Wanting the Detective

Chapter 7

Dawn struggled to stay upright as she sat on the edge of the bed. The drugs she'd been given made her body feel like it had been filled with sand. She leaned forward and put her head between her knees. How was she supposed to dance in these stilettos when she couldn't even sit up?

"Y'know this has always been a fantasy of mine. It's so hard to watch a dancer and not get to do the things I want with her because of some puritanical law." The man's voice seemed miles away.

Dawn jerked her head back and willed her eyes open but they wouldn't obey. Each attempt at forcing her eyelids apart resulted in her pupils rolling to the top of her head. She caught a fuzzy glimpse of the overhead light a few times, but no picture of the owner of the voice addressing her. Was he addressing her? Were they the only ones here?

"Hello?" The man snapped his fingers in front of her face and her eyes snapped open. "I asked you a question."

Dawn managed to focus on him. "What is it, baby?" She smiled. The action felt like a series of stills instead of one smooth motion. Converting her words from thought to sound was a struggle.

"Do you like dancing for money?" He was chewing gum. The man grinned at her as he rolled it around in his mouth.

She nodded and forced another plastic smile. How long had they been here?

"I'm a lawyer, you ever been with a lawyer before?" Sweat dripped from his nose and stained his shirt.

Dawn had to fight the urge to vomit as she stood. She swayed on the stilts strapped to her feet. They wanted her to dance—to do whatever the customer wanted.

Right.

She placed her hands on the wall to brace herself as she moved her hips seductively. More still frames of smooth motion. What the hell did they have her on? She turned around and stumbled.

Once. Twice.

No, no, no! Failure wasn't allowed here. The girls who failed, died. She'd seen it herself when they brought her here—when they made space for her by dragging a screaming woman from her room and shooting her in the chest. 'A weak link' they'd called her. Clients needed fresh faces and good performers—if you weren't a fresh face you'd better be a damn good performer.

Dawn leaned forward and shimmied her shoulders.

It was a mistake.

Too slow to brace herself, she fell and hit her chin on the tile floor at her client's feet.

"I'm out of here. This is pathetic."

No! He was angry with her.

Dawn was strangely removed from the fear rising within as she watched his shoes shuffle away. Please don't tell them I failed. She wasn't ready to die. There was still hope. Lucy was looking for her. She'd find the evidence and track it straight to Dawn's cell door.
Her prison.
Please, she prayed, don't let this be a death sentence...