**FEATURED STORY JULY 2018*
**WATTPAD HQ READ OF THE WEEK AUGUST 2018*
**WATTYS 2018 WINNER**
Casey Brogan is on a mission to self-destruct. Whether it's booze, drugs or men, she's spiralling out of control and stepping over the line, to destroy t...
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'Mr. Turnbull will see you now.'
Oscar's silverback of a security guy gestured at me to go in, like I was waiting to go into a job interview. I tugged at the hem of my dress as I stood up, feeling stupid dressed like this in the middle of the afternoon and definitely not like I was dressed for an interview, unless of course the job involved swinging upside down from a pole in Oscar's club, wearing nothing but my knickers and a fake smile.
It had been cold outside, my thin jacket barely doing anything to ward off the winter chill or the chill of my three-day comedown, but in Oscar's club, it was as if the heating had been cranked up to make-them-fucking-sweat level. I could already feel my dress sticking to my back.
The staccato-beat of the crappy dance music was muffled in the small velvet-draped foyer where I'd been sitting. Through the other door, the girls were already parading the stage in a whirlwind of tassels, bare flesh and hairspray, while half a dozen punters or so sat watching, despite the fact it was barely three o'clock, with one hand on their pint glasses, the other in their laps.
It seemed it was never too early for nipples and a hard-on.
Inwardly cursing Davey for making me do this, I flashed a grin at the muscle-head, earning nothing but a hard stare in return, and I walked past him through the now-open door of Oscar's spacious office, expertly navigating the way in my certain-death heels. I'd played this part so many times before, worn this dress, fixed my make-up and my smile, that it had become like second nature. And all to just get Davey what he wanted, and to keep Oscar happy, of course.
'Ere, Davey lad, send that tasty little sort of yours down to get the gear next time, yeah?
I was never sure what it was Oscar liked about me so much that had sparked his interest. He told me once that if I'd been a bloke, I'd have had bigger balls than every man working for him. I never quite worked out whether he meant it or whether that had been his idea of flattery, but I did know it meant I'd never had to come down here and let him hammer away at me while grunting like a sweaty Cockney pig, as I pressed my face against his 80's style black-lacquered desk and thought of England.
Davey wasn't partial to anyone taking too much of an interest in me, but when it came to Oscar, those rules seemed to be well and truly off the table. Sometimes I wondered whether he would sanction Oscar screwing me just to get his gear. Not that I would have, mind you, not even in the pre-Davey days when there weren't many who were off limits to me, but Oscar Turnbull was an odious, ugly fucker who only managed to get laid through intimidation and money, and there was nothing about that which turned me on.
Strangely however, where I was concerned, Oscar had been nothing but polite. In fact, I'd even go as far as to say he'd been surprisingly charming, but the thing with Oscar was that there was a dangerous edge to his charm, one that turned my stomach and made me wary every time I was in his company.
