City Rent Ch 02

Part 7: The Week

The belt left marks.

Angry red lines wrapped my wrists when I finally worked the buckle loose with trembling fingers. I didn't get up right away. Just lay there, face down, limbs like deadweight, back sticky with his cum. The room felt too quiet--like it was listening.

Eventually, I peeled myself off the sheets. My thighs burned. My chest ached. I didn't cry again. Not after that first hour.

I didn't shower. Couldn't.

I wiped myself down with a rag from the kitchen sink--cold water, no soap. I left the mess in the sheets. I left the tank top on the floor. It felt like if I touched too much of it, it would undo whatever thread was still keeping me together.

The next morning, Rick was already gone.

I stepped into the kitchen in an oversized hoodie, bruises blooming under the fabric. The silence was thicker than usual, but I liked it that way. I grabbed the last slice of bread, ate it dry, and put on the only jeans that still fit right.

Then I left the apartment.

I spent the day on foot.

Hit every café, corner store, fast food joint, bodega, bakery, and bistro I could find within ten blocks. I smiled when I had to. Lied when I needed to. Told people I'd just moved here from "out of state," left out everything that mattered. Handed over a paper résumé I'd printed at the library--creased from the sweat in my pocket by noon.

No one called back.

The next day, I went farther.

Took the train out to the busier part of the borough--more lights, more people, more chances. I stood in line behind girls with sharper makeup and better shoes, all of us answering the same questions from managers who didn't remember our names five minutes later.

"You got experience?"

"Yes."

"You got a reference?"

"Yeah, just need to dig it up."

"We'll call you."

They didn't.

I came home sore every night. Feet blistered. Shoulders sunburned. I kept moving like if I just walked fast enough, I'd outrun what happened in that room.

But Friday came, and I had nothing to show for it but another week of empty inboxes and scuffed sneakers.

I didn't want to go home that night.

So I sat in a 24-hour diner two blocks from the apartment. Ordered the cheapest thing on the menu--coffee and toast--and nursed it like a wound. I watched people come and go. Couples laughing. Girls in mini skirts heading to parties. Old men reading newspapers like the world hadn't changed.

When my coffee went cold and the server gave me the second warning look, I left.

Outside, the air was thick with rain that hadn't started yet. The sky sagged.

And when I turned the corner and saw the building rising in the distance with that one flickering hallway light--I knew what waited for me.

I hadn't earned another week. I hadn't found a way out.

But I still walked up the stairs.

Because I didn't have a choice.

Part 8: The Change of Heart

The door creaked when I pushed it open.

I didn't know if Rick would be there. Sometimes he disappeared for a night--or more. Sometimes he was stretched out on the couch when I got in, half-asleep with the TV flickering across his chest. Sometimes the place felt empty, like he'd never been there at all.

But tonight, he was waiting.

Sitting on the couch, arms folded tight across his chest, a takeout bag on the table in front of him, steam still rising from the cartons. He wasn't watching TV. Just staring straight ahead, jaw clenched, something unreadable in his eyes.

I froze.

His gaze slid to me. Heavy. Not cruel. Not warm. Just... assessing.

"Sit," he said.

My bag was still hanging from my shoulder. My hair stuck to the back of my neck from the rain. I bit my lip, then nodded once and crossed the room. I sat down on the floor beside the coffee table--same spot I'd slept some nights when he was gone, or just didn't care to use the couch himself.

The silence stretched.

Then he asked, "How's the job search been?"

I swallowed, picking at the edge of my sleeve. "Not great," I admitted. "But not from lack of trying. I've been out every day. Literally everywhere I can walk to. Filled out forms, handed out résumés, smiled 'til my face hurt."

He nodded once. Not mocking. Just listening.

"You eaten?"

The question caught me off guard. I blinked. "No."

He gestured to the table. "Let's eat."

I hesitated only a second before reaching for a container. Lo mein. Still hot. There were two sets of chopsticks. I sat cross-legged, took a bite like it might vanish if I didn't move fast. He opened the sesame chicken for himself but didn't say much else at first.

We ate in silence. The kind that felt intentional. The kind where something was coming.

Then, between bites, he asked, "Why'd you come here?"

I looked up.

He wasn't looking for a fight. Just the truth.

I swallowed. "I wanted more."

"More than what?"

"More than Crossfield. It was too small. Too slow. I wanted... I don't know. To be part of something bigger."

He kept watching me.

"I wanted more," I said again. "Crossfield felt like a trap. Small-town hell. Same people, same stories. I wanted to be somebody. Wanted to work in design. Fashion maybe. Something where I could walk into a room and people would notice."

He leaned back, chewing slowly. "That world's cold," he said. "Tighter than you think."

I didn't argue. I'd already started learning that.

"I don't have contacts in fashion," he added. "But I got a friend who runs a high-end club down in Midtown. Real classy place. Fancy lighting. Valet parking. The works."

My eyes lifted.

"He's always lookin' for pretty girls to work the front--hostess, servers, that kinda thing. You've got the look for it. It ain't design, but it's money. Real paycheck. Enough to cover rent once it kicks in."

My heart stuttered. He saw it. Kept going.

"If you want it, I can put your name in. He'll take my word."

I hesitated. "You'd do that?"

Rick met my eyes directly. "I'm not a monster, Nia."

I almost laughed. But it caught in my throat.

"I'm not saying it's free," he continued. "But I don't want you starving either. I don't like coming home to a girl who looks like she ain't eaten in two days."

I looked down at my food, not sure how to hold that in my chest.

"If you keep me satisfied," he said, voice calm, "I'll take care of the extras. Food. Heat. Maybe some clothes for the job. You just worry about covering the rent."

There it was. Spoken plainly. Not a threat. Not exactly a promise. Just terms.

My fingers tightened around the chopsticks. Heat crept into my face--part shame, part something else. That pull again. That blur between power and survival. Between needing help and giving in.

I didn't speak. But I kept eating. Because I knew I'd say yes. And he already knew it too.

Part 9: The Dress

Morning light spilled through the blinds, soft and gold against my bare skin.

I was tangled in the blanket, alone on the couch--but the memory of last night clung to me tighter than the sheet.

It had been different. Not just gentler. Deliberate.

Rick didn't take me like a landlord collecting rent. He touched me like he wanted me to feel it. Every kiss burned, but it wasn't cruel. His mouth traveled like it was searching for something--pausing between my thighs like he had nowhere else to be.

He made me come with his tongue--twice--before he even took off his jeans.

No belt. No restraints.

Just his hands in my hair. His voice in my ear. His body against mine like he wasn't just taking space, but sharing it.

When he finally slid inside me, it was deep, slow, and--God help me--good.

He held my leg to his shoulder, then pulled me into his lap on the floor, then bent me over the arm of the couch with one hand in mine. No choking. No bruises.

Just fucking.

Like I was someone he wanted to remember.

I hadn't realized how much I needed to feel like that.

I sat up slowly, the sheet wrapped around me. Hair a mess. Thighs still humming. The apartment was quiet.

Rick was gone.

But on the back of the chair--where I'd left my hoodie the night before--was something new.

A dress.

Not too short. Not too tight. Dark and smooth with just enough stretch. Cap sleeves. Sharp neckline. Slit up the side--suggestive, but not a billboard. Classy.

Pinned to the hanger was a note: You're going to kill it. --R

I stared at it longer than I meant to.

No strings attached. No instructions.

Just... belief.

The dress slipped on like it was made for me. The hem hit just above the knee. It hugged the right curves and let the others whisper. I didn't have heels, but I cleaned up my sneakers and tied my curls back.

When I looked in the mirror, I looked like a woman with a destination.

By evening, I was walking through the glowing doors of Club Halo, heart thudding, palms damp, and breath caught in my chest.

I stepped up to the front stand, smiled like I belonged.

"I'm here to see Barry," I said.

Part 10: The Job

Club Halo pulsed like a heartbeat.

Neon veins ran down the building's edges, and bass vibrated through the pavement under my heels. The dress Rick gave me hugged my body in all the right ways--tight, tasteful, with a slit that flirted with every step. I kept my head up as I walked through the doors like I belonged there.

Inside was heat, perfume, and money.

Everything gleamed--black floors, gold accents, strobe lights sweeping across velvet booths and chrome tables. Girls moved through the space like they were poured into it--heels clicking, hips swaying, laughter brushing the ears of men with thick wallets and too many rings.

I didn't know where to stand, so I kept walking.

Then I saw him--near the stairs. Mid-40s, suit half-unbuttoned, hair buzzed close to the scalp. Barry.

He didn't say his name. Just looked me up and down like he'd already decided whether I was worth the ink on my résumé.

"You ever work nightlife?" he asked.

"No," I said, keeping my voice steady. "But I learn fast."

He smirked. "We'll see."

He didn't care about my background. Didn't ask about my goals. He just laid it out.

"You're not here to serve drinks. You're here to sell fantasy. Smile. Flirt. Make them feel like kings. Then vanish before they remember they're not."

I nodded.

"You'll start on Wednesdays and Thursdays," he continued. "That's what I give new girls. You want Fridays and Saturdays? You earn 'em. Clients have to ask for you by name."

He handed me a laminated card with club rules printed in glossy ink. Tight dress. Hair down. No gum. No phones.

"If a client asks for your number," he added, "you say Barry says no."

I glanced down at the list, my stomach tightening with every line.

"Stay present at the table. Don't just pour the drink. Make him feel seen. That's what gets tips."

He gave me one more once-over. "Tight, shiny, and smart. You'll do fine."

I didn't say thank you. Just nodded and followed Marla across the floor.

She was all lips, legs, and sharp instincts. She moved like she owned the space, tossing quick smiles that landed like hooks. I watched her close--how she poured, how she laughed, how she leaned in just far enough.

And I learned.

Quickly.

Smile when they look at you. Laugh when they reach. Keep your eyes warm and your hands light.

Victor noticed me by the second hour.

He was mid-50s, navy suit, heavy watch, the kind of man who didn't need to raise his voice to fill a room. I brought him a bottle of Clase Azul and a practiced smile.

"New?" he asked.

"First night," I said.

He studied me for a breath, then slid a folded hundred under my coaster.

"You'll do fine."

By the time my shift ended, my feet ached and my dress clung to the sweat on my back--but my purse was heavier than it had been in weeks.

On my way out, Barry caught me near the exit.

"You did good."

"Thanks."

He leaned in, eyes sharp. "You've got a look clients remember. Some girls pour bottles. Some sell dreams. You decide which one you are."

Then he was gone.

Outside, the city felt louder. Colder. I looked down at the money in my hand, then back at the glowing doors behind me. The rent was still due. And the game had just begun.

Part 11: The Line

The club looked the same every night--dark, loud, alive--but something had shifted in me.

It had been two weeks since my first shift at Halo. I knew where the ice buckets were. I knew how to fake a laugh loud enough to carry. I knew which men didn't tip unless you touched their arm twice. I could spot a high roller from across the floor. Knew how to glide. How to sparkle.

But it wasn't enough.

Fridays and Saturdays came and went, and I stayed stuck on the slower shifts--Wednesday and Thursday--watching the real money pass me by. Watching Barry lean in close to Marla, whisper something low, then nod toward the back.

The velvet-curtained VIP lounges. The real transactions.

Marla was always first.

She'd come back glowing, lipstick smeared just slightly, slipping folded hundreds into her bra like confetti. One night she caught me watching and grinned like she knew something I didn't.

"You waiting for a gold star or what?" she said, reapplying her lip gloss without looking at me. "You got the body. The mouth. All you need's the nerve."

I didn't answer. But the words stuck.

So did the way Barry looked at me whenever I hesitated. Just long enough to make it clear.

If I wanted more, I'd have to go further.

I walked in that Thursday like I was ready. Hair curled. Heels high. No second thoughts. Barry was at the host stand when I walked past. He didn't look up at first--just tapped his pen against the reservation list before glancing my way.

"Victor called ahead," he said.

My stomach flipped.

"He asked for you by name."

He reached into his blazer and handed me something small--tinfoil, folded tight. I took it without thinking, fingers curling around it like instinct.

"Helps with the edge," he said. "Don't get stupid with it."

I didn't say anything.

"Smile," he added. "Tonight's a big night."

The bathroom mirror didn't lie. I looked expensive. Lipstick perfect. Skin glowing. The dress hugged my hips like second skin, like it was painted on. But beneath the shine, I felt... raw. Tense. My jaw was locked. My heart wouldn't slow down.

I opened the foil. One neat line stared back at me.

My hands shook.

I leaned over, snorted quick, and came up faster.

The burn was instant. Harsh, then bright. My chest lifted. My eyes watered. But the buzz hit clean. My pulse leveled. Everything felt clear. Lighter.

The music outside got crisper. The lights warmed. My lips felt fuller. My skin tighter.

I fixed my lipstick. Smiled at myself.

And walked out.

Victor was waiting behind the velvet rope in the corner booth. The bottle was already there--Dom, of course. He looked just as put-together as before, suit perfect, watch heavy, eyes sharp.

"You look expensive tonight," he said, lifting his glass.

I smiled, sliding into the seat beside him. Not too close. Just enough.

"Only for the right company."

He poured the champagne, then pulled a silver key from his jacket pocket--tapped it once against the table before dipping it into a small glass vial.

"To indulgence," he said.

I didn't think.

I leaned in.

The key brushed my nostril. Another flash. Another rush.

Victor's hand rested on my thigh. Not heavy. Just present. Just enough to remind me that this wasn't a conversation.

He didn't ask for more.

Not yet.

But he didn't need to.

Somewhere across the floor, a bottle popped. Someone cheered. But back here, in this velvet-lined world of quiet and money and control, everything slowed.

Victor glanced once at the bouncer near the edge of the curtain.

Then reached behind us.

And pulled it shut.

Part 12: The Curtain

My head was buzzing.

Not just from the champagne. Not just from the bump in the bathroom. It was something deeper. The air felt thick--like it had crawled under my skin and was trying to push its way out. My hands tingled. My heart wouldn't settle. Every sound felt too close, and every thought came too slow.

The curtain whispered closed behind me.

And the world outside went quiet.

Club Halo faded to a pulse behind the velvet--just the muffled bass, like a heartbeat too far away to matter. Inside the booth, it was warm and still. A soft trap.

Victor didn't speak.

He just watched me.

He sat with one arm stretched across the back of the seat like it belonged to him, like everything did--including me. His eyes dragged over my body with a weight that made my skin burn.

I stood there. Frozen. Breath shallow.

"You wore that dress for attention," he said finally. Calm. Measured. Like this was a conversation, not a setup. "You wanted eyes. Control. But you're not in control anymore, are you?"

I didn't answer.

Didn't need to.

Victor stood slowly. Tall. Clean. Dangerous in a way that didn't require shouting.

"Turn around."

I did.

"Hands on the back of the seat."

The velvet felt cold under my palms. My legs didn't want to lock. My body was already starting to tremble--but not from fear. Not exactly.

He stepped behind me, close enough that I could feel his breath on my shoulder.

"Don't move unless I say," he murmured.

I nodded.

He grabbed my chin, tilted my head back.

"Words."

"Yes."

Then he let go.

I heard the soft shift of fabric. Belt unbuckled. Zipper dragged down.

Then: pressure.

His body pressed hard against my backside. The thick line of him obvious. Intentional. He wasn't in a rush. He was savoring it.

"You're soaked," he murmured, almost amused. "Didn't even have to touch you."

My face flushed. I bit my lip.

"You came here for this," he continued. "Wore that dress. Walked through this club like you weren't already begging to be used."

I said nothing.

But he was right.

Or close enough that it didn't matter.

His hands gripped my hips, tight and final.

Then he pushed inside me.

One hard thrust. No warning. No patience.

I gasped--sharp and full--and grabbed the seat for balance.

He didn't stop.

He moved with purpose. Rhythm. Like this wasn't about either of us feeling good--it was about him proving something. About taking what was his.

Every thrust knocked the breath from my lungs.

The booth creaked. My legs shook.

And all I could hear were his words.

"This is what you're good for."

"Moaning into a cushion while your dress rides up."

"No one's ever gonna look at you the same again."

His voice never got loud. That made it worse.

I gritted my teeth, trying not to cry out--but my body betrayed me. It curled into the feeling, into the shame, into the deep, aching need to be filled. Owned.

"You gonna beg for it?" he growled behind me.

I was already close. Too close.

"Please..." I gasped.

"That all you got?"

"Please, Victor--don't stop."

He didn't.

He held my hips tighter. Pulled me back into every thrust. Forced me to feel it, to take it.

And I did.

My body started to buckle, pleasure building too fast, too sharp.

Then--he stopped.

Still inside me. Not moving.

I whimpered.

His hand slid up my spine, fingers curling lightly around my neck. Not choking--just reminding.

"You don't finish until I say."

I nodded.

"Say it."

"I won't--I won't finish unless you let me."

His hand relaxed.

Then he moved again.

Slower. Crueler.

I nearly sobbed.

Each thrust was a tease. A threat. My body burned from the inside out. My knees gave way, and he held me up, fucking me like I was nothing but a hole made for his pleasure.

And when he finally let me go--when the orgasm hit, hard and humiliating--I cried out into the velvet like I was being broken.