2. Jasmine

Chapter two

Jasmine

T he music's pulsating beat matches the awkward movements of my body as I twirl and spin on stage. This song is the finale of my hour-long performance, so I let myself become lost in the whirlwind until I'm giddy with excitement. Sweat beads on my brow and trickles down my skin, I ignore it, focusing instead on the adrenaline rush coursing through me. I love dancing. I don't care if I look good or not, I just want the freedom to move.

I do this for the thrill, not the dozens of eyes hungrily watching my every move. They may see a half-naked body, but they don't see the passion and dedication behind each movement. When my world stops spinning, and I'm left gasping for air under the hot spotlight, the sound of cheering and applause warms my half-dead soul.

Amidst the cheers, there are also drunken men hollering for me to 'take it off'. I'm only dressed in a skimpy bikini to cover the essentials as it is, leaving nothing to these lecherous punters' imaginations. I'm only paid to dance; nothing on this earth could convince me to let a man touch me here. I shudder just to think about it. I'm not saving myself for someone rich and charming or madly in love with me, just someone who hasn't done the same thing with the rest of the girls here.

As midnight approaches, I walk barefoot in my bikini towards the dressing room. I may be talented in many ways, but dancing in heels is not one of them. In fact, I can barely walk in them without falling. The dressing room is a welcome reprieve from the chaos of the club; the closing door shuts out the deafening rhythm of the night and the overwhelming smell of stale beer. Hastily throwing on my joggers and hoodie, I try to escape before anyone notices me.

Even that isn't quick enough to evade Desmond Graves. The club owner has a strict 'no touching the merchandise' policy with his customers, but he seems to think that same rule doesn't apply to him when it comes to his female employees. His greasy hair and overpowering cologne make my skin crawl; I suppress a shudder as he leers at me with his beady eyes.

If only he would focus on running the club instead of hitting on the dancers, maybe he wouldn't have to resort to sleazy tactics to make extra cash. A little personal hygiene wouldn't hurt, either.

If he could just be someone else, that would be perfect. Taller, leaner, hunkier, richer. I'm a woman with discerning tastes and high standards, but when all I amount to in life is a second-rate dancer in a dive bar, I've got nothing to offer any man who meets my expectations.

"What's your hurry, doll?" He saunters over like a face-hugger is about to burst out of his protruding beer gut. Perhaps he thinks he's charming, but I can only hope for the face-hugger option. A shiver runs down my spine as he looms over me. "You did good tonight."

"Thanks, Des-Gray."

Yup. Dickhead guy with a dickhead nickname. Despite his brashness and crude humour, there's something almost endearing about him when he rolls a wad of cash my way.

"Let's have a drink, J-M." His words are slurred, and his breath reeks of cheap whiskey.

I force a smile and laugh at the joke I don't get—something about M-J and me dancing like Spider-Man. I know it's not worth trying to understand him.

"Sorry, it's late, and Mum won't lock the door until I'm home." In truth, I live alone, although it doesn't hurt to make people think someone will miss me if I don't make it home.

"What's the hurry, princess? You never let me get to know you better." His leering gaze makes me feel exposed, and I try not to show it.

"Why are you hiding all that skin under those baggy things?" He gestures dismissively towards my clothes.

"Because I have to sneak past my mother every night without her knowing what I do," I mutter through clenched teeth. "She still thinks I work at the all-night store down the road."

"One day, you gotta tell that dim-witted Mamma you're working late so we can have one of those staff appraisal things." He leers suggestively at me.

"Sure, we can arrange something." I nod quickly, eager to escape before he says anything else vulgar. Living alone has its perks, though it would be nice to have someone check that I'm alive each night.

The blaring sound of Desmond's phone interrupts our conversation, and he waves me off as he turns to answer it. As I slip out of the room, I gasp for fresh air to escape from the overpowering scent of his cologne. Relief flooding through me, I congratulate myself on keeping my composure and not lashing out at him. Making my way to the exit and freedom, I remind myself that this is just temporary before I inevitably move on again. I could never settle for a life like this, and I'm always searching for better, I just find myself looking in the wrong places.

My car is parked at the all-night store, a short walk away. It's become a routine for me to stop in for a shake and supplies before heading home after a long night at work. However, it also means I have to walk down the dark side alley of the club alone.

Before I can take another step, a tall man emerges from the shadows and blocks my path, keeping his face hidden. "Stop right there, hun," he says with a deep voice. "I've been watching you dance and have a proposition for you."

Feeling uneasy but trying not to show it, I politely declined. "I'm sorry. It's been a long night. Maybe we can arrange something for the next time I'm working."

The man doesn't back down. "You don't understand what I'm offering here," he insists, taking a few steps closer. "Maybe you don't know who I am? I can make all your dreams come true."

"I've heard of you." I recognise him when he steps into the light - Andrew Green. His reputation precedes him. While there are some good stories about him, the bad ones tend to stick. He isn't known for physically harming girls in alleys; instead, he uses his wealth and fame to lure them onto shady film sets where men are waiting to exploit them on camera. My instincts scream at me to run, but fear keeps me rooted in place as he speaks with an air of authority and entitlement.

"I've got a film set all ready for you; just hear my idea and what I'm offering in return. Fame, money, luxury. Picture it. You, in a hotel room with rose petals everywhere. A naked bath, just to ease you into the film set. Then your sweetheart comes in and gently takes you to bed. How does that sound?" The man's smooth voice lures me in like sweet honey, promising dreams of luxury and fame. He describes a film set and a luxurious bath, all leading up to my first intimate encounter with my fake lover. As he speaks, I can't help but feel a sense of unease creeping into my gut. This isn't real, it is all just for show. Despite the tempting offer of twenty thousand pounds, I can't bring myself to share such a personal moment with the world.

"I'll think about it." I take a wide berth around him, regretting leaving my car so far away. My hand slips into my bag in search of the pepper spray.

"Come on, baby girl, the set is all ready for you; the cash is on the side." He moves closer, not taking no for an answer.

As we stand at a stalemate in the alley, his persistent advances begin to make me nervous. I can feel my hand trembling as it reaches for my bag, grasping for something to protect me. When he moves closer, ignoring my refusals, my hand finds something in my bag—not the pepper spray I was looking for, but my small pen knife.

In a moment of panic and fear, I swing the knife towards his face, its sharp blade drawing blood instead of liquid pepper spray. My actions are impulsive and rash, and as the man falls to the ground in shock and pain, I realise what I have done.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean it." Fuelled by guilt and regret, I quickly move towards him to try and offer help. My hand pulls back as I quickly realise I haven't just cut Andrew, I've sliced his throat open. It will take more than a few stitches to put him back together. "I can help you. I'll call an ambulance." I promise. It was an accident. I was acting in self-defence. I didn't mean to do it. I didn't know the knife was so sharp; I could get in big trouble for this; with the law and with the underground world that runs all of this.

"Get away from me, you bitch. I'm going to ruin you." He spits blood at me, gripping his throat as he shuffles backwards. "The Thayers own this club. They'll bury you for this."

My heart races as I realise the gravity of my mistake. The Thayers own almost everything in this city, including the club where this fake film set has been staged. Now they will come after me for attacking one of their own.

With no other choice, I know I have to flee and start a new life elsewhere. The only hope of survival is to pack my belongings and disappear before they can find me and exact their revenge. The weight of my actions settles heavily on my shoulders as I turn to run, leaving behind the mess I have created in pursuit of a false dream.