Page 60 of The Right Woman

The Rosebud was a highlight of Main Street in Northview back in the 20s. Now, its windows have been spray painted black to hide what happens inside every other week or so. The first two floors have been kept up, toned in olive green and dark wood with marble floors and an iron hand-crank elevator. Rooms are outfitted with a simple bed, latex sheets, and a chair. I’ve only been in one briefly, just to see what it was like, but was impressed with the setup.

The bouncer is the same who had chased me last year, and my stomach knots with worry that I can’t get in. He eyes me suspiciously when I show my ID. “Tarin said I could come,” I say.

He scratches his bald head, then nods and opens the door for me.

When I enter, the soft jazz music puts my nerves at ease. A soft smile creeps over my lips, thinking about the love of my life and his love of jazz.

Tarin is working behind the mahogany bar, mixing glowing green drinks. She doesn’t see me as she heads to a table in the back filled with men in tuxedos, a tray balanced on her hand. Scanning the room, I try to find my large boyfriend, Daddy Don, but he’s not here.

Slipping onto a barstool, I wait.

A tall man wearing a mask like the Phantom of the Opera takes the seat next to mine and taps on the bar, waiting for Tarin’s return. He glances down at me for a moment and gives me a greeting grin. “Hello.”

“Hi. I’m waiting for someone.”

“For me?” he asks with a sly smirk.

“No. For my boyfriend.”

“Well, that’s a shame. Pretty thing like you should be more open to exploration.”

I shrug and pick up a straw, tearing off bits of the paper and making a pile on the counter. The man’s presence seems too overwhelming, especially when he swivels to stare at me full on.

With a heavy sigh, I protest his advances. “Look?—”

“In fact, you seem like you’re a fucking whore. A slut who likes to spread her pussy to whoever will take it.”

My jaw drops at his audacity, face heating with irritation. “You don’t know me! How dare you!” I think, if I had a drink, I’d throw it in his face, like in one of those old movies. Instead, I stand, but he grips my arm and slides off his stool. The way he pulls me into him must make it seem as if we’re together.

An odd flicking sound cuts the tense air, and something sharp pokes into my side. “I have a knife pointed at your spleen. If you scream, one slice will put you in the ICU, taking pillsfor the rest of your life, if you even have one after. Do you understand?”

I hold my breath, terror suddenly swallowing me whole. A tear drops from my eye as I nod. “What do you want?”

“March to the back with me and act like you want to.”

My eyes dart around the room, but most of the attention is focused on some women entertaining the group of men in the seating area. One woman has started giving blow jobs to everyone in a row, and the loud yells of encouragement would drown out my screams, though I’m too afraid to say anything for fear that the sharp blade will slice between my ribs.

With careful steps, I head toward the hall at the end of which is the elevator. The Phantom enters with me and points to the crank. “Take us to the second floor.”

As I slide the elevator into motion, he moves the weapon to my lower back. Sweat pours from my forehead as we exit into the hallway, and he points us toward one of the closed doors. “Open it. Get inside.”

I stumble and consider dashing forward, but he grabs my arm as soon as the thought enters my mind and shoves me into a room. It’s dimly lit and smells of potent cleaners. Slamming the door behind us, he grabs the nearby chair and shoves it under the doorknob, but it doesn’t fit very well. Still, it will be an annoying deterrent if I can find an opportunity to escape.

“You want a blow job or…?” I size him up, keeping my voice from shaking. Why would he even go to this length to get a woman? Is this his kink? To force someone? Maybe I can just get by with getting him off quickly and surviving.

He scoffs and shakes his head. “No. I don’t want your whore mouth anywhere near me.”

My brow furrows. “Then why?—”

“Where’s your purse? Your phone?”

“My-my phone?”

“Yes, your phone, you dumb girl. Hand it over.” His palm wags in the air with impatience. I reach into my bra and produce it, then hold it out. “No, open it for me. Go to your pictures.”

Pulse racing, I do exactly as he says. “Here,” I say, flashing the screen at him.

“Scroll up to a few months ago.” He comes to stand behind me, the knife pressing against my ribs again. “Further. There! Delete that and then empty your trash folder.”

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