Page 4 of Caged Bliss

But screw the rules. I need the money. I take the twenty and shove it in the front of my shimmery black bralette. The guy leers at me and leans in close, shouting over the club music. “You got time to dance with me?”

“Sorry, can’t,” I say and twist away, facing a different part of the club. The light catches the body chains wrapped around my waist. I survey the packed dance floor, trying to see if anyone noticed me take the money, but nobody’s paying attention.

The guy doesn’t take the hint.

“Come on, baby, I thought I could have whatever I wanted here. That’s what they fucking said. And I want you.”

“I’m not for sale. Pretend that I’m a lamp.”

He laughs and takes out a few hundred-dollar bills. “How about now? Maybe we can skip all this negotiation shit and go straight to the blowjob?”

I lean in close and smile. His offer is actually pretty good, but I wasn’t lying. I’m not for sale. “Okay, big guy, how about you stick your dick through the bars of my cage and I’ll suck you off right here and now?”

His eyes light up. “For real?”

I lean back and look toward where the bouncer Skinny’s sitting on his stool. I have to wave to catch his attention. “Fuck no.” I gesture at the idiot and Skinny nods before coming over. “You got two seconds to walk away. Just a fair warning.”

“What the fuck?” But the rest of his argument never leaves his mouth. Skinny’s on him like a tiger, wrenching his arm back, and drags him away as the guy thrashes and curses, his screams drowned out by the pulsing music.

Just another night in Club Cage.

I probably could’ve deescalated that situation, but I’m sick and tired of the rich assholes that always come here treating people like they’re objects. That dickhead figured he could buy me just because I’m in skimpy clothes, and in certain other parts of the club, he’d probably be right. Except down here, it’s a pretty standard club, and the rules aren’t ambiguous: unless I’m wearing a red wristband, I’m not on the menu.

Another half hour drags past. Song after song drifts by and nobody else bothers me. That’s probably for the best—my feet are aching and my back hurts. There’s not much room in this giant cage and Tommy gets really pissed if I stop dancing to take a little break. I’m on hour seven of an eight-hour shift and at this point I just want to go home, curl up in ratty sweats, and drink a bottle of cheap wine until I fall asleep.

Except a beautiful girl in a glittery gold dress glides through the crowd toward me.

She’s stunning. Tall, thin, willowy. The opposite of me in every way. I’m short, curvy, with my dad’s olive skin and big brown eyes. But she takes after our mother and looks like a freaking Nordic goddess. Most people don’t believe it when I tell them that she’s my younger sister, and I can’t blame them. Serena’s everything I’m not, and in so many ways, that’s a good thing.

“Hi, Claudie,” she says, and her eyes can’t seem to focus on me in the low light. She sounds bored, almost half-asleep. High as a fucking kite, like always. “Tommy needs you.”

“What for?” I try to get her to look me in the face, but she always manages to slip my gaze. My little sister’s like a shadow, all skin and bones these days, her thick blonde hair hanging in ringlets around her shoulders, but her face like a skeletal version of the vivacious and outgoing girl I grew up with. I try to pinpoint the exact moment when I lost her, but I can never quite find it, like a song lyric I can’t quite remember.

“Private meeting. He wants you serving drinks. You know his favorite lounge. Don’t ask me who’s there, he doesn’t tell me and you know it.” She leans in and holds onto the bars like she might fall over. “He looks kinda nervous.” For a second, her eyes light up and her smile brightens the entire room, and she’s the girl I know and love, my beautiful Serena, my incredible little sister, smarter than all the teachers and prettier than a runway model and a whole lot of fun mixed with even more trouble.

But then it’s gone just as fast, her face drooping, her eyes going blank and dull, and she’s walking away.

I watch her go before unlatching the door and stepping out of the cage. As soon as I’m clear, another one of the girls takes my place.

At Cage, the ambiance is everything. This level is a typical club with a big dance floor made from glass that’s constantly shifting colors based on the music. There’s a vaguely Roman theme going on like we’re in a bacchanal party and everyone should be getting as drunk and as wild as possible. Leather, polished wood, Italian frescoes on the walls, everything dripping with class and money. Pretty girls carry trays piled with expensive drinks in fancy glasses to the various patrons. It’s always packed, even though membership costs an absurd amount of money, not to mention all the background checks, legal documents, and binding agreements involved. And yet Cage has been turning record profits for years and the waitlist is miles long.

Mostly because of the levels above us.

I’m tempted to get changed but I know Tommy would be pissed. I’m walking around in practically nothing, and even though I’ve been at this job for over a year now, I’m still not used to the uniform. It’s the way men look at me, the way their eyes slide up and down my body but never linger on my face, as if I’m nothing more than a pair of tits and long legs. I’m part of the decorations, another pretty light pole, just some body parts and wet holes.

If I had any other choice, I would never work at a place like this.

But I do it every day because of Serena.

In the back, I grab a tray and make a few drinks. Tommy likes gin martinis and Serena’s on a Moscow Mule kick. I don’t know what his guests are having, but I grab a bottle of champagne and some glasses as well, then hurry toward the lounges.

Cage has three sections. The bottom club is the most conventional. The middle floor is a bit more esoteric, basically a series of private spaces where more or less anything goes. Some are as tame as karaoke and movies, while others are practically built for sweaty orgies with lots of comfortable cushions and big cabinets filled with sex toys and lubricants. The vast majority are just lavish meeting rooms though with plush couches and endless bottle service.

I don’t go to the third floor much.

Tommy’s always in the last door on the far left. It’s the cleanest since it’s not used that often and he likes the decorations. It’s fish-themed, like actual aquatic stuff, with an old anchor and one of those ship steering wheels and ocean paintings. The creep loved The Little Mermaid when he was small, or at least, that’s what he says.

I’m smiling to myself a little as I head to the door, thinking about the way Serena’s face came alive when she talked about Tommy getting all nervous, when a man appears at my elbow.

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