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Chapter One – Thea
There are some things in life you never think you’ll be a part of, no matter what the situation is. Getting stranded on an island after an airplane crash, for example. Situations so out of the ordinary you think, Well, that can’t possibly happen to me. And most of the time you’d be right.
Sometimes you’d be wrong, though.
Take me, for instance. Not once in my life did I ever think I’d be a part of a kidnapping—and, surely, if there was a kidnapping in my life it would be a man kidnapping me and not the other way around, but life likes to throw you curveballs every now and then, and my curveball? It’s a long story. A long story that starts with a kidnapping.
Personally, I blame my brother, Max. If it wasn’t for him, I’d still be splitting my time working two to three jobs a week. Waitressing, cleaning, even retail; I’ve done it all because I had to. Skipped college; couldn’t afford to go and wasn’t smart enough to get any scholarships, and Mom couldn’t afford to help out.
Course, Mom’s behind bars now, but once she gets out, Max and I have a plan. After this job, we’ll have enough money to buy us a house in the suburbs, away from this God-forsaken city, and we’ll have more than enough extra to get her some real help.
Our mom is a good person. She just… is weak when it comes to drinking, and it gets her into trouble sometimes. I’d say that’s why our dad left her, but that’d be a lie. Never met the man—and if I ever did, I’d give him the one-finger salute and tell him to fuck right off. We didn’t need him and we still don’t.
But, back to the present. Back to the kidnapping.
Max says this job will pay better than anything we could dream up, and at this point, I’m desperate enough to believe him.
Then again, it’s something my brother has always been good at: stretching the truth, convincing you there’s only one way, his way. He was born a used car salesman. He can make anybody believe almost anything.
The lights in the gentlemen's club are dim. I stand behind the bar, pretending to wipe the black marble countertops with a rag while scoping out the place. A stupid bowtie sits around my neck over the collar of a white blouse. The look is complete with black slacks and new, shiny shoes.
Yeah, in a fancy place like this, the owner doesn’t let any employee walk in with scuffed shoes. How stupid is that? I mean, this place is basically a bar. A fancy, high-end bar that caters to men with money. I’ve only worked here a week or so, but I’ve seen enough to know I’ve seen it all.
The leather couches scattered amongst the floor. The glass chandeliers that sparkle in the dim light. The small stage up front that holds live music every night, typically a piano player, although some nights a woman dressed like she was plucked from the swinging twenties croons into an old-fashioned microphone. On those nights, the air in this club gets so thick with smoke it’s choking.
The people who come here are always men, and they’re typically in suits that probably cost more than the rust-bucket of a car my brother and I share. With their hair slicked back, they take giant puffs from their cigars like they’re the most important men in the city.
And maybe they are, but I don’t care enough about them to give a shit. Men like that only ever look at a girl like me and think one of two thoughts. The first is obvious: that they’re better than me. I’m basically the help and they’re the Richie Riches of the world. The second thought has something to do with wanting me on my back or my knees for them.
Yeah, men like that are a dime a dozen.
It’s not too late in the evening; the club is still getting fuller as the minutes pass by. Bouncers stand by the outer doors to keep out the riffraff. All in all, it’s not a place you’d want to pull any kind of job, let alone with this clientele…
I’m not thrilled to be a part of something like this, but from what I understand, all I’ll have to do is sneakily spike someone’s drink and wait. Max’ll handle the rest.
“Hey, beautiful,” a smooth voice fills the air in front of me, and I stop surveying the club to meet the eyes of a man standing on the other side of the bar. He slipped onto one of the stools surrounding the bar, something most men who come here never do. “Can I get a drink, or are you there just to stand around and look pretty?”
The truth is I’m not even dolled up. I have a bit of makeup around my blue eyes, and my blond hair is pulled back in a ponytail—part of the uniform for girls with longer hair—but I do have a doe-eyed look that seems to draw in more men than I care to deal with. Doesn’t help that I’m on the shorter side of things too, so I look like I need protection from the world, and who better to protect me than a big, strong, manly man?
Gag me. The only thing I need help getting is shit from the top shelf of the cabinets in the kitchen. It’s why I invested in a stepstool. My brother, unfortunately, is even shorter than me at barely five feet tall.We’re a short family.
I stop wiping the counter and move in front of the man who got my attention, plastering a smile on my face the entire time. If I don’t smile, I’ll probably just sneer at him, so it’s safer this way.
“What can I get you?” I ask, sounding more pleasant than I ever have in my entire life. It’s my customer service voice intensified tenfold. I’ve learned that if you lay it on thick, they’re more likely to think they’re getting their way, even if they’re not.
The man lets his eyes travel down my face, stopping only when they reach my chest. He takes a good five or so seconds before saying, “Are you on the menu? I wouldn’t mind taking a long sip from you.”
God, it’s really hard for me to keep smiling at him after that.
“Unfortunately, sir, I am not on the menu,” I tell him. I’m not one who roots for kidnapping, but I really hope this prick is our target tonight. I wouldn’t mind drugging this asshole.
Course, everyone who’s in this club is an asshole in one way or another. You don’t get rich in a city like this without crossing some people, without lying and backstabbing. That’s directly from the asshole playbook, in case you’re wondering.
“How much I gotta pay, hmm? You have to have a price. Everyone does. I’m sure I could—” The man is like a dog with a bone: he just won’t give it up even though I’m clearly uninterested and at work.
“If you would like me to mix you a drink, sir, I can do that,” I talk over him. For the past three weeks, I’ve been studying how to make cocktails and all sorts of fancy drinks just for this damned job. Ironically, most men here go for the simple drinks involving whiskey or vodka. Nothing with those cute little umbrellas.
“I told you what I want.”
