Owning Nicci

Chapter One

Nicci

I used to have everything. 

Standing in front of the dirty mirror in the staff bathroom, I don’t even recognize the woman looking at me now. Somewhere under the thick makeup, dark lipstick, and heavily lined eyes, I could probably find my features if I looked long enough. But I don’t want to. If I look for too long, I can’t help but see that there’s something missing from my eyes—a spark, an arrogance, a confidence gutted out of those green depths.

Swallowing hard, I touch up the deep berry lipstick once more. It’s not your color, a faint voice in my head whispers—the one left over from a life of designer clothes and expensive makeup, the same one from a life where I paid someone to tell me if my skin tone was better for gold or silver, jewel tones or earth. 

I’m finding it hard to remember that, just now, as I smooth my hands over the sides of the painfully short, pleated black skirt I’m wearing. I tug at the edge of it, like I’m a teenager again trying to pass the dress code at school, but it’s pointless. The skirt isn’t going to cover my ass, or much of anything else.

“Nicci!” A shrill voice cuts through the bathroom door, and I hear a fist bang against it. “Some of the rest of us need to use the bathroom, too.” 

I bite my lip, not wanting to leave the small space, even if it does smell like acrid floor cleaner and a hint of musty pipes. But in here, no one is leering at me. No one is laughing at me. No one is touching me.

I can’t hide in here forever, though.

Swallowing hard, I unlock the door and step out. Mariah, one of the other girls who works at this dump known as the Gilded Lily, doesn’t bother stepping aside so I can get out. She stays right where she’s standing, forcing me to push past her as her upper lip curls.

“You should get out on the floor, princess,” she sneers. “You’re already late for your shift. I might have to tell management.” She laughs, a bright, harsh sound. “I bet your daddy would love to hear that his little girl is hiding in the bathroom instead of showing up to work on time. There’s a table already asking for you.”

My stomach curdles at that. If there’s a regular asking for me, that means that my night is going to be shit from the very beginning. I get the roughest tables, the rudest men, the ones who want to pinch and grab and try to get as much out of the girls as they can without paying for a private room. No one else takes them. No one else is supposed to. My punishment, for all the ways I’ve failed.

This is my own private hell, and all of the other girls who work here are in on it.

“Fine.” I shoulder past her, striding down the dim hallway, my platform heels sticking to the tile with every step. I’ll never be able to take enough showers to wash the grime of this place off of my skin. Every night when I go ‘home,’ it feels like I climb into bed dirty, even if I scrub myself pink and raw beforehand. I feel like I can always smell it on me—the cigarette smoke, the sweat, the sticky-sweet smell of cheap alcohol, and the slick film of the scented, glittery lotion that I’m supposed to wear. It makes me smell like faux apples and sugar, and I hate it.

I hate all of this.

Pausing at the end of the hallway, I swallow hard as I reach for the doorknob. I can feel the thumping bass of the music from the other side, hear the catcalls and yells from the men already crowding the place for the night. It’s eleven p.m. on a Saturday, and just from the sounds, I can tell the Lily is already packed. It’ll only get crazier before the night is over.

“Jesus, Nicci. Get out on the floor or get out of my way.” Another one of the girls, who I only know by her stage name—Barbie, for her long blonde hair and doll-perfect figure—forcefully shoves me out of her way, sending me teetering back on my heels as she reaches for the doorknob.

I grab the wall to stop myself from falling, feeling my stomach flip with a wave of nausea as my palm touches the tacky surface of the wall. Barbie flings the door open, and I catch it with my other hand before it can slam into me, gritting my teeth to stop myself from lurching forward and grabbing a handful of her silky hair. I can picture it in my head: how I’d drag her backward by it, sending my fist right into her gorgeous face. She wouldn’t make so much money by the time I was finished with her.

The anger burns red hot for a second, and then fades, replaced by a pervasive hopelessness that’s far more familiar to me now. As much as I’d like to send Barbie home with a bloody nose, I’m not going to. It would feel worth it in the moment, but the punishment I’d face later would far outweigh the brief pleasure. 

With the door hanging open, the sounds from the main floor of the club are loud and oppressive, making my head hurt before I even step outside the room. I hear the clicking of Mariah’s heels as she comes out of the bathroom, and that’s what ultimately sends me out onto the floor—the possibility of having to interact with her again.

As soon as I step out onto the main floor, all of the sights, sounds, and smells assail my senses at once. It’s dim except for the flashing bright lights over the central stage, leaving everything else doused in shadow while the girl spinning around the pole is bathed in garish light. Smoking isn’t allowed inside the club, but I can still smell it, mixed with the scents of cheap cologne, the girls’ perfume, and male sweat and lust. There’s a feral hum to the air, a particular sensation that comes with being in a room filled with dozens of horny men waiting to pounce. I can feel it vibrating off of them, and it makes my skin crawl. My body knows that I’m prey, and I have to fight the urge to run.

Though there’s nowhere for me to run to, any longer.

“Table six,” Mariah hisses in my ear as she clicks past. “They’re going to be antsy by now. You’re only making it worse for yourself.”

I glance towards table six, my stomach twisting with dread again. There are four men sitting at the table, all of them older, all of them wearing leather vests with patches and rockers that mean they’re in some kind of motorcycle club. There are pitchers of beer in front of them already, and two of them look like they’re halfway to drunk.

There’s no escaping it. I ignore Mariah and head toward table six, choosing not to respond. I’ll be here until three in the morning, so they’re going to be the first of many.

The man closest to me leers the moment I’m within view, his gaze drifting over me with a sickening slowness. I can see him taking in every inch of my body—the sheer black long-sleeved shirt that I’m wearing over a black satin push-up bra, the impossibly short skirt with nothing but a thong under it, the sky-high stripper heels. “Onyx,” he calls out, and I look at him, answering to that name as if it’s my own. It’s the only concession I’ve been given, this fake name that gives me some separation between who I used to be, who I am, and this hell that I’ve been shoved into.

I force a smile onto my face, swaying closer. He grabs my hip, pulling me in close, and I smell the sour scent of alcohol clinging to him.

“It’s my buddy Mark’s birthday,” he says, fingers digging into my ass through the thin fabric of my skirt as his friend leers at me. “Show him a real good time, will ya, honey? Here’s a tip for your trouble.”

He pulls out a crumpled five-dollar bill from his pocket and slides his hand under my skirt, up my thigh to where the string of my thong is stretched tautly across my hip. I try not to wince as I feel his fingers play along the skin there, touching me more intimately than I would ever let any man like him touch me of my own free will.

But that’s not something I really have any longer. Free will went out the window months ago for me, and now what’s left is this—standing next to a group of men I never would have given the time of day to before while they eye-fuck me. One slides what would’ve once been pocket change to me into my thong with meaty fingers.

“Go sit on Mark’s lap, honey,” he tells me, grinning lasciviously as he slaps me on the ass hard enough to push me in the direction of his friend. I almost stumble in my heels—the platforms I’m required to wear here are far more precarious than the highest of Louboutin stilettos—and Mark uses it as an excuse to throw an arm around my waist, pulling me down into his lap. 

His hand splays over the thin chiffon of my shirt, over my stomach, fingers toying with the waistband of my skirt as his other hand grips my hip, grinding my ass down onto the bulge that I can feel growing in his jeans. I can feel how hot his breath is on my ear, and I wince, feeling my stomach flip with nausea. He smells even more strongly of cigarettes than the others, and I blink back the heat of tears that burn at the back of my eyes.

At some point, I’m sure, I’ll get used to this degradation. The humiliation will become normal. I’ll forget who I used to be, and I’ll slip fully into being Onyx, this woman who grinds on the laps of filthy men for five dollars and doesn’t bite back when they abuse her. But I haven’t quite gotten there yet. Not here, anyway.

Outside of the club, I’ve long since gotten used to it. But some men are too dangerous to bite when they hurt you.

The music changes—something faster that signals the change between sets on the stage. Mark pulls out a ten-dollar bill, slipping it into my thong next to the one that his friend tucked there. His fingers worm further beneath my panties, sliding over the smooth waxed skin of my folds, and a look of disappointment crosses his face when he finds that I’m entirely dry. I press my lips together, fighting back a bark of laughter. I can’t imagine how delusional these men must be, to think that he’d find me dripping wet for him.

Actually, I can’t recall the last time any man got me wet. I don’t remember what it feels like to want someone. To feel actual, unmanufactured desire.

Mariah handed me a bottle of lube on my first day here, and suggested I use it as part of my routine as I got ready. “Get yourself wet so they’re fooled, and they’ll pay more,” she told me. But I haven’t been able to bring myself to actually use it. I hate the idea that any of these men would believe that they’re turning me on. 

I already know what’s expected of me. I try to lose myself in the music, to detach from what’s happening as I turn on Mark’s lap and start to gyrate over him, but it’s difficult. I haven’t learned the trick yet of letting myself dissociate from how awful this feels—how shameful and degrading it is.

The rules of better strip clubs don’t apply here, and they definitely don’t apply to me. Some of the other girls manage to dodge the groping, but if I’m caught not allowing the men to do whatever they want, it will be worse for me later.

“Oh fuck yeah,” Mark breathes into my ear as I grind down into his lap. One of his hands is still working between my legs, and he seems to have forgotten to care that I’m still dry as a desert. His other hand fumbles out another crumpled bill, shoving it into my panties as the music thumps around us and he groans. 

A heavy weight settles over me, because I know what I’m supposed to say next. These men can touch me however they want, but when I’ve gotten them this worked up, I’m supposed to tease them into the back room, where they have to actually pay the doorman a fee before they’re let in—a fee that I’ll see very little of. If Mark comes in his pants before I get him back there and anyone finds out about it—especially the boss, my father—then I’ll be in for a world of trouble later.

“I can make this a lot better for you if you come to the back with me, baby,” I purr into his ear, swallowing back bile. “You’ll feel so good by the time we’re finished. I’ll make it extra special for your birthday, how about that?”

Mark’s friends, already drunk and eager to spend money, egg him on. They thrust enough twenties at him to cover the door fee—not handing me anything else, naturally—and I climb as gracefully as I can off his lap, extending a hand as he gets out of his seat and follows me drunkenly back towards the curtained-off rooms. Behind me, I can hear the strains of Mariah’s signature stage song starting, an old Britney Spears tune that she won’t let go of. 

The stage is where the best money is made—which isn’t saying much for this place—but I don’t get to go up there. My father wants to make sure that I never occupy center stage of anything, ever again. Not even my own life.

Mark sways as we approach the doorman, a tattooed guy in his thirties who is lazily leaning against the wall and sucking on a vape, chains draped over his chest and visible in the open space of his too-big button-down shirt. He takes the handful of twenties, counts them out, and pockets them. Then tugs the curtain aside for me to take Mark back—but not before letting his eyes drag lasciviously, pointedly, over my body from tits to toes and back up again.

“See you later tonight, Onyx.” His voice is thick with anticipation, and my stomach twists again. The doorman—Bryce—can’t outright say he’s going to get to fuck me later in front of a customer, but the look and that offhand comment are all I need to know that that’s what he’s going to expect when I finish my shift. And I’ll have to allow it. Whatever he wants.

I swallow hard, nodding, and lead Mark back into the room. It’s small and dim. I hit the button that turns on the soft pink lighting—just enough to let him see everything he’s paying for as I switch on the music while he settles back onto the black leather couch in the center of the room.

It’s a blessing and a curse that he’s drunk enough that he doesn’t have much patience. I’m less than five minutes into my dance before he has his dick out, and he grabs my hand, yanking me forward hard enough that I topple onto his lap as he shoves my palm down onto his sweaty, stubby cock.

“Fuck yeah,” he groans as I wrap my hand around it. “Oh god, use your mouth, Onyx. I want it—”

I have no choice but to comply. It’s another small blessing that he comes before he can demand any other part of me, but it’s short-lived. I’ve barely wiped my mouth and collected the ten-dollar bill he threw down as he stumbled out of the room when the door opens again—and one of Mark’s other friends, the one who called me over in the first place, comes in.

He’s not so drunk that he doesn’t insist on fucking me. And the other two guys at the table follow him in shortly after, using me together, before leaving me in the back room—sore and fighting back tears.

I have to go back out onto the floor after that. Twice more, I end up in the back room—Bryce’s shit-eating grin getting bigger and bigger with every handful of twenties he collects as I go back and forth. He’ll get a cut of it—and me—when the night is over, and despite the fact that I leave this place every night with almost none of the money I make, I make plenty of it for the club. Men love a woman who they can degrade without repercussion, and I’m the punching bag for the worst of the worst here. Security here will stop anyone who tries to go too far with the other girls, but with me, there are no lines. Anyone who wants me can have me, for a price, and they can do what they please.

By the time I’m done in the back for a third time—this time with a group of five men who wanted to play all at once—I stay on the floor where they left me, pressing my forehead against the now-warm faux leather of the couch. I swallow hard, fighting back tears. My shift is almost over, and I don’t want to have to go back and fix my makeup. I’m exhausted and in pain, my entire body sore, and all I want is a hot shower, even if it won’t really make me feel clean.

The door clicks open again, and I have to fight with everything in me to stop a sob from spilling out at the thought of entertaining someone else. And I haven’t even dealt with Bryce yet—who is dead sober and will want a lot more than what the drunk guys filtering in and out of this room wanted tonight.

Footsteps click across the wooden floor as the door shuts behind whoever just walked in. Even, steady footsteps, not wavering or stumbling. Curiosity gives me the push to raise my forehead from the couch, looking up to see who’s in the room with me—and my heart briefly stops in my chest.

It’s not that I recognize him. But if I’d ever seen him before, I’d never be able to forget that I had.

He’d stand out anywhere in the world, but here, in this dingy, sticky place, he looks so out of place that for a moment, I wonder if he’s real. Tall and lean and with the bearing of a man who has both money and power and wields them effortlessly, he stands just in front of the door, looking at me with an appraising eye. His hair is dark, nearly black, cut expensively, and styled back away from his face with just enough product to keep it in place, but not so much that I can’t still see how silky his natural hair texture is. His eyes are a bright, startling green, and for a moment, I can’t look away, not even long enough to take in the rest of him.

Everything about him is expensive. He’s like a ghost from my old life, wrapped in Armani and smelling like cedar and oranges, a devilish smile twitching at the corners of his mouth, as if there’s something amusing about what he’s looking at. There’s a gleam in those green eyes, too, something as predatory as any other man here, but it’s different.

Those men out there are snakes. Crawling on their bellies to poison their prey, unable to do anything but wallow in the muck that they’ll never rise out of. This man is a wolf, hungry and powerful, an alpha in every sense of the word, and something about the way he looks at me sends a shiver of fear down my spine.

Resentment quickly follows it. I don’t know why a man like this is here, slumming it in the pits of despair, when he could undoubtedly afford a black card to any of the exclusive sex clubs in the city. But he is, and whatever money he spends here tonight, I won’t see a dime of it.

“Don’t get up on my account,” he says, a hint of an Italian accent coloring his words. “By all means, stay down there on your knees. It’s a pretty picture, principessa.”

The sarcasm in his voice makes me wonder what he knows about me. Is he a friend or associate of my father’s? He could be. It would explain why a man like him is in a place like this—he might be here to torment me, to use me, to report back to my father if I behaved like I’m supposed to.

If I took my punishment like the good girl that I’m meant to relearn how to be.

And yet, for the first time in months, bitter words spring to the tip of my tongue and I can’t bite them back in time.

“Sorry,” I spit out, looking up at him from where I’m still crumpled against the couch. “Five guys just came in here and fucked me in every hole I have before leaving me high and dry, so it’s going to be a second before I pull myself together.”

With that one sentence, I’ve committed two cardinal sins. One: talking back to a customer, and two: letting him know that someone else has had what he wants. No customer in the club is stupid enough to really believe that he’s getting exclusive access to any of the girls, but that’s the facade we’re meant to keep up. Every man who walks through those doors should believe he’s the one and only we’ve ever had or want to have, unless he chooses to share with others. It’s ridiculous, considering that this club isn’t exclusive in any possible sense of the word, but it’s part of the rules.

His mouth twitches with amusement again, as if my debasement is somehow funny to him. His gaze flicks from me to the wastebasket in the corner, filled with used condoms from everyone who’s been in here tonight, and he laughs—a deep, rough chuckle that comes from his chest as those green eyes sweep over me again.

I swallow hard, too tired to play this game. If I piss him off, I’ll be punished, but I’ve been brought too low tonight to care as much as I usually do. What could be worse than this? I think—and even though I know there’s worse, I’m having a hard time remembering it just now.

“What do you want?” I ask tiredly, thinking of Bryce and how, when this man is done with me, I’m just going to have to go to him. The thought of having another man in me tonight makes my body tighten with pain, and I hope I can mollify him with a blowjob. I’m good at those, so he might be happy with that. 

The man’s green gaze darkens, resting on my face as he stands there. He hasn’t moved an inch further into the room. “You,” he says simply. “I want you.”

I stare at him for a long moment, the words hanging in the air between us. “That’s what everyone who comes back here wants,” I say finally, the words thick with loathing. “You’re going to have to be more specific than that.”

“No.” He tilts his head slightly, taking me in once more, as if he’s been waiting for this moment—though I can’t imagine why. “I don’t think I do.”

And then, without another word, he turns and leaves the room.