Erin
When Torch had returned to the club, I had just gotten out of a little “meeting” Mr. Fletch had called in the dressing room with myself and three other featured dancers, in which he basically told us we would be appearing as “featured guests” at an upcoming party Mr. O. was hosting.
Finally, I thought, I might have a chance to get some inside information about Mr. O. and his widely discussed but little-known deviancies. I mean, how deviant could the man be? I needed more info, and this seemed like it might be the perfect way to get it.
I had asked who else was going to be there, and Mr. Fletch told me that wasn’t any of my business, that we were to show up and do our job and forget everything the moment we left the party, including faces and any names we might pick up during the night. Okey-dokey, then. It sounded super aboveboard.
The one thing I was fairly certain of was that Mr. Fletch didn’t go anywhere without his protective guard, the men of Damned Angels MC. If we played our cards right, Torch could be there, too.
Unfortunately, this brilliant plan didn’t go over so well with Torch.
Standing up to his full height, hands on his hips, he declared, “No way, Erin. Nuh-uh. You are not going near that fucker’s party. I don’t like it. Fuck, I don’t even want you stepping foot in the club anymore, let alone headlining at the sick fucker’s party. No. I gotta draw the line, babe, and say you are pulling out of this gig and cutting all ties to those two fuckwads.”
Oh, really? “Torch, you did not just tell me how to live my life. I know you didn’t. I just grievously misheard you, right? You want to rethink what you just said to me?”
He leaned in, his eyes narrowed, his jaw tight. “No, babe, I don’t. I’m serious. Those fuckers are dangerous men, babe, and I do not want you near them. No more.”
“Uh-huh. Torch, you need to understand something about me. I might like it when you get all domineering and controlling in the bedroom—I’m not saying I don’t—but when it comes to my life, I call the shots. Not you. I agreed to letting you drive the car for a while, but this is a stellar opportunity to dig, and I do not intend to fuck it up.”
I stepped right up to him, locking my hands on the nape of his neck, and softened my tone. “Look, you can be there. You can be there the whole time. Mr. Fletch’s going to bring some of you guys with him—you know he always does—so you just make sure you’re one of those guys. It’ll be fine. We’ll be there together. And you have my back, and I’ll have yours, too. We’ll be a team. Just do not tell me no. Because I am going, whether you like it or not.”
He did not like it. But he also did not attempt to tell me no again.
So I kissed him, super sweet.
# # #
I shouldn’t have been surprised. I mean, when Mr. Fletch “invited” us to this little shindig, he had told us we’d be provided with “proper attire,” and darkly warned us we’d better be damn good as the actual guests had high standards and expectations. But he didn’t exactly explain what that meant.
Apparently, that meant that it turned out to be, effectively, an orgy for the extremely rich.
It was a fucking Mr. O. event, hosted by him at his suburban monstrosity of a gated McMansion, on a huge estate that was beautifully landscaped so not a single neighboring residence was in sight. Mr. Fletch had had me and the other girls picked up from Centerfold and brought together in a rented limo. I didn’t know the other girls well, but they were familiar enough faces and bodies. There was some comfort in that.
My main comfort, however, was that Torch had made sure he would be here, too, assigned by his Pres to be on duty for Mr. Fletch. I hadn’t spotted either of them here yet, but I was keeping an eye out. My breath was a little tight in anticipation of his arrival, both because that had just become a norm for me in the past couple of weeks, and because I really didn’t love being at this party without him. There was a shady vibe, and I was on my guard.
All of the men—there were maybe twenty of them—wore tuxedos, black tie. The only other women here looked to be call girls. High-end, no doubt. But none of them had that wife vibe going on, all made up perfectly, in super sexy dresses that scantily clad their rocking bodies. I’d have put my money on their all being professionals of the first kind.
Champagne and high-end drinks were being served, and there were mirrored trays in certain corners that provided alternative lines of party favors. I knew enough to stay away from those.
Since our usual club uniform was limited to costumes for our feature dances—nipple pasties and G-strings—someone (it had to have been either Mr. O. or the Boss) had provided dresses for us in the club dressing room, which we donned before getting into our ride. Mine turned out to be little more than a gauzy gold baby-doll-type slip that didn’t even cover my ass and barely covered my nipples. Six-inch golden stilettos and full-on smoky eyes completed the look. I brought my little black jetted clutch along, figuring I’d at least make some giant tips to validate the extra working hours.
Plus, I hoped it would be a way to find out something more—maybe even get evidence—on Fletch and Mr. O. I couldn’t have asked for a better party location, right in the heart of the lion’s den.
Someone pinched my ass. “I love a bitch with some cheek.” An older guy in a tux leaned in to fake-whisper in my ear, “You have a lovely ass, my dear.” Then he palmed it and squeezed.
In the split second before I responded, another tux pulled up to my other side and gave my other cheek a hard slap. “Naughty girl, showing off her ass like this. I think this dirty girl needs punishing, don’t you think, Jack?”
Fuck. It was Mr. O.
He brought his other hand up to flip the top edge of the baby doll down below one of my nipples, and chuckled, “Now look at that. We have a wardrobe malfunction. I like it.” Both men laughed.
I quickly recovered myself and took a step back from the two gentlemen. Smiling tightly, I attempted a gracious exit with, “Hands off, please. Gentlemen, have a good evening.” I turned on a heel and skedaddled away. Yeesh.
Mr. Fletch, now arrived, had obviously caught the little interaction, because he soon sidled up to me. “Erin, you’re drawing attention well, I see. Good. You should know, Mr. Owen requested your presence here tonight specifically. Consider his satisfaction your…security.”
“You know I’ll dance my best to entertain the boys, Boss. That’s why I’m here, right?”
He chuckled. “Yeah, your dancing. Might be you’ll be called on to do a little more tonight than your normal. Special event, honey. You’ll find it would behoove you to make it good.”
At that moment, I felt a hand on my hip and an arm around my back. “I see you’ve found my girl, Danny. I have a very special plan for her.” Mr. O. was eyeballing my breasts, and his hand tightened on my hip. He leaned into my ear. “How’d you like to star in a little movie?”
I pulled my torso away from him, trying to get as much space as I could. “What kind of movie you have in mind, Mr. O.? You gonna make me a Hollywood star?” I struggled to keep my face clear of my inflaming repulsion. Act, act, act. This was all an act.
He laughed. “Yeah, right, Hollywood. You got the second half right.” He winked. “I have something very…exciting in mind for you. Don’t wander too far away tonight. I want you within reach.”
He wandered away to talk to another tuxedo, oozing smarmy charm. Mr. Fletch leaned in to my ear. “You should do the movie. It’s the best move you could make, given your situation. Balance needs restoring.”
Well, that was ambiguous. I wasn’t sure what he meant but saw his eyes had moved away from me and were targeting someone behind me.
I turned to look and found Torch watching us with eyes narrowed and jaw clenched. I knew he wasn’t thrilled about my being called in for this gig, and it had taken me some effort to convince him it was a good idea for me to do it.
I figured he had seen the whole exchange, seeing as he was there ostensibly to be watching over the precious Mr. Fletch. I also figured Torch had hated the sight of Mr. O.’s hand on me; he was possessive and protective, and that would generally not fly with him. But we were playing a game with the Boss and VIP host here, and we had both known coming in he had to play it cool. This must have been super difficult for my man, forcing himself to watch and not react. I smiled at him reassuringly.
I saw his jaw release, and he was done holding back. When he reached my side, he placed his hand over my hip in just the same spot Mr. O. had held onto, and he pulled me into him.
Mr. Fletch looked on with spite. “How sweet. And fucking inappropriate. Get your hands off her, Torch. She’s not here as your date. You’re both the fucking help. Act like it.”
He looked at me. “Now, go do your job. Schmooze with the money. And be ready to dance in about a half hour. Down to nothing tonight.” And he walked.
Torch fumed beside me, and I just breathed for a moment, steeling myself for the explosion I was sure was about to occur. But he was so good; he contained himself, only dropping his arm from behind me to snag my hand and give me a squeeze, letting me know he’d be watching, making sure I was okay. God, I was so glad he was there. This night sucked already.
I schmoozed as ordered and performed my feature as required. When I went to redress in the miniscule baby doll and G-string, they were not to be found. I ended up walking through the living room for the next couple of hours in my stilettos alone, fielding grabby hands and coked-up, drunken, overly stimulated men who thought they were entitled to handle my ass.
At some point, Mr. Fletch and Torch both disappeared from the room. I had no idea if they had left the house altogether or if they were just out of the party scene for a break of some sort. I kept an eye out for them, but the minutes passed and Torch’s absence felt too close to abandonment, though I knew in my mind that he could not have been happy with the separation, either. We were here to do jobs. I kept that going in my mind like a mantra.
There had to be something—anything—here at the house that would prove a tie between Mr. O. and the porno lot, Danny Fletch’s porno empire, and the death of my sister. I had no idea what I was looking for, but there had to be something here.
Find an in. Find something. Find anything. Find it. Find it. Find it.
Finally begging out of the party rooms to use the washroom to “freshen up,” I escaped more wandering hands and slipped out.
All of my previous attempts to explore the house had been doused by the watchful eyes of Mr. O. and by unwelcome attentions from random tuxes. It was past midnight now, and the general atmosphere had shifted somewhat. Those who were only here to schmooze and snicker had mostly left the scene, and it was only the serious partiers who maintained the space. By this time, they were all so seriously fucked-up on coke and booze that I was able to slip past notice; I didn’t see Mr. O. among them. I went up the ginormous main stairwell, fake stumbling as if I was fucked-up, too.
God, there had to have been at least eight rooms up there. I went down the gallery wall to the left, figuring I’d start on one end and work my way through.
Not surprisingly, the bedroom I started in was occupied by one of my fellow dancers and an older (gray-haired and rather flabby) man without a tux, going at it like monkeys on the bed. All righty, then. I had barely taken in the room, my only impressions being the large open space and the heaving and grunting on the queen-sized bed. Without even having entered the room, I shut the door and moved on.
The door across the hall revealed a bathroom as big as my bedroom, and I took the opportunity to finally get some self-coverage. In a moment of what I considered brilliant scheming, I turned on the shower, gratefully unfettered my feet from the evil stilettos, and slipped in. I quickly rinsed my body and hair, luxuriating for a few moments in the hot water, but forced myself to turn it off and keep to my plan. I grabbed a fluffy white bath towel and wrapped myself in it. Another to towel-dry my hair, and ta-da—the shower would justify the towel cover-up, and I felt a whole lot better about wandering around naked. The towel was way better than nothing.
Continuing my explorations with stiletto straps in hand, the next door down the hall revealed another bedroom, also occupied, this time by two men. The fourth door was just a linen closet; the fifth, another bedroom. This one was not occupied and held the basics you’d expect in a guest room. I skittled inside, shut the door quietly behind me, and hurriedly poked into the huge wardrobe, which featured a large flat-screen and some assorted technology, in addition to spaces for hanging and folded clothes. There were also a few interior drawers, hiding nothing of much interest. Giving up on the wardrobe, I turned to the desk under a window. It featured only one slim central drawer, hiding pens and paperclips and your typical desk refuse. Another dud room.
Moving on, I cracked open the door to scan the hallway for bodies and saw no one. I made it to the next room in line: another bedroom. Jeez, they were all copies of one another. I was getting the gist of the decorating genius behind this house. Rich and uninspired. Central bed, bare-bones bedside tables, and lamps. Central large wardrobe, each featuring the flat-screen and miscellaneous tech. This room had no desk but offered a low chest of drawers in its place.
One drawer offered an assortment of dildos and sex toys of the sort Christian Grey might approve. I fumbled through the stuff, not really wanting to touch it, not having known where the stuff had been, but knowing I must be thorough in my search if I intended to find anything useful. This drawer was the most incriminating thing I’d found so far; I’d have been derelict had I shut it without a thorough search. But I did feel weird searching somebody else’s sex drawer. It was a little distasteful. My face was probably a bit scrunched up as I looked.
Ultimately, though, the search came up empty for evidence against Mr. O. I wished I’d had my phone with me to take a few pictures but was doubtful that any such images would aid the cause. I’d have to have a whole string of pictures tying the contents of the drawer to the desk, to the room, to the hallway, to the stairs, to the foyer, to the house…And my ability to produce such a string tonight seemed unlikely at best.
I was starting to breathe faster, anxious that either I would be missed by Mr. O. and he’d come searching for me, or that people from the party below would come in, looking for an available shag room. I had probably already been upstairs for a good fifteen minutes, at least. Possibly longer. I needed to speed up my search. I was praying for pay dirt, ASAP.
I moved along and found the next door led to another full bathroom. The last door on this left side of the stairs was another guest room, occupied by two men and another one of my fellow dancers. I don’t think she noticed me; her mouth and vag were probably all she could focus on, filled as they were with the men’s dicks.
But the guy with his cock in her mouth had a clear view of me as I cracked open the door. He grinned. “Fuck yes. Join the party, bitch.”
“Um, no, thanks.” I tried to see if I could catch the girl’s eyes, to see if she needed saving, but they were closed and didn’t open when I spoke, so I figured if she had wanted help she’d have signaled me somehow. She didn’t. I speedily backed up, closed the door, and moved along to the other side of the staircase.
The next few rooms followed suit: another bedroom, another large bathroom—
Fuck. This one was occupied by none other than Mr. O. himself, standing in front of an open drawer in the wardrobe, looking like he’d been poking through it for some specific item. The last of my fellow dancers was tied to the bed in a big X. She was naked, blindfolded, and gagged, and it was really hard to read any expression on her face. In fact, it was pretty much impossible. The lights in the room were on full force; clearly, Mr. F liked watching whatever it was he had going on. He himself was still fully dressed, although he had opened his bow tie and popped the top few buttons on his shirt.
But when he looked up at the door at my entry, his focus switched entirely to me. “Aha. There you are. Come in. Don’t be shy. Come in, Erin. You’re just what I wanted. Perfect timing.” His nostrils flared.
Shit. This was not the plan.
“I can see that you’re busy, Mr. O. I’m actually looking for Mr. Fle—”
“I said: Come. In.”
He stalked to me at the door, took hold of my wrist, pulled me in, and shut the door. “Now, how shall we play this out? I rather like my options here. Have you ever played with toys, Erin? Have you ever played with another woman? Do you like the idea? Does it excite you?”
“The answer to all of those questions is no. Now, please, let go of me and let me be on my way.”
“Wrong answer, Erin. But then again, maybe the right one.”
He curled the fingers of his free hand in the top of the towel over my chest and pulled; the towel dropped immediately.
My heart was pounding at this point, and I wrenched my arm from his grasp. I turned to the door to escape the room, but he was too close.
He caged me in at the door, leaning heavily on it with his arms on each of my sides, and his body pressed mine into the wood. “Ah, Erin. Feisty. I like it. I think the plan changes now; you need to be taught a lesson in obeying orders.”
I started to scream and he spun me around to face him, then shoved his palm up and over my jaw with force. I ended up biting my own tongue, hard, and the back of my head slammed against the door. I was shocked into momentary silence and almost immediately tasted my blood. I had concerns for my ability to breathe as his fingers mashed into my nose and his palm kept my mouth uncomfortably covered. Even my teeth ached from the crash of pressure.
“You want to play rough? Okay, you bitch, we’ll play this rough.” He whipped the bow tie from around his neck and stuffed it into my mouth, then wrapped his big arms around me and lifted me against him.
I did the only thing I could think of to do. I pulled my knee up, as hard as I could, in between his legs.
I have really strong legs.
He released me immediately, crouching and then falling over onto his side in the fetal position, moaning like a cow, but with a higher voice. I ran over to the woman who was still tied up to the cross and lifted her blindfold. “You want to be here?” I asked, recognizing her as Candy, her stage name.
Her eyes indicated a definite no, so I removed her gag and unsnapped the wrist cuffs and waist belt and let her take care of the rest. Grabbing the towel, I rewrapped myself as I sneered down at the moaning bastard who had still not yet recovered from my excellently placed slam.
“Grab one of his hands, hold it down for me,” I directed.
Candy needed a minute to get there, so I used the time to get the six-inch stilettos on again. Then I stepped directly onto the middle of his palm with my heel. I took just a moment to appreciate the effective stems on these shoes. I’m pretty sure he cried. “Listen, asshole. Do not try to pull any control shit on me. Ever. Again. And let’s see…”
I turned back to Candy. “Search his pockets for a wallet.” It took her only a few seconds; I kept up the pressure on his hand. He was having some trouble breathing. I was fine with that.
Once she found it, she handed the billfold to me. I checked it and found a large number of one-hundred-dollar bills. I took them all out and gave her about half of them.
“I think we’re good to go now. Later, you sick fuck.”
And I grabbed Candy’s hand, and we were out of there.
It was time to find Torch, and get the hell out of Dodge.