Page 73 of Twisted Fate

The first thing that greets me when I reach the back door of the Hibiscus is a cold drop of water falling from the overhang, directly into my eye.

Could tonight get any worse? I squint, reaching up to brush it away before it leaves a track in my makeup, trying not to smear my mascara and eyeliner, while juggling my purse, tote bag, and Lucite heels in my other hand.

I never change into my work shoes before I get inside—besides the fact that they’re horribly uncomfortable, the alleyway behind the club is questionable both in smell and whatever is squishing under my boots as I go to open the back door.

All of the dancers here do some kind of side work for Doug and the club.

Besides the usual stage dances and lap dances in private rooms, we all have something else we do for extra money, depending on our boundaries.

Some of the girls give handjobs or blowjobs in the back rooms, and a few of them will let a guy fuck them for a high enough price—part of the money going to the club and Doug, of course.

Those of us who are too prudish—Doug’s words, not mine—to get guys off in person do cam work.

Doug will single one of us out for an hour or so, take us to a soundproof room at the very back of the club, where we’re streamed live on a camgirl website.

A couple of the girls are willing to fuck on camera, but I flat-out refused to do that.

So instead, I do solo shows. Doug’s video guy films while I’m being streamed, and then Doug posts those videos on pay-per-view sites.

At first, I hated it. It still feels strange, performing in front of the filming crew, naked and pretending to get myself off.

But apparently, I’m one of the more popular girls out of the ones Doug singled out for this gig, and my cut of the money—while nothing to write home about—pays at least one of the utility bills every month.

So I keep doing it, and I don’t complain.

I’m not sure he’d let me out of it anyway, even if I did complain.

Halfway to the room where we usually film, Doug veers off, taking the hallway toward the other back exit instead. I hurry after him, trying not to trip in my platform heels, confused. “Doug? What are we?—”

He shoves open the heavy back door, stepping out into the rain, and motions impatiently for me to follow him.

That alarm pings again in the back of my head. I swallow hard, slowing almost to a stop, and Doug looks back, his expression pinched and irritated. “Sienna! What the hell are you dragging your feet for? Time’s money, girl.”

It’s an expression I’ve heard him use plenty of times. He always sounds impatient when he says it. But right now, he sounds more than impatient. He sounds…nervous.

I want to balk, to retreat, but as Doug motions with his hand again for me to hurry the fuck up, I walk toward him anyway.

That’s what a job like this teaches you to do—ignore your own instincts in service of not getting fired.

A man grabs your ass or tries to slide a finger under your panties?

Ignore it, and smile, while trying to turn it into a private dance.

A man calls you a bitch when you won’t suck his dick?

Ignore it, and smile, while you try to get him off without ever touching him, shaking your ass over his lap just right.

A guy throws quarters on the stage instead of dollar bills, trying to trip you?

Ignore it, and smile, like he just threw you a fortune.

This job has dulled my instincts. Slowed them, in favor of survival, of keeping a roof over my head and food in my refrigerator and the lights on.

So I follow Doug, out into the warm, humid night. Out into the rain.

“Shit!” Doug swears, making that hurry up motion with his hand again.

“We’re gonna get fucking drenched. Where are the other—” He breaks off as I hear footsteps behind me, and two other girls—one whose name I don’t know, and one who I know is Cara—come clattering out of the back door. “Good. Amber went and got you two.”

“What’s going on?” I hang back just under the overhang, peering out into the dimly lit parking lot.

And then I see one of the bouncers walking toward us from the back of the lot.

Behind him, where he was a moment ago, are two men standing next to a black van.

They seem unbothered by the rain. They’re wearing jackets, unseasonable for Miami in the early fall.

“You’re going somewhere else. For the videos,” Doug adds, almost as an afterthought. “Sean and those two guys will take you. Just go with them, and they’ll bring you back when you’re done.”

“What?” The alarms are all screaming now. “We always film here.” I glance back at Cara and the other girl, who both look nervous, shifting from side to side as they hang back near the door. “There’s no way I’ll get back before my turn on the stage. And why would we need to?—”

“Do I pay you to ask fucking questions?” Doug snarls, more anger in his voice than I’ve ever heard before.

He can be a dick, but right now, he sounds fucking pissed .

“No, I fucking don’t,” he adds, answering his own question.

“Come the fuck on, all three of you. You’re costing me money every second you stand there with your thumbs up your asses. ”

“I—” I swallow hard. The other girls, for some reason, seem to be following my lead, and that’s more responsibility than I want right now. “Doug, I just don’t get why?—”

His gaze turns sharp and cruel. “Do you want to keep this job, Sienna? Because I think I made myself crystal-fucking-clear that you’d need to contribute here.

Do more than just shake your ass up on stage and in the back room.

And since Princess Sienna doesn’t suck dick or fuck—” His voice turns venomous.

“Then she’s going to go with Sean, and get in the van, and go finger-fuck herself on camera like she agreed to. Or she’s going to get fucking fired.”

He steps forward, and I can smell the stale-cigarette scent wafting off of him, even in the rain. “Which is it gonna be, princess? Are you gonna be a good girl and go do your fucking job? Or are you gonna pack your shit and go home right fucking now?”

My entire body clenches, like a full-body cramp, fear rippling through me. I know, I know , that getting in that van is a bad idea. That something is wrong here, that there’s something Doug isn’t telling us.

But I can’t lose my job. I think of the three dollars in my bank account after paying rent, all that I have left for food until tonight’s tips came in. I think of what it would be like to go back home, jobless, in a city where hot women willing to strip naked for money are a dime a dozen.

I walk forward, into the rain.

The two men barely look at me as they open the side door of the van for us. The van smells like cigarettes, too, and stale carpet, the air inside hot and close. I have to stifle a gag as I slide in, my nerves making my stomach flip over and over as it is.

Fuck . Just calm down, Sienna. It’s going to be fine. They just found a better location, or something …

But nothing I can tell myself, as Cara and the other girl slide in, can silence those alarms in my head.

My stomach is twisted into knots, and I don’t know how I’m going to put on a convincing performance.

I’ve only ever come for real a couple times on camera—being handed a vibrator when you’ve never used one before makes it hard not to—and the rest of the time, I’m full-on faking it.

I’m going to have to put on an Oscar-worthy performance tonight, that’s for sure.

The door slams, and one of the guys gets in the driver’s seat, starting up the engine.

Sean slides into the back row of seats behind us, and the other guy hops in the passenger’s side, just as the van starts to pull out toward the road.

It’s raining harder now, sheets of it lashing the window, and I press my lips together as I stare at the golden patterns that the streetlights make in the rivulets running down the glass.

Next to me, Cara has her hands laced tightly together, pressed between her knees. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see the other girl shivering. She must be new, that’s why I don’t know her name. It’s probably her first night doing this. I was terrified my first time, too.

I lick my lips, which have gone dry despite the humidity. Who am I kidding? I’m terrified now, too. This feels all wrong, and there’s no way out of it, not unless I want to lose my job with no promise of something else to follow it.

And I can’t do that. I just can’t.

The rain is coming down so hard that I can’t really see what’s in front of us when the van finally stops, just a dark shape in front of the windshield.

Sean yanks the door open, hauling it back as he gets out and motions for us to follow, and I do, careful not to slip and trip in my chunky heels as my feet hit uneven gravel.

My stomach drops as I see what’s in front of the van.

We’re in a part of town I don’t recognize, but it doesn’t look good.

I see a junkyard on the other side of the road, the lights off, the street lamps flickering in and out.

There’s nothing to my right, and a closed-down, decrepit gas station to my left.

In front of me, looming in the darkness, is an old warehouse made of wood and corrugated steel, the door hanging open and a sickly yellow light spilling out onto the gravel in front of it.

Sean gives me a shove, hand planted between my shoulder blades—not hard enough to knock me over, but hard enough to startle me. “Let’s go,” he snaps, his voice rough and impatient, and I stagger forward, wanting with every step to balk and refuse.

I need this job. I need this job. I need ? —