A rope hangs horizontally in front of the curtain, with a “restricted” sign hanging from the top, confirming it’s a cordoned-off area. But that offers little comfort as my eyes drink in the scene.
It’s what I imagine a high-class sex club or strip joint in Vegas might look like. It’s a massive room, as big as the ballroom in the house, if not bigger, decorated opulently in shades of red, gold, and black. A few strategically placed chandeliers hang overhead, interspersed sparingly around the room.
A circular rotating bar occupies prime position in the center of the space with a line of stools positioned in front of the counter. Most of the stools are occupied by older men in formal attire. At the back of the room is a large stage with a cluster of tables and chairs situated around it. A heavily made-up girl is gyrating around a pole, naked, watched by a crowd of older men, many of them with their hands stuck down the fronts of their pants.
Ignoring the sick feeling in the pit of my stomach, I look around the rest of the space.
On the left-hand side is a rectangular elevated section with eight ornate gold-encrusted chairs. A group of men is standing around the dais, chatting and drinking. My father sits on one of the gold chairs, talking to a gray-haired man sitting beside him. Two naked women are on their knees, one in front of each man, sucking their dicks, as the men chat casually, like it’s commonplace to have a blowjob while discussing business.
I’m guessing, down here, it probably is.
I’m turning away in utter disgust when I spot Drew talking to a group of four men. Two of them look around our age, and the other two are older. Drew has a tumbler in hand, and he’s throwing his head back, laughing, looking for all intents and purposes like he belongs here. But the taut pull of his shoulders, his rigid posture, and the slight tick in his jaw reveal a different picture.
It helps.
But only a little.
Turning my attention to the right-hand side of the room, I clamp a hand over my mouth to stifle my horrified gasp as I struggle to comprehend the scene accosting me. Overhead lighting is dim, but large lamps illuminate the multitude of open stalls, exposing the sordid acts in full swing.
In the first stall, an older lady with flowing blonde locks is sobbing as a man ruts into her ass from behind. He has one hand wrapped firmly around her neck, and her face is turning a distinct shade of blue. Another man watches from a recliner chair, laughing and joking with the man hurting her, while he pumps his bare cock. He reaches forward, gripping the woman’s chin before licking her face like she’s a dog.
In the second stall, a girl with long, dark, wavy hair flowing down her back is bouncing on top of an older guy, dutifully riding his cock, while another man fucks her ass from behind and a third guy fucks her mouth. The guy behind her yanks her head back by the hair, giving me a full view of her face and upper body.
A tear rolls down my cheek at the glazed, indifferent look in her eyes that confirms she’s on something.
But she is so young, and my heart is breaking.
She can only be fourteen or fifteen at the very most.
Pain spears me through the chest as I cut my gaze to the next stall.
It’s another young girl this time, wearing a similar zoned-out expression, but she’s tied to some contraption, and she has a collar around her neck and cuffs on both ankles. They have her arms stretched up over her head with her legs spread wide, exposing her fully to the group of men standing around her. Some of them are naked, stroking their cocks, while others are still in dress suits, drinking and joking as they watch men paw at her and take turns in her pussy.
I avert my eyes, but at the last second, I spot a familiar face, and my stomach dips to my toes. I watch, disgusted beyond words, as Trent tugs at his cock, smirking at something the guy beside him says as they wait their turn with the girl. Trent is kneading one of her tits and tweaking her nipple in a way I know hurts, because he used to do the same thing to me.
The stalls extend to the far end of the room, but I’ve seen enough. I can’t watch anymore.
I need to get out of here.
Before I throw up all over the place.
And before Trent spots me.
That thought propels me into motion, and I spin around, ready to flee this horrible, horrible place when I slam into a warm, solid chest.
Panic races through my veins as large hands grip my arms and squeeze.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
“What the hell are you doing here?” Charlie demands, digging his nails into my arms as he grips me painfully.
“I could ask you the same thing,” I hiss.
Charlie is a master of discretion, and it’s usually hard to read him.
But not now.
Fury and fear are etched upon his face in equal measure, and his body trembles with raw anger as he drags me out of the room, back along the dimly lit corridor, and up the steps. He punches in the code on the wall-mounted keypad and the door clicks open, revealing the empty hallway in my house.
