Page 17 of Ravaged and Ruined
My fingers close around it. The fabric is heavier than I expect. Satin and lace, meant to cling and whisper against skin. Every inch of it screams watch me and Garett is doing just that as I study the ensemble.
“The seamstress will adjust it if needed, but I think it’s going to fit like it was made for you.” His gaze lingers.
I glance around and spot a row of dressing rooms tucked in the back. My heels click softly on the concrete as I turn to go.
“I’ll be right back,” I say, half to him, half to myself. But what I’m really thinking is, this is it. The curtain’s rising, and I’m about to step into a role I’m not sure I can ever step out of.
The costume slides over my skin like it was made for me. Not just my size but for my shape, my angles, the way I move. The satin clings in all the right places, and the lace hugs my curves with intimate precision. No gaps. No loose threads. Not a single pin needed.
I smooth my palms down the bodice, trying to ignore the knot twisting in my stomach. Garett couldn’t have known my size and yet… It fits perfectly.
I step out of the dressing room and into the buzz of movement again, the soft swish of the slit skirt brushing against my thigh with every step.
Garett turns at the sound of my heels, and for a second, his expression slips. A low whistle escapes him, long and slow, and his eyes roam over me like he’s savoring the view.
My shoulders tighten. I force a smile, keep my spine straight, even as discomfort coils through me.
He doesn’t look away.
“Damn, Lacey. You’re going to make a killing tonight.” His voice is warm, like melted sugar, but there’s an edge to it, a quiet ownership he hasn’t earned.
“I” I murmur, swallowing past the tightness in my throat. “yeah.”
Garett leans in, his voice low and smooth as velvet. “When you’re ready, Marco will show you where to go.” He gestures subtly toward the door, where a man I didn’t notice before is now standing. He’s wearing a tailored suit that’s not as sharp or expensive as Garett’s, but still sleek. He stands with his hands clasped in front of him and there’s a tension in his stance, the kind that doesn’t come from waiting. More like watching. Guarding.
Garett snaps his fingers once and waves over one of the women by the makeup mirrors. “Take her in. Hair and makeup. I want her to glow.”
Then he turns back to the room and raises his voice just enough to be heard. “Take good care of my girl.”
His girl?
I blink, stunned for half a second before I find my voice. “I’m not his girl,” I say quickly, glancing at the makeup tech who’s now ushering me to the chair. “Just a new hire.”
The energy in the room shifts the moment he steps out of it. One of the dancers, the redhead in glittering gold who’s getting her thigh pinned, snorts softly. “Right. Just the new girl.”
Another, a tall brunette with sharp cheekbones and a sharper stare, eyes me through the mirror. “Hope she doesn’t vanish like the last one.”
“Or the one before that,” someone else mutters from behind a curtain of hair.
I pause, half lowered into the makeup chair. “Vanished?”
The redhead shrugs, suddenly too focused on her reflection. “Girls come and go. Especially the ones Garett picks out himself.” Her tone is light, but the undercurrent isn’t.
The seamstress glances up from a spool of thread, her mouth a tight line. She doesn’t say anything, but there's a flicker of caution in her eyes.
My fingers tighten on the armrests. Still, I sit back in the chair, and let them start brushing and curling and painting.
Not because I need this job but because it feels like I’m already in too deep to walk away.
Chapter Seven
Aero
We’ve been at it for hours. Sweat burns my eyes and soaks the back of my cut, but no one’s complaining. Not with what we’re doing. Everyone sees the potential this place holds and what it means for the club's future.
The cameras are almost up. Infrared, motion-triggered, and backed by our own system, not some bullshit corporate security feed. Hash Tag handled most of that with Crank running cable like he was born for it.
I watch the crew. They’re tired, dirty, but focused. Crank is mounting a second camera over the east entrance, his brows pulled tight. Hashtag is double-checking the feeds, muttering to himself while he taps at the screen.
