The Kidnapping

POV: Tessa

"Tessa, you can do it," I whisper. My fingers grip the cold plastic of my phone. "Just another night. Just get through it."

The screen lights up in my palm. A harsh buzz cuts through the chilly evening air. I don't need to guess who it is. Ten minutes. I am ten minutes late for my shift.

*Where the hell are you? Doors are open. Cleo is on stage. Your set is next. Get your ass in here.*

Another text pops up before I can even process the first.

*You are pissing me off, Tessa. Answer your phone.*

I let out a heavy sigh, the white puff of my breath disappearing into the dark. Mick is going to scream at me. He always does. I shove the phone into my bag and brace myself.

I push open the heavy metal doors of the club. The music hits me like a physical blow. The bass rattles my teeth and vibrates deep in my chest. It took me weeks to stop flinching at the sheer volume. The air inside is thick. It reeks of cheap alcohol, stale sweat, and desperation.

I scan the dimly lit room. My stomach twists into a familiar, painful knot. Crowds of intoxicated men press against the main stage. They wave crumpled bills in the air, their greedy eyes fixed on the half-naked girls moving under the flashing neon lights. This is my reality. A run-down strip club filled with men who view us as pieces of meat.

I force my legs to move. I bypass the main floor and head straight for the back. Minutes later, I climb onto the stage. The heat of the spotlights blinds me for a second. The music changes, pulsing with a heavy, grinding beat. I go through the motions. I spin, I drop, I arch my back. It is a mindless routine.

Below me, the men crowd closer. Their hungry stares burn my skin. Crude comments and lewd whistles pierce through the loud music. "Shake it for me, baby!" "Yeah, look at that."

I keep my face neutral, but a frown of disgust fights its way onto my lips. I hate their eyes. I hate the way they throw their money at my feet like I am a dog performing tricks. I bite the inside of my cheek and count down the seconds.

The moment the track fades, I grab my discarded clothing and escape.

I bolt for the dressing room. Safety. The harsh fluorescent lights flicker overhead as I rip off the tight, revealing stage outfit. I pull on my worn-out jeans and a heavy sweater. I grab a rough makeup wipe and scrub at my face until my skin feels raw. I just want to go home.

I sling my bag over my shoulder and yank the door open.

Mick stands right in the hallway, blocking my path. His arms are crossed over his chest.

"When are you going to make up for the time you wasted?" he demands. His voice is a low, aggressive growl.

I step back, keeping a safe distance. "Tomorrow. I will work an extra shift tomorrow."

"I need you out there now."

"I can't, Mick. I am too tired. I will make it up tomorrow, I promise." My bones ache. My head is pounding from the noise and the blinding lights.

He stares at me with cold indifference. He shrugs, reaches into his pocket, and pulls out a wad of thin, crumpled cash. He tosses it at me. The bills hit my chest and flutter to the dirty floor. I crouch down, gather my meager earnings, and push past him.

I push out the rear exit door. The cool night air washes over my burning skin. I take a deep breath, seeking a moment of peace.

My feet crunch on the gravel of the dark alleyway. Then, I stop.

Two men stand between me and the main street.

They are massive. Terrifyingly huge. They block the only way out. My heart hammers against my ribs in sudden panic. I take a cautious step backward, my grip tightening on my bag.

One man has a thick, unkempt beard covering his lower face. The other bears an ugly, jagged scar slashing from his left ear all the way to his right cheek. They don't look like regular drunk patrons. They look dangerous.

"Who are you?" I ask. My voice comes out clipped and defensive. I take another step back.

The bearded man tilts his head. He doesn't answer me. Instead, he looks over at his partner.

"This one will do," he says.

The scarred man gives a silent nod.

Do what?

My brain struggles to process the horrifying reality. "What are you—"

They lunge.

The scarred man grabs my arms, pinning them to my sides with crushing force. Before I can draw a breath to scream, the bearded man shoves a thick, foul-tasting cloth into my mouth. He ties it tight behind my head.

The gag swallows my cries. I thrash. I kick my legs, aiming for their knees. I fight with every ounce of strength I possess, but I am nothing against them. The bearded man chuckles. He bends down and heaves my body over his broad shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

The wind is knocked out of my lungs. I pound my fists against his solid back. Tears blur my vision. Hot sobs tear at my throat, choking me against the rough fabric of the gag. I pray someone in the alley hears the scuffle.

But the heavy, thumping bass from the club's rear walls drowns out my muffled cries.

He turns around. They carry me right back toward the club. Not the main floor. They drag me through a heavy metal door into the deep, hidden corridors reserved for VIPs.

My heart races as we pass empty hallways. The bearded man stops and kicks a door open. He walks in, shifts his grip, and throws me hard.

I hit the floor. The impact sends a sharp pain shooting through my shoulder and hip.

The heavy door slams shut. The loud click of the lock echoes in the space.

I scramble to my knees, clawing at the knot behind my head. I rip the gag out of my mouth and rush the door. I slam my fists against the solid wood.

"Hey! No! Help me!" I scream in sheer despair. I pound until my knuckles bleed. "Somebody help me!"

No one comes. The heavy walls swallow my voice.

I press my back against the door and slide down to the floor, my chest heaving. I wipe the tears from my eyes and look around.

Eerie blue lights cast long shadows across the room. It is a VIP suite. My blood runs cold. A paralyzing fear washes over me. In the dead center of the room sits a massive bed. I know exactly what kind of crude, non-consensual things happen in these hidden rooms. Rich men pay off the managers to do whatever they want to the girls back here. But I am not a willing participant.

The hair on the back of my neck stands up. A chilling realization hits my brain.

The air in the room feels too heavy. The shadows are too thick.

I am not alone.

"Who's there?" I gasp. My voice trembles. I search the dark corners. "Just let me go, please—" I cry out helplessly into the dim blue light.

A figure shifts in the darkest corner of the room. A tall, imposing man steps out of the shadows. The dim light catches his broad shoulders and towering frame.

He stares down at me. His voice cuts through the tension, cold and unyielding.

"We're going to make it quick. Get on the fucking bed."