Page 1 of Broken Doll

The last time I got dragged out of a sex club, I came. This time, I might die.

My stiletto snaps like a wishbone as the human refrigerator yanks me backward through Malvagio's fire exit, his grip so tight I'll be wearing his fingerprints as jewelry tomorrow. If there is a tomorrow.

And no one moves a muscle or bats an eye at the spectacle of a woman getting pulled from the club because this place specializes in dangerous, kinky shit for people who need extremes to get off.

No joke, Malvagio is one of those places that embodies the Fight Club motto, if you know what I mean. You have to be invited to get in and you don’t fuck up by losing your invitation because you’ll never get another.

But hot damn, once you’re in, it’s a smorgasbord of kink from every angle. Like to gag on a cock while a masked person shoves a carrot in your ass and then pulls it out and makes you eat it? Sure, no problem. Want to get your pussy licked whilesimultaneously gagging on a meat missile big enough to choke a horse? Line up, baby.

BDSM, role play, water sports —you name it, it’s on the menu. Except kid and animal stuff. That’s where the owners draw the line. Anything else? Freefall into debauchery, sweetheart.

But therein lies the rub…no one’s gonna help me because they probably think I’m into whatever’s about to happen. Some might say, this is a problem of my own making. And to them, I’d say,touche.

His face flashes in the neon—granite-hard and emotion-free, the kind that screams government payroll—before my head cracks against brick. The alley wall exfoliates my bare shoulders, shredding my three-thousand-dollar dress that had already done its job getting me into VIP rooms and between Derek's sheets.

Holy fuck, since when did government goons start snatching civvies from sex clubs? And for what? This is some fucked-up shit and I want no part of it.

I kick out with my good heel, aiming for his crotch. Amateur move. He slams me back, forearm crushing my windpipe with surgical precision. The kind of pressure that says he's done this to people who matter a helluva lot more than me.

"Ms. James," he says, voice like bourbon poured over broken glass. "We can do this quietly or we can do this loudly. Your choice, but the outcome remains the same."

He knows my name. Not "Dollface" or "Candy" or whatever bullshit alias I fed club patrons between martinis and blow. My actual, driver's-license name that belongs to a woman who has to pay her taxes and wear a seatbelt.

Well, fuck.

My pulse jackhammers against his forearm. I taste copper—blood, fear, or that shitty lipstick I stole from Sephora, whoknows. The alley reeks of piss and Dior Sauvage, the universal scent of men with something to prove and money to waste.

"Super original dialogue, Agent Asshole. Did you practice that in the bathroom mirror for your audition reel?” I spit the words through teeth clenched tight enough to crack. Smart mouthing men who could kill me has always been my favorite form of foreplay.

He shakes me hard. “Watch your mouth, little girl.”

“Ohhh, misogyny, the icing on the cake. Where's Derek?” I rasp against the forearm. My perverted wingman, partner-in-crime is nowhere that I can see and I’ve seen enough movies to know that that’s a bad sign.

My captor flicks his gaze toward the street. "Mr. Klein is... preoccupied."

The metallic click of a car door echoes off the bricks, and suddenly we're not alone. A second man—taller, slimmer, moving like a shadow—approaches. He carries something.Someone.

Derek's limp body dangles between them like a drunk prom date, his favorite Armani tie—the blue one I teased him about paying too much for—gagging his mouth. Blood trails from his nose to his chin in rivulets that look black in the alley's dim light. His eyes roll back, finding mine, wide with terror and confusion.

Derek and I have been through some shit—club bouncers with wandering hands, a jealous husband who tracked us to Chateau Marmont, that weird cult thing in Palm Springs—but nothing like this.

Never this.

He's the only person who knows the real me, not the sanitized version I show Isaac or the hypersexual caricature I perform at Malvagio. I guess you could call him my friend but I never really thought that deep about it. All I know is that it’sall sorts of fucked up that whatever is happening isn’t anything either of us asked for.

One minute we’re having a blast —Derek’s getting sucked off by a chesty blonde and I’m taking it from behind by a guy with the biggest cock I’ve ever had —like I said, good times, and the next, we’re getting dragged out the back door like international criminals with plans to off the president in our emails.

"What the fuck did you do to him?" My voice doesn't sound like mine—more scared girl than smartass. I hate it. "If you hurt him—" That’s when panic hits. Not for me—I’ve always figured I’d go out in some spectacular, newsworthy fashion—but for Derek.

Then I see it. A gap between Granite Face and the wall. Just wide enough for someone my size.

I slam my elbow into his solar plexus—a dirty club trick I learned from a bouncer who liked me on my knees—and twist out of his grip. My remaining heel hits pavement and I'm running, blood rushing in my ears, adrenaline making me faster than I've been since high school track.

Three steps. Four. Freedom's breath on my skin.

Then pain explodes across my back as I'm tackled from behind, palms skidding across dirty concrete like cheap sandpaper. My teeth clack together, the taste of blood flooding my mouth as Granite Face flips me over.

"That was stupid," he says, pressing something cold and metallic against my throat. Not a gun. Worse. A syringe, its needle pricking my jugular just enough to send shockwaves of terror through my body. One push and whatever cocktail they have for me goes straight to my brain.

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