Captive by Natasha Thomas Read Free Book Online Page B

to relax, look at something pretty, maybe get a private dance. They don’t come here to have some ex-junkie, club whore flashing her used and abused self all over the place. It lowers the class of the place.”
     
    I can’t help laughing again, and this time Marlene joins me.
    “Seriously? I lower the class of the place? Can you hear yourself?” I don’t wait for her response before continuing. “Classy is not attacking someone you don’t know, have never met, and haven’t got hard evidence to back up your accusations. Classy is not assuming I’m here to start stripping. And classy is definitely not coming into your boss’s office demanding things of her without invitation, and causing shit you’ve got less than no right to cause. Unless you are squeaky clean, don’t throw stones when they’ll get thrown back and shatter that glass house you’re living in.” I end by throwing my hands up in frustration. Bitches like this are part of the reason I left Denver in the first place. They think they know enough about you to judge you but the reality is that they’ve overheard some snippets of information here and there, putting two and two together and getting nine.
     
    Clapping sounds as I whip my head back to where Marlene is standing looking pleased, and just a little proud.
    “Well now my little prodigy, I must say I’m fucking impressed. When can you start?”
     
    The next night I began my first shift as a waitress-slash-assistant bartender at Kitty Kat’s. While I hadn’t had any formal bar training, and hadn’t worked one outside of Vengeance’s own clubhouse bar, Marlene decided that serving alcohol to dozens of intoxicated bikers for five years was more than enough experience to hire me on. I can’t say I love the uniform, but on the upside if covers the basics so I suppose I should be grateful.
     
    Tight black booty shorts, and when I say shorts I really should clarify and say they are closer to resembling boy short panties than actual shorts, a tight deep purple tank top with Kitty Kat’s plastered in bold lettering across the bust and logo which is a fierce cat’s paw dragging downwards leaving claw marks in its wake, and six inch black platform heels make up the entirety of my new uniform. The outfit isn’t uncomfortable, well except for the shoes they kill my feet by the end of the night, but the looks I get while wearing it are. In the last almost four weeks, and yes I’m still working there it’s a long story, I’ve been grabbed, groped, had my ass slapped, my boobs manhandled and had more penises rubbed against some part of my body than I’ve ever cared to come into contact with. Most of the guys are dissuaded by a hand slap or firm “don’t fucking touch me”, but a couple of times I’ve been forced to call Dagger or Saint over to take out the trash when they won’t take no for an answer. To make matters worse, I’ve barely been sleeping catching a couple of hours here or there when I can, and this isn’t making my increasing hostility towards inappropriate men any better.
     
    I haven’t told anyone and I don’t intend to, but the letters I’ve been receiving for the last couple of months have started coming more frequently much to my dismay. What’s more disturbing though is that they’ve gone from saying stuff like, “I’m watching you,” and “See you soon,”, to “Watch your back bitch,” and, “I’m coming for you cunt and this time you won’t get away.” To say I panicked at the sight of the first one would be a massive understatement, I was a fucking mess for a week after it arrived.
     
    At first they were coming every second week building up to once a week on a Thursday. In the beginning I caught the fact they were arriving on the same day every week, but not the significance. It wasn’t until I sat down and wracked my brain that I realised Thursday was the day of the week I finally managed to escape. After that little revelation, post crying jag, I