The Truth About Unspeakable Things by Emily Myers (people reading books txt) 📗

just turned over the evidence I have on Beaux. With Lauren’s mention of Club Gent, it would have been enough for the police to have a reason to investigate it. Why did it have to be me? Why did I feel the need to—?

Just as I’ve made up my mind to bail, I see Beaux drag a girl from the fountain to a private room in the back of the club, and I do mean drag.

“That’s why,” I whisper aloud.

I slowly walk the perimeter of the room until I find myself next to Beaux’s room. The curtains are drawn, though there’s a small sliver of open space between them. I see other waitresses walk into the rooms carrying their trays. Perhaps they’re bringing more beverages to the pair. My stomach turns as I imagine how many people have had the opportunity to destroy this place but haven’t.

“No,” the girl breathes.

I can’t. I can’t just stand here and let her be raped. I slip through the curtain without drawing the attention of others. Inside, the girl lies on her back on a giant red velvet cushion. I catch Beaux attempting to undress her as he pins her down with his weight. I remember what that weight feels like. I feel it now. My throat begins to close as if he’s choking me all over again. What do I do now?

“Come to join the party?” Beaux asks. He turns to me and pulls me toward him by my wrist.

I gasp, spilling my tray of drinks all over him and the girl beneath him.

“What the hell!” he yells.

Beaux stands, removing his jacket. From my time with him, I know how much he hates stains, messes, and all things sticky. The amount of sugar in those purple drinks is sure to drive him crazy.

“Clean her up,” he tells me. “And be ready to make this up to me when I get back,” he says. “That is, if you want your tip.”

I nod, doing my best to avoid eye contact. Once I’m sure Beaux is gone, I tug the curtain tight behind him and attempt to wake the blonde girl before me.

“Hey,” I say. The girl makes an incomprehensible sound. “I’m here to help you. But we have to move quick,” I say, pulling her up to a sitting position.

The girl vomits all over me, the floor, and herself. Now, I have a reason to take her to the bathroom, which is plenty close enough to the kitchen for us to make our escape. I’ve never been so pleased to be thrown up on.

“Okay, do just as you are,” I tell her. “Play the drunken girl with vomit all over her. I’ll get you out of here.” Most of what I say is only to calm my nerves. I doubt the poor girl has any idea where she is let alone what I’m saying.

I sling the girl’s arm over my shoulder and allow her body to lean into mine as we walk through the curtain toward the bathroom. The bathroom is down the same corridor as the kitchen. If I can make it to the kitchen, I can make it out the same way I came in. Thankfully, I’m able to make it past all the possible threats without a problem. A sight like this must be common in this disgusting misogynistic rat hole.

Just up ahead, the bathroom is to the right. The kitchen is to the left. Just as I’m about to turn left, the door to the bathroom opens and out comes . . . my father!

I open my mouth to say “Dad,” but stop myself just in time. As the door to the bathroom swings behind him, I see a naked girl lying on the bathroom floor. He’s one of them.

He looks me and my blonde companion, up and down like we’re nothing more to him than dolls on a shelf. I nearly cry as every memory of my father becomes tainted. He was never perfect, distant even, but never did I see him as the monster standing before me.

“Come find me after you get her all cleaned up,” he says.

His breath is alcohol laden and smoky. My body trembles. My lip quivers. He moves past us without touching the girl or me. Despite this, my body goes numb.

How? How is this possible? How could he do this? What else is he hiding? Beaux! Did he know him before we started dating? Did he know what he was capable of?

To my left is the door to freedom, yet I don’t move toward it. I’m paralyzed, paralyzed by the reality that is now my own.

The girl, whose name I still don’t know, begins to regain her consciousness just as I feel faint and dizzy.

“What? What are we doing? Where are we?” the girl mumbles, rubbing her raccoon eyes with the back of her hand.

“We’re . . . we’re leaving,” I tell her, forcing through my panic long enough to escape.

We walk through the kitchen without being stopped. The cooks and other waitresses watch us with suspicious eyes, yet something about them tells me they understand and wish they had the courage to leave as well. I quicken my step as the exit door comes into reach. I reach for the handle and—

“Where do you think you’re going?” a shrill, female voice asks. It’s the manager or “the Mistress,” as we were told to call her.

“I . . . um—”

“They’re with me,” a vaguely familiar voice says. I turn to find Mason, dressed in a black suit, standing just on the other side of the Mistress.

“Excuse me,” the Mistress says, turning to see Mason. “I don’t believe I’ve seen you before.”

“You haven’t,” Mason says. He compliments her beauty and says he would remember meeting a woman such as her. Mason goes on to explain he’s a member of the Los Angeles chapter currently on vacation here in New Orleans. I’m not sure if that’s true and I pray to God it isn’t. Because if it is, then there are more of these heinous