Page 8 of Fragile Twisted Vows

“Lucy, you can’t actually still have some crush on him. Be serious-” she starts, but I cut her off.

“He saved me that night, Megan,” I say, and her eyes darken as she remembers that nightmare I lived. She’s the one that picked me up from the hospital after.

She brought me here when no one else called, when no one else cared. Not even Damien. Not even the man who pulled that monster off me.

“Wait, is this your first time seeing him since that night?” she asks and I nod slowly, tears threatening to blur my vision, but I shove them back.

“Oh, Luce. I’m so sorry. I wasn’t thinking-” I shake my head at her as she stammers.

“No, don’t be. You didn’t know. Plus, I did have some stupid little crush on him growing up, didn’t I?” I say with a sheepish smile as she laughs.

“Oh, the biggest. And the worst. Not that I blame you, the man is a god. Like if Aaron Diaz doubled in size and became a scruffy, tatted marine.” She sighs as she once again refers to him as a muscular version of her favorite TV crush.

“Alright, I have to get ready now,” I say, ready to end this conversation about Damien and end all thoughts about him for good actually.

“Lucy,” she says as she grabs my hand when I get up from the couch.

Her dark, pretty eyes stare intensely into mine.

“I’m serious. Do not sell yourself short. Keep putting yourself out there. In the ways that matter. In the ways that serve you better, not make you worse,” she says and I nod, offering her a tight smile before I turn around and head to the makeshift closet next to the front door.

I grab my favorite pair of worn, black leather knee high boots alongside my black shorts and work tank top. Velvet Lounge has a very…loose dress code for the staff, especially for the bartenders on the main floor. While many of the girls wear skimpy dresses and fish nets, or just pasties with panties and heels, I opt out for the most modest thing I can get away with. Which is short shorts, a low cut tank and knee high leather boots.

I take my belongings into the bathroom and step into the shower. The hot water sprays down over me and I sigh into it and melt away, hoping my stress melts with me, but it doesn’t. In fact, my thoughts of Damien grow stronger now. His hazel eyes plague my mind as the memory of him in that tight-fitted, dark blue suit with his black shirt undone unravels me. I’d be a fool to say that today was the first time I’ve thought of him. In truth, I’ve thought of him every single night for the last three years. Both in my dreams and in my nightmares.

Jenni was right, I did have a big stupid crush on him as a girl. And it changed when I grew into womanhood. It changed because I got attacked. It changed because he’s the one who rescued me after he beat that monster to the ground and took him far away from me. It changed because he’s the one who brought me to the hospital.

And then it changed because I never heard from him again. Because he never called or checked up on me. Not when I was discharged, not when I found out that I was pregnant. Not when my parents kicked me out, not when Megan turned her back on me. And not when I lost the baby either. And sure, he was going through a divorce with my sister. He left his high-ranking job in the military. He funded a new, multi-million-dollar company and he lost himself to the dark ways of the world. He had his own demons to worry about. Mine didn’t need to add to them.

But I would be lying if I said I didn’t resent him for it. That I didn’t hate him for never speaking to me again during the hardest part of my recovery. That I didn’t hate him for saving me in the first place.

Now, every night that the monster comes back to haunt me, Damien shows up. Sometimes like a knight in shining armor, most times like the devil. Taunting me, calling me weak while I lay on the damp ground of the alleyway. His hazel eyes burn into me while his scar reddens. While that same stupid, beautiful strand of dark hair falls over his eye and caresses his tan cheek.

“I fucking hate you,” I say to both him and the monster, for two more men that have failed me in my life.

And now, I whisper this in the shower as I stand under the water that mixes with my tears. My hands ball into fists at my sides as I let the tears fall and the anger out in the small space of the apartment shower. Today was taxing, it made me feel both defeated and worthless and it once again brought back the trauma that I’ve never been able to address. It made me feel exactly how I felt every single day in the house I grew up in. Unfit and unworthy.

I step out and dress into my clothes as I let my long hair down. It’s naturally wavy and dries fairly quickly. Usually by the time I’m done with my twenty-minute walk from the apartment to VL, it’s already dry. Thankfully, one less thing to worry about. Not like I wear much makeup anyway. My father always hated it and I was only allowed to wear a simple, light blush and gloss along with mascara. Nothing more, nothing less. And because I don’t have a lot of spare cash, I’ve stuck with that very simple makeup routine.

I dress and leave the apartment, sliding on my silver bangles and cheap bracelets as I head out the door and down the sidewalk. The sun is setting over the skyrises and I glance down at the silver plated, twenty-dollar watch and realize that I’m a few minutes behind. I rush as fast as I can, but as I do, I feel an anxious, burning feeling in the skin of my back. Like someone is watching me. And not only watching, but following.

I’ve always known to stay on high alert since moving downtown. People get taken every day here even in broad daylight, but I’ve never had this feeling before and right now, it has me walking even quicker down the busy Manhattan sidewalk. I turn to look over my shoulder as I see that VL is straight ahead. I see an unmarked, black SUV following a few taxis.

“Probably just another high profile celebrity,” I mumble as I reach the Velvet Lounge.

The bouncer nods as I walk inside. When I enter the lobby, the lights are already dimmed and red, waiting for the crowd to enter and create yet another busy Friday night.

I make my way to the bar and start setting up. My bracelets chime against the glasses and my hair continues to fall in front of my face. I tuck a few strands behind my ear and start to polish a wine glass when a couple walks in and heads for the elevator. The man is much older than the woman and quite frankly, much richer looking. Which isn’t a shock. I see it every night that I’m here.

The Velvet Lounge isn’t your ordinary nightclub or bar or even sex club. It’s a place that’s been divided both for Manhattan’s richest and the youngest. While many people come to the bar for overpriced, specialized martinis and imported wine, most of them come for a separate club upstairs. I’ve seen so many people walk through these doors and go straight to that elevator. I assume it’s almost like the red light district up there. I’m not entirely sure because I’ve never actually been up there.

My boss has tried to get me to cover some shifts at the bar up there or even train as a cocktail waitress, but I have zero interest in looking at mostly naked women walking around with drink trays as people fuck all around them and I also don’t want to be one of them. I haven’t even had sex or been intimate with anyone. The attack I suffered through all those years ago was the first introduction I’ve ever had to intimacy, and I vowed it would be the last.

So, working at the bar beneath a sex club seems a bit abstract, but it was the only place within walking distance of Jenni’s apartment that would hire me. And I’ve been here ever since. Pouring wine for old men, shaking martinis for bachelorette parties that giggle as we drown out the thumping noises from upstairs, and smiling through the endless comments that men make about taking me up to that space where the thumping resides.

It’s all so fucked in its own way, but it looks like I’m stuck here for the time being, so I have no choice but to deal with it. And thankfully, my entire shift goes by smoothly. Most of the men took the elevator up and the bachelorette parties were minimal. Just a bunch of comers and goers looking for a quick drink after work to start the weekend and at least that is something that I can be thankful for, even if it means that I’m getting out of here past one in the morning.

I load up the trash and carry the bags with me outside after I close down the bar and swing my satchel over my shoulder, my long hair falling in my face as I haul the garbage with me to the back door where the dumpster is. I toss all of my belongings and say good night to the cooks who stare at my tits a little longer than I’d like as I make my way around the club and to the busy streets of Manhattan.

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