Page 69 of Darkest Kiss

Corinne

NEXT IN THE RUINED KINGS WORLD

Ithink I might be in trouble.

Glancing at the outfit I'm meant to wear, anxiety claws at my belly. It's a short, collared babydoll dress the approximate shade of a flamingo on acid. Made of a sparkly Spandex material, it's beside a pair of platform Mary Janes and silky white knee-high stockings. Who picked out this outfit?

Some freak who likes dressing grown women up as baby dolls, no doubt.

But I want to be here, even if I don't like the outfit. I used every single tool in my arsenal. Lying, flirting, sabotaging another contest hopeful who made the mistake of asking me where to go to apply. Everything I've learned in my twenty-four years of life as a hustler went into this scheme.

Because I'm helping the one person who's never asked me for anything.

Laying my outfit down on the unmade single bed, I turn to the mirrored vanity. Sinking down into the director's chair, I assess the variety of makeup there for me to choose from. A few simple eyeliner pens. Eyeshadow in sparkly neon colors. Bright pink blush and lipstick.

Usually, I would stay away from bright colors. The point of peacocking is for people to notice you, to remember your face. And I don't like to draw that kind of attention unless necessary. A hustler rarely wants their victims to remember details that they can blab to the cops. But today is different.

Today, I want to make everyone stop and stare. To make the men want me. Especially the one man that I must seduce in order to win this little game: the owner of the sex club I'm standing in. He's my target tonight.

Through the partially-opened door to my dressing room, I hear a man's voice. "—can't believe what we're about to do. The first room is going to knock out half of the women."

I keep applying makeup, mindful of the giant LED clock above the door. Fifty-six minutes, seventeen seconds until I have to be ready.

"It's gonna be hot, though. Have you seen the room setup?" another man says.

"No. I want to be surprised."

The first man snorts. "You'll be surprised, all right. I fully expect a couple of the girls to drop out before⁠—"

His voice moves down the hall. I jump up, running to the door to catch more of their conversation. But they're gone.

I press my eye to the opening. Across the hall, I see a flash of a woman in exercise shorts stretching her legs, warming up for the Initiation. Does she know something that I don't? Or is she just trying to be prepared?

Fuck. Please don't let me regret entering this contest. I turn around, getting a jumpscare from the girl that stares back at me from the mirror. Short, brunette, petite, and wearing makeup that's applied so thickly that she is almost a stranger to me. I reach a trembling hand up to touch my bluntly cut bob. A recent enough change that I’m still getting used to it. And a tiny beauty mark above my lip. I thought of covering it, hiding it while I’m on this mission. But when I read the rules of the Initiation, it became clear as day that any makeup might be washed away.

So my beauty mark stays right where it is.

The only jewelry I wear is a faint gold chain with a cursive letter C dangling from it. I finger the chain. It was a gift from my benefactor for my twenty-first birthday. Along with the slender golden stiletto blade in my pocket.

A reminder to always stay sharp.

So even if this competition turns out to be another bad idea, a leap-first, look-never venture, I refuse to be uncertain about it.

"Hustlers need confidence," I tell my reflection. "You can crush this. You will crush this."

The brunette stares back at me, her lilac eyes unsure. Not exactly what I'd hoped, but fuck it.

I change out of my leggings and cropped sweatshirt, putting on my costume. If I was hoping for a bra or panties, I'm shit out of luck. A chill runs through me.

The Initiation is a game based on who can run the gauntlet and out-kink everybody else. There will only be one winner.

And I desperately need that win.

After my dress is on, I look down at myself. Where the fuck am I supposed to keep my knife? The dress is too short for a thigh holster. My mouth twists.

I really, really don't want to enter a dangerous competition without it. But neither do I want to hide the knife in my fricking vagina. Fuck, if I put two seconds of thought into this before I came, I would have rigged a way to conceal the knife on my person. My life has taught me to always have an exit. My way out is often threatening to shish kabob anybody who tries to stop me from doing whatever I want.

With a sigh, I throw my leg up on the bed and insert the sheathed stiletto as far into my pussy as possible. Is it comfortable?