Page 61 of The Devil's Playground

Like most of the downstairs girls, I keep my purse in the back. I don’t keep all of my tips on me at all times. Once I have a good amount, I excuse myself so that I can drop the bills into my purse. At the Playground, to steal from a fellow employee means you end up in front of the Devil of Springfield himself. Since no one wants to do that—or see what kind of punishment he’ll mete out—no one steals. Simple as that.

It’s when I’m on my way out to see if Jessie has more tables for me that Miles waylays me.

“There you are,” he says, that slimy voice of his catching my attention. I was distracted, doing the math in my head about how much more I could hope to make tonight, and I didn’t see him until he steps in front of me, grabbing me by my upper arm. “I’ve been looking for you.”

I shake him off. “Well. You found me. But I’m in the middle of a shift, so?—”

“You owe me, Nicolette.”

“Sorry,” I say, trying to move around him. Impossible when the corridor toward the backroom is narrow, but I try anyway as I add, “I’m not interested.”

At the Playground, that’s all I have to say. All of the customers know the rules. They can cajole. They can offer whatever they think will make a girl say yes. They can beg if they want… but as soon as any of us say we’re not interested, that’s the end of it.

Up until now, Miles played by the rules. He got to the point that he offered me ten grand to sleep with him—when I finally broke down and agreed—but he lost that money to Royce. Royce won. It’s over.

Not, apparently, for Miles.

“You cost me ten grand. You owe me.”

“Sorry—”

“Real quick. I’ll even go upstairs with you. What do you say? Ten minutes with me and we can call it even.”

And cheat on Royce? No way. “Like I said. I’m not interested. Now, if you’ll excuse me…”

Miles stays firmly planted in my path.

I huff. “Look. I’m trying to be nice, but you lost that bet?—”

“He cheated.”

I’m not arguing about this. “Then take it up with Royce.”

He squeezes my arms, trapping them at my side, then shoves me hard. My back hits the wall, my head slamming into it next. For a split second, I’m stunned, and he takes advantage of that.

He takes advantage of me.

TWENTY-TWO

MISTAKE

NICOLETTE

One hand goes to my throat, pinning in place as he squeezes just enough that I go immovably still. As soon as he sees that I have, he releases my right. Before I can break free, he shoves his hands down my shorts. I gasp, and he grabs my whole damn pussy. His middle finger jabs me repeatedly, digging for my entrance as I do nothing but take it.

He places his cheek against mine. “Someone paid ten grand for this pussy. I’m gonna see for myself what makes it so fucking special. And you? You’re going to let me.”

No I’m fucking not.

Thanks to Kieran, fourteen-year-old Nicolette would have.

Sixteen-year-old Nicolette would have.

Even twenty-year-old Nicolette would have.

But the Nicolette who finally broke it off with her abuser? Who finally got a taste of what it was like to be with someone who saw her as a person and not just her pussy?

Going still as he violated me is instinctive. Fucker thinks that means that I’m welcoming this, welcoming him, and he pays more attention to fingering me than he does to my expression.

---