with this or not.
When I reached out to Mr. Smith and asked him to track down my mother, I genuinely thought he would report back with a death certificate.
That she’d passed away from a drug overdose at some point in the twenty-six years since I left her in that filthy apartment.
The box would be sealed, and I could move on.
Even then, I knew it would bring up a bunch of shit, but I never expected her to be alive.
Where is she? What is she doing? Is she still an addict and living on the streets? Is she in jail? I thought that was the most likely possibility and probably the only way she was still alive—she wouldn’t have the ability to constantly feed her demons like she would out on the street.
I push my hand through my hair, then set down my phone and pull my laptop toward me, clicking on my email. The report is there, just as Mr. Smith said it would be. My heart hammers as I hover the cursor over the email, warning alarms blaring in my head.
Once I click, there’s no going back.
Who the hell am I kidding? There’s already no going back just from the mere fact that I know my mother somehow managed to beat the odds.
“Fuck!” I slam my fist down on the desk beside my computer. I’ve fucking opened Pandora’s box.
Hiring Mr. Smith to track her down was a stupid decision.
It was a weak moment. I’d just returned from visiting my sister at Midnight Manor for my niece and nephew’s seventh birthday.
Every time I’m around my sister and her family, it feels surreal.
She grew up the same way I did—with her father, my pseudofather, running cons on people—and somehow, she’s managed to have a normal relationship and family of her own.
Granted, she missed out on experiencing eleven years with a neglectful addict for a mother, but Ariana’s birth mother ran away from her and Trent early on, so she hasn’t had it easy either.
I hate to admit that I was jealous on the plane home, and that lingered the following weeks.
I don’t begrudge my sister’s happiness, she deserves it, but I found myself wishing I could have a slice of it for myself.
The past came haunting, and I wondered where my mother ended up, so I called my brother-in-law, Obsidian.
He connected me with his brother Kol, who led me to Mr. Smith.
I didn’t tell Obsidian who I was looking for, instead saying that I needed to track someone down for business purposes.
That way he wouldn’t share my call with Ariana.
The last thing I needed was for her to be all over me about this.
Since she’s met Obsidian, she’s become so fucking into discussing feelings it makes me want to pierce my eardrums with a knife most times.
Who am I kidding? There’s no turning back now.
After taking a deep breath, I press on the email, then click on the report attached.
The words “Carla Lynn Sinclair (nee Blake), 57” are printed at the top of the report, and I squeeze my eyes shut to push back the swell of emotion at seeing her full name.
It takes me a couple minutes, but I dig into the report. Interesting. Mommy Dearest lives in Wisconsin now and has been married for seventeen years to a guy named Robert Sinclair, who came into the marriage with a seven-year-old daughter, Hattie.
I’m in a state of disbelief as I read. She’s a religious churchgoer every Sunday and works as a hairdresser at a local salon. She’s had no speeding tickets or arrests since she got married and, by the looks of it, is now a fucking model citizen.
What the actual fuck?
The pit of rage inside of me burns hotter the further I read.
When I was around, she could barely function, but after I leave, she somehow manages to get her fucking shit together? And she doesn’t bother to try to find me?
I grip the edges of my computer and toss it off my desk. It crashes against the wall and falls to the floor. I push back from my desk, my chair pinging off the wall and to the side. My chest heaves as I stare at my computer, cursing it for this oily feeling mixed with rage rushing through my veins.
I thought when I received this report, I’d get some measure of closure at the certainty that my mother had passed away. Instead, I’ve stirred up a hornet’s nest of emotions I’m not nearly equipped to deal with.
No matter what, the question remains. What am I going to do about it?