Chapter 97

MADDISON

“Where is Asher?” I ask, wincing as he applies a cool salve to the raw welts on my back. Asher was the one he was referring to, right?

The thought of Asher being upset somehow fills me with a strange warmth, a sense of completeness. I can’t quite put my finger on why.

“His mom’s keeping him at home,” Dante replies, his voice trembling slightly.

“He’d be better off working with his dad,” I murmur.

“He’s a risk, Maddison. He cares too much about you,” Dante chuckles, as if the idea of Asher caring for me is some kind of joke.

His words bring a strange joy to my heart, but I know I can’t let myself get carried away.

Dante steps back, removing his jacket and placing it on a small table.

“Be careful,” I whisper. “The camera can see that side of the room.”

“They’ve taken care of the cameras. Do you have any painkillers?”

“No, why?” I ask, puzzled.

“What’s going on?” Gabby’s voice cuts through the room, causing both Dante and me to turn toward her.

I realize we’d forgotten she was there.

“Dante’s here to help,” I assure her.

“The guys have set up a loop of CGI images that’ll make it look like I’m… well, you know,” Dante stammers, ignoring Gabby’s question.

He walks back to me, gesturing toward my dress.

I try to pull it up, struggling with the zipper, but eventually let it fall back down.

Inside his jacket, I see medical supplies: bandages, ointments, pills. Sterile packets filled with who knows what.

“How did you know what to bring?” I ask as he turns me around and kneels down.

This isn’t exactly how I pictured a man at my feet, but here we are.

“Callum and the others… They have similar… tastes. This one’s a bit raw; I think you might have torn it last night,” he stammers, referring to one of the wounds under my G-string.

“How’s your back?” he asks, changing the subject.

My back is on fire, probably because I didn’t clean the welts this morning, afraid they’d start bleeding again.

I’ve been through this before. I’m no stranger to this kind of pain.

I know the welts will take days to heal, slowly scabbing over. I know not to scratch them or get them too wet.

They heal best when left alone.

“Did I do okay this morning? Do I need to redo anything?” I ask, trying to sound more upbeat than I feel, shifting the conversation from my injuries to more pressing matters.

“Shh! We don’t want anyone overhearing,” he warns, glancing pointedly at Gabby.

“The girls won’t say anything. They’re in on my plan,” I whisper back.

All the secret meetings, the whispered conversations while doing their hair or accompanying them to work—if they’ve earned that privilege.

In my opinion, Mr. Fennick and Jonathon were playing with fire by allowing some of us older girls, who’ve been here longer, to have such freedom.

But then again, we’re conditioned to stay, to enjoy the twisted things we probably won’t find outside, and to be grateful for the roof over our heads and the food in our stomachs.

There’s no life like the life of a working girl…

“I’ve heard about the little phoenix working from the inside. I’m impressed, but hasn’t anyone ever told you that going solo doesn’t usually end well?” Dante asks.

His words hold a wealth of wisdom, and I sense a story behind them.

He’s clearly learned the hard way that working alone isn’t the best strategy.

And I want to admit that he’s right, that going it alone hasn’t done me any favors.

But then I’d have to confess to everything I’ve been involved in.

I’ve been slipping clients illegal substances, stashing away cash in a private account for a life beyond this mess. I’ve been helping girls escape when I can.

When a chance presents itself, you can bet your ass I seize it.

Take Jonathon, for instance.

He’s an older guy, at least two decades my senior. But he’s a pushover, yearning for a young, innocent girl to kneel at his feet, begging for rough sex.

I won’t lie, I enjoy rough sex too, but getting down and dirty with a man I’m not attracted to does something to my gut.

Jonathon offered me a chance to worm my way in.

A bat of my lashes, a gasp when he touched me.

Manipulation at its best, and whether you believe it or not, it only took a few months for him to become addicted to me. That’s when the real fun started—when I sunk my claws so deep he didn’t even feel them penetrate.

Sure, using jealousy to my advantage in those encounters that left me unable to walk, or maybe when a client got too carried away and left me more bruised and battered than they should have, gave me the upper hand.

“Life is what you make it… Or so they say,” I tell Dante.

“Yes, I agree with that, but let’s work together. Things will be smoother that way,” he proposes.

I nod, but I’m not really in the market for a partner in crime, now or ever.

I have my plans, and I have the results I want from those plans.

Things are moving quickly, and I can see the path I need to follow to reach my goals.

But I keep this to myself, just continuing to nod in agreement.