Chapter 9

Brynley

“Hey, hot stuff,” a tipsy patron attempts to purr as I deliver his balding friend a whiskey refill, “what’s it gonna take to get you in the box?”

First, I’d like to point out that it’s not a box.

It’s a dangling set of lights that gives the illusion the dancing female is in a box.

Second, I’d wish everyone knew what a bitch that shit is to clean.

Lastly, dancing around in the equivalence to my bikini for a room full of – primarily male – strangers, isn’t something that’s ever gonna happen.

It’s one reason I quit bartending at the strip club.

Who I wear practically nothing for is my decision.

And only mine.

His cigar free palm moves to graze my thigh to which I execute a well-perfected evasive maneuver. “Sorry to disappoint, sir, but I only swing my ass around like that for pleasure , not tips.” I shoot him a sultry yet snarky smirk. “And never just for tips of pleasure.”

The male I delivered a beverage to chortles and slips a hundred into my black, lace, thigh garter exposed specifically for that purpose.

Some chicks like to stuff the cash in their tops.

Some chicks like to flaunt it on their g-strings.

And some of us – me – don’t like to display exactly how much cash I’ve collected in a night.

It’s the same reason I tuck my tips away between every round I make.

I don’t trust most people.

They’ve proven too many times they’re perfectly fine, disappointing you.

And I grew up with that in my household.

I don’t need that shit ruining my adulthood too.

“ Gentlemen ,” I seductively coo at the same time I inch my black, skintight, cross halter dress back into place, “it’s been a pleasure serving you this evening.”

And so goddamn lucrative that I’m almost tempted to work the overtime.

“If you desire anything else during what remains of your visit, Vanessa,” I gesture an open palm in the direction of an approaching dark-haired female bearing a backless gown and red stiletto heels, “will assist in fulfilling it for you.”

The grabby handed bastard quickly questions, “Anything, huh?”

I flash him a sexy smirk and echo, “ Anything. ”

Seeing his recently nipped and tucked face light up acts as my cue to sashay away towards the female approaching who indeed will exchange a variety of mouth hugs for money.

Nothing wrong with that.

No judgments.

In fact, I actually appreciate her honesty in the department where most women – especially around here – pretend they are “too high class” to even consider something like that.

Right.

That’s why those same “too high class” ladies are almost always the first to be found on their knees in one of the exclusive VIP rooms that cost five grand just to occupy for an hour and another two for service.

Again, I’m not judging.

I’m simply saying be fucking honest.

Like Vanessa.

Vanessa Setta and I casually cross paths at which time I whisper, “Baldy tips like his son won the Stanley this year and grabby wants to tip if you’re willing to take the tip .”

She winks to acknowledge she heard me, flips her black hair over her shoulder, and struts towards the pair in full lioness mode.

Honest and fearless.

The two qualities I wish more people had the balls to display.

She says they were two things of the three most important things she learned hanging around rinks with her brother when she lived in Vlasta, Wisconsin with the other of course being never bang hockey players.

Especially not ones that label themselves “gods”.

I rhythmically stroll from the center of the posh decorated room towards the employee’s only area near the back bar making sure to sway my hips to the jazz music from the house band every step of the way to guarantee I’m minding the “always on display” rule.

The instant I’m no longer in view of the patrons, I quickly hustle past the employees’ dressing room to the main office to check out for the night. To no surprise, inside the unlocked space is Ricky Rigsby, our slimy, always trying to pass for six feet, ferret faced boss – that I’m ninety percent sure was given this gig as debt owed to his father – and the newest, youngest hire.

Krall only knows what bullshit he’s trying to spew to con another chick into fucking him for favoritism.

He’s clearly learned nothing from the last three that no longer work here.

Well, maybe not nothing.

He at least remembered to close the door this time.

“If you do this for me, baby, I swear I’ll give you first pick of private parties,” he tempts, hand sliding up the back of her ivory skinned thigh. “And we’ve got soooo …” his fingertips continue inching towards her ass, “ many… ” another two centimeters is covered, “ coming… ”

The last line is attached to him diving forward to shove his tongue in her mouth prompting me the perfect time to interrupt, “Time for me to check out.”

Callie Hardy loudly giggles, gives her bleached blonde hair a less than innocent ruffle, and creates space between her and the boss causing him to grump, “ Fuck, Brynley. ” He gives his crotch a small adjustment. “Can you give us a few? We’re kind of in the middle of negotiating.”

“You’re in the middle of a porn fantasy come true.”

More redness coats the young girl’s face, but the comment doesn’t send her running like it should.

Meaning she likely knows exactly what she’s doing.

And she likely plans on getting exactly what she wants out of him.

Kudos to the kid.

“Chop, chop, Ricky. The sooner you let me go for the night, the sooner you can get her on her knees and your nine-inch cock in her mouth.”

The petite blonde’s expression grows in excitement indicating how my potential lie intrigued her. Ricky gives her a small wink, strolls over from his desk, and whispers once he’s in the doorway. “Appreciate the wingman tactic, sweet cheeks.”

I pull the key card to the cigar vault from my other, higher thigh garter at the same time I quietly bite back, “Appreciate it by adding me one more night to the schedule next week.”

His bushy brown eyebrows lift in obvious objection.

“Or…” twirling the object around my fingers is tauntingly done, “I could casually mention too loud that I hope your new strand of overly contagious crabs is gone.”

He attempts to snatch the item away only to be denied by swift sleight of hand. “You know if your tits didn’t help sales, you wouldn’t be worth the pain in the ass you are.”

“And you know if you didn’t sign our paychecks, no one would ever think twice about burying their face in your berry bush.” I lean in slightly closer to further poke. “And I know it’s bushy, Ricky. Women talk.”

My boss tries not to glare during his conceding, “ I’ll see what I can arrange. ”

“Make sure you do.” A small flick of the wrist releases the card to him. “Unlike Bimbo Barbie waiting for you, I have actual bills to pay.”

Another word isn’t exchanged, nor does it need to be.

Unlike typical waitressing jobs where you have to go through the hassle of having receipts and cashing out, the membership cards are actually connected to whatever credit or debit card you use to pay your monthly fee. It’s the only payment type accepted here, and cash is required to properly tip.

You don’t tip?

They find a way to charge you additional “fees” at the end of the night that they then deliver to us as “bonuses” on our next paycheck.

Our hourly pay is decent enough, but tips are definitely where the majority of my funds come from.

You know if you put aside the whole having to dangle myself like a high-class escort, it’s really not a bad job. I take orders – top shelf sales are more appreciated – deliver drinks – tit shots work to my benefit – and talk people into buying expensive cigars or smoking what they have in one of the private rooms – where I won’t serve you but insist that Vanessa does since, she’ll give me a small cut for the extra business.

I flirt and get eye fucked.

I pretend to give a shit about whatever’s driving the customer to drink and convince them to keep drinking and smoking because that’ll help everything…at least for a few hours.

Is it my dream job?

No.

Is it the worst job I’ve ever had?

Far. From. It.

Dillon Wilson, one of our guards who’s still hoping he gets a “real security job” at Haworth Enterprises someday like his cousin Beau, versus the nightclub lifestyle he’s been stuck in for years, escorts me to my vehicle in his typical flirty fashion.

He asks about my night.

Tips.

And gushes about Little Soup of Horrors, his favorite lunch spot, we’ve just “gotta go to together sometime”.

Once I’m safely in my old Honda, I ditch my black pumps along with my work bag in the passenger seat and mentally map the route back to Wes’s estate on the outskirts of the city. Getting out of downtown is easy and even reaching the point where we first entered the highway to get me to my car isn’t difficult; however, the first turn on the unlit, dark country road is an entirely other story arc.

Everything is harder to decipher, and every road feels like I’ve already driven on it four times.

I’m not sure exactly how many wrong turns I’ve taken or if I’m honestly even close to where I’m supposed to be when I’m pulling off to the side of the road to kill the engine and make a slightly frantic phone call.

Thankfully, there’s only one ring before a polite voice is stating, “This is Mr. Reese with Wilcox Enterprises.”

Amusement smothers out anxiety. “Is that really how you answer the phone in the middle of the night, Puppet Boy?”

“We do business all around the world.” A small ruffling precedes him yawning. “I can – and do – get unexpected calls at all hours.”

“Obviously.”

“Please tell me you’re not calling just to have a snarky conversation with me. I was in the middle of a very important part of my favorite Zoe Salda?a dream.”

“Should I be concerned that you have a favorite Uhura dream?”

“I didn’t say she was starring in it as Uhura.”

“ But she was. ”

A frustrated huff is all the confirmation I need. “What do you need, descendant of the Orions?”

“I’m…um…lost.”

“Lost?”

“Yeah.”

“Emotionally or physically?”

“Now, who’s being snarky, Spock?”

J.T. grunts a small laugh.

“I honestly thought I remembered all the turns we took leaving, but at night, all these little roads look exactly the same.”

“That’s because they practically are,” he casually replies. “You’re in no man’s land.”

“Excuse me?”

“The estate actually runs all the way from the exit off the main highway to the other side of the lake, so all those little roads you feel lost on are actually a part of the property meant to confuse and deceive you. Glad they’re doing their job.”

“Could you do your job and find me?”

“Didn’t hear a please.”

“You’re about to hear my murderous screams if I’m left stranded on the side of the road in the middle of the fucking night much longer.”

“Let me pull up the camera feeds of the roads and find you.”

“How is it you have enough cameras on the property to make the Jetson’s jealous but can’t put up a couple of road signs for guests?”

“We don’t have guests.”

“You have deliveries! Maybe they’re not coming in for tea, but like, they’ve still gotta get there!”

“They have accurate directions.”

“Please don’t make me give accurate directions to my foot in your ass. ”

Another laugh presents itself prior to him announcing, “Give me a few. I’ll come out and bring you home.”

I opt out of reminding him that this isn’t my home and that I have no intention of permanently moving into a wing of the Munster’s dream house by simply replying, “Thanks.”

After the call ends, I immediately drink in my dark settings and curse myself for every horror movie I’ve ever let someone talk me into watching.

This is exactly how they fucking start.

Pretty, big tittied, airhead gets magically lost in the woods where a psycho killer just so happens to like to play.

Except I’m not an airhead.

And I’m gonna be extra pissed if the billionaire who can basically buy an entire country can’t keep one whack job off his precious property.

For some unknown amount of time, I impatiently wait in the front seat, death gripping a high heel – these bitches are sharp – and promising myself I’ll stop at the corner store for pepper spray on my way into work tomorrow, assuming I make it there.

Assuming I’m not randomly dragged out of my vehicle by my hair, kicking and screaming and fighting to not become some Friday the 13th fanboys first victim.

Or tenth.

Or one hundredth.

I really don’t need to be his TV syndication mark.

Out of practically nowhere, lights appear in my driver’s side mirror, flooding me with hope and skepticism simultaneously. The SUV – perfect for kidnapping according to every mob movie I’ve ever seen – creeps to a crooked stop convincing me to grip the key to the ignition with my other hand.

Prepare to turn it.

When the vehicle finally ceases all movements, it’s done so in a way that allows the front passenger door to be parallel with mine as the window slowly cracks open to reveal a hooded figure in the driver’s seat.

One Grim Reaper inspired limb is extended in my direction prompting me to shout at the top of my lungs, “ No, thank you! I’m not interested in meeting my maker tonight! ”

The person executes a downward motion with their pointed index finger.

“ Absolutely. Fucking. Not! ” Agitated headshakes are attached to the manic waving of my high heel. “ I’m not about to be real-life inspiration for some fucked up Leatherface franchise spinoff! ”

“ What?! ” is accompanied by the arm flopping down to the side of their vehicle. “ What the hell are you talking about, Bryn? ”

“Wes?!” I quickly turn the key to have access to lowering the windows. “Is that you?!”

“ Yes. ”

His powerful, dominating, yet gruff voice instantly instills relief.

Comfort.

“You got lost coming back?”

“Yeah. It’s darker than a blackhole out here.”

“Follow me,” he warmly insists. “I’ll get you home.”

Again, rather than issue a correction about the term, I fight the instinct and carry out the actions I know are gonna get me to actual safety.

Wes guides me around the winding property in a way that almost feels like a tour as opposed to a straight shot. Our eventual arrival at the WX gates has the security guard in the box coming out to verify that it’s me and register my vehicle before I’m allowed to pass through. The estate owner politely waits to finish escorting me all the way to the front door – passing several side paths I assume lead to the guesthouses – to the same area I loaded up into his SUV several hours earlier.

While I park, grab my shit, and get out, he doesn’t.

He simply shuts off the engine.

Remains seated on the other side of the tinted glass.

“It’s quite late, Miss Winters,” Clark announces in an almost father figure like tone.

“ Bryn. ”

“Bryn.”

“Late shifts are kinda my thing,” I retort at the same time I drape my workbag over my shoulder. “Always have been.”

“Your mother’s influence I’m presuming.”

“You presume correctly, Alfred.”

He fights the inkling to smirk.

“Where do you want me to park my car?”

“I’ll move your vehicle, Bryn,” Clark informs warmly. “You simply get inside. Perhaps unwind ? A long shift followed by a long drive can take its toll on a person.”

“It can and does, but I can still park my own car, dude. It’s not a big deal.”

“I understand you are a very independent individual, Bryn. Most people swept into a situation such as yours would take full advantage of the amenities provided by the estate; however, you are determined to maintain the majority of your self-sufficiency. It’s remarkable. Rather admirable.”

“Thanks.”

“ However ,” he continues, tone growing a bit of an edge, “every time you deny one of us our ability to do our job, you take away the entire reason we’re here, which is to serve . Most of us are not here because we have nothing better to do, but because we have found our calling, our joy, our path in life by serving households such as the Wilcoxes. Some of us have even found ourselves the family we didn’t think we would ever have.”

His words melt my tense shoulders.

Is this why my mother has done this for so long?

Is this how she feels?

Is this why she’s stayed much longer than she really needed to?

Is this why she entrusts Wes the way she does?

Is being a part of the Wilcox family more than just a job to her?

Is this what J.T. was trying to say?

What everyone has been trying to say?

“Please, bear those things in mind going forward.” Clark extends his open palm in my direction. “ Keys, Miss Winters.”

A cordial smile is attached to the object being surrendered. “ Bryn. ”

“Refreshments are in your room,” he casually discloses during his walk towards my vehicle. “Wes insisted Lucky put together a small snack variety to aid you between meals.”

Girlish giggles threaten to escape me yet rather than let them, I spin my frame around to the man still lurking in his vehicle. “Walk me to my room.”

I don’t wait for him to argue and my lack of waiting spurs him into swiftly pursuing like I knew it would.

Our first few strides are done in uneven breaths.

His are labored.

Tense.

Mine are pensive.

Dreamy.

Unexpectedly, he’s first to speak, “Why didn’t you call me for help?”

The question doesn’t deter my steps. “Would you have actually come?”

“ I came. ”

“Yes, but did you come because you wanted to be the one to save me, or because you just didn’t want J.T. to do it?”

His unhappy, incomprehensible murmurs have me tempted to turn around and face him.

Force him to face me.

Like so many other instincts I’ve fought tonight, I battle that one too, and tease, “Besides, I don’t have your number.” We arrive at my door. “I have his.”

“ You should have them both. ”

The overbearing declaration has me peeking slightly over my left shoulder to flirt. “ I really only want the one… ”

Hungry grumbles leaving him shift my face back around; however, further movements are ceased due to Wes’s gloved hands slamming on the edges of my doorframe. His large frame sways closer and closer and closer until the scents of his cologne are blissfully suffocating, stopping me from breathing anything in that isn’t him.

“ Tell me it’s mine you want. ”

“ Tell me it’s me you want. ” Hearing his hitched breath inspires a small victorious smirk to slide into place at the same time I twist my doorknob. “Thanks for coming to my rescue.” I step foot inside. “ Have a good night, Mr. Wilcox… ”

“You too, Bryn.”

Closing the door without looking behind me swiftly leads to me spotting a surprising sight.

The designer four-piece luggage set on display next to a brand-new mini fridge with a basket of snacks on top is enough a combination to convince me he’s doing his best to win me over, but the bedside vase of fresh roses displayed next to our earlier wordsearch booklet are what push the thought over the top.

Intrigue propels me to cross the space faster, and upon my arrival, I notice a note sticking out like a bookmark.

I quickly flip open to the page where only one word has been circled and beam brightly at the two words scribbled across the white placeholder piece of paper.

Your turn.