Chapter Four: A Shift With A Twist.
1400 Words
Renee rushed through her apartment like a tornado, quickly putting on clothes, brushing her teeth with one hand, and searching for her keys with the other. As she was halfway through putting on her shoes, she noticed movement outside the window.
The nighttime building manager.
Mr Clipboard Hitler himself, marching down the corridor with his stack of paperwork and his shiny bald head reflecting the hallway lights like a beacon of doom.
He approached Renee’s front door and knocked three times, each one more aggressively.
Oh no. Nope. Not today.
Renee pressed herself against the wall, holding her breath as if hiding from a murderer.
Another knock came again, harder this time.
“Miss Carrington? We need to talk about your balance.”
She mouthed, ‘bite me’, while staring at the door, hoping he couldn’t hear her heart pounding.
He knocked again, let out a weary sigh of someone who had truly had enough, and finally shuffled away.
She exhaled hard, clutching her chest. “If I see that scalp-top Shire reject one more time, I swear to Satan—”
Cautiously, she took hold of her bag and slightly opened the door. The area appeared safe. She quietly slipped out, crouching as if sneaking past enemy lines, and moved along the hallway. At the midpoint, her keys rattled against the wall. She stopped abruptly, holding her breath, and glanced around to check if anyone noticed.
With the grace of a feral cat and the mental stability of a broken toaster, she darted for the stairs, whispering, “Freedom, sweet freedom,” under her breath.
By the time she reached the car park, her heart was racing, adrenaline spiking, hair a mess; however, she’d made it.
She grinned to herself, breathless and adrenaline-fueled. “Stealth level: fuckin’ elite.”
When she arrived at Liquid Confidence, it was already starting to quiet down for the night. Silas was propped against the doorway, a cigarette in his mouth, speaking to a man who seemed strong enough to bench lorries for a warm-up.
Renee approached, her heels striking the pavement with confidence she didn’t quite feel.
“Speak of the devil,” Silas said with a smirk, turning to face her. “Were your ears burning, love?”
Renee plucked the cigarette from Silas’s mouth and rolled her eyes.
“Hey, what the f**k?” Silas barked.
“I need it more than you.” She inhaled deeply, smoke burning her throat but steadying her nerves.
The towering stranger’s gaze swept over her body, hungry and unashamed.
“If you’re going to stare at my t**s,” Renee said coolly, “you could at least pay me.”
He laughed, startled by her bite. “She’s fiery, isn’t she?”
Silas gave a short laugh of his own. “Told you, mate. But listen, Terrance, she works hard as hell. I promise.”
Renee’s brow furrowed. “What’s going on?”
Terrance closed the distance, draping his arm over her shoulders. His hand slid lower, possessive, grazing the edge of her ass.
“You’re working for me for a few weeks, sweetheart. I’m short on staff. Silas here tells me you need extra cash.” He leaned in, voice a low growl. “Mmm, my men are going to love f*****g your tight little ass—”
His words cut off in a howl as Renee pressed the lit cigarette against his cheek. He recoiled, wrath twisting his face. “What the f**k do you think you’re doing, you w***e?”
Silas shoved himself between them, hands raised. “Easy, mate. She’s fragile right now. Normally, she’s a good girl, I swear.”
Terrance bit down on the inside of his cheek, his eyes promising violence. Then, almost too calmly, he chuckled. “You did warn me she was feisty, my bad, my bad, I guess.” He spat at the ground, then turned and wandered back through the club doors.
Silas rounded on Renee, slamming her against the wall. His face hovered inches from hers, his hand gripping her jaw, fingers digging into her cheeks.
“You’re running out of chances, Ren,” he hissed. “Get your s**t together. I’m trying to help you—but you’ve got to learn to be a good little hole.”
Renee shoved him away and snapped, “Get the f**k off me.”
“I’m warning you, kid,” Silas said with a threat.
Renee finally reached her dressing room, she locked the door behind her, and sank into her chair.
She gazed into the mirror, unblinking and vacant, seeing a stranger stare back. Her eyes were puffy from exhaustion, and her skin appeared washed out and pale under the bright lights.
She was forced to work long hours when only creeps and heavily drunken, bitter old men shuffled through. It felt more like a punishment than a job. The pay was not just bad; it was humiliating, and she was too exhausted to argue with him about it.
Renee’s shift dragged on for hours. The strip club was half empty. The music thumped, but there was no life in it. Just a rhythm she had to move to whilst pretending not to notice the eyes crawling over her skin.
On stage, a man in a wrinkled suit sat right on the edge. His hand kept sliding further across the stage, fingers twitching as if waiting to grab her ankle. She twisted out of reach, forcing a fake smile, but her stomach curled with disgust.
Another man leaned back in his chair, drunk to the point of collapse, clutching a fistful of crumpled banknotes. He tossed them at her chest, one by one, laughing as they fluttered to the floor. The notes stuck to her sweaty skin before slipping off.
“Dance, baby,” he slurred. “That’s all you’re good for.”
The crowd laughed with him, and Renee felt her face burn. She bent to pick up the bills, her hands shaking. Every bone in her body screamed for her to stop.
But Silas stood by the door, watching. Always watching.
The hours blurred together. Two hours turned into four, and six became seven. Doors kept swinging open as more men stumbled in.
Some were drunk, some angry, some looking at her as if she were meat laid out on a table. She was tired, her legs ached, but when she asked for a break, Silas shook his head and told her to keep moving.
By the third set, her body felt like an anchor. Sweat ran down her back, her throat was dry, and every smile she forced cracked her inside a little more. She caught sight of herself in the mirror behind the bar: lipstick smudged, mascara running. She was just a shell now, stuck replaying the same nightmare over and over.
The drunk man from earlier stumbled back to the edge, laughing, a fresh stack of dollar bills in his hand. He threw them in her face this time. They hit her cheek, then fell to the floor. He shouted over the music, “Pick it up, sweetheart. You’re nothing but a dollar a night.”
She forced her lips to curve, biting back everything she wanted to say.
For the first time in ages, she felt the urge to scream on stage, to toss the money at him, and to declare to everyone that she wasn’t their plaything.
But she didn’t stop. She continued to move, her body swaying to the rhythm and her eyes glassy.
The night continued, and Silas refused to let her stop until everything was completely quiet. After another hour, he finally let her go back to her dressing room, where she drank the last of the vodka straight from the bottle. She reached for her phone when a piece of paper in the corner of the mirror caught her attention.
Her chest grew tight as she struggled to pull it free with unsteady fingers.
Hello, Princess. Daddy ain't going to save you now. It’s time we finished what we started, don’t you think?
The words hit like a punch to the gut. For a moment, she couldn’t breathe. Her vision tunnelled, sound dulled, and all she could hear was the pounding in her ears.
It can't be him, right? He hasn’t been released yet. He can’t have found me so quickly—
- Writer
