Daimon - DANIELLE BOLGER (best fiction novels TXT) 📗

take notice, take arms and fight. It all starts here.

“Well,” The driver stated as he pulled over. “Here we are, Paradise Grove.”

I paid him and gulped as I exited the car. Time to put my best game face on.

****

Standing on the cracked and unkempt footpath, I peered at the fluorescent Minx sign that gleamed ahead of me with apprehension. The streets were desolate, and for good reason. However, I knew that, in a few short hours, it would be sprawling with naive teens and other young adults who were addicted to the dangerous atmosphere. Devil's Eden was the ultimate party joint, in part due to the exhilarating name bestowed upon it. If you really wanted to party, the Minx was where “all the craziness was at.” The best DJs of the country frequented here. Multiple dance floors, an area for strippers—the pole dancers were truly breathtaking, and not just for their nude physiques, but for the caliber of skill they possessed. There were even a few poles set aside to encourage female patrons to show off. It was truly the best party spot anywhere, especially in a city where there was no such thing as too intoxicated and no such thing as carding. This place allowed you to have all the fun you wanted, at a cost the club was happy to collect. Here, alcohol was sold right next to the drugs at the bar. There was even a booth to the side where you could order your girl or guy for the night, then receive a key to access their room on an upper floor. Everyone wanted to party here, despite its alarming morbidity and mortality rate, but not everybody could get in. There was a strict glamour and cash policy. If you had enough of one or the other, you were welcome, but if you had neither then you never made it through the front door. My best friend, Sandra, and I had frequented this place many times in our youths, drinking to excess and taking drugs of which I never learned the names. Every time we were greeted warmly and every time it had only cost us the taxi ride out.

I rolled my shoulders back in an attempt to make my tiny breasts seem a little bit larger, and lifted my chin high. I minced towards the entrance, in my blue and white polka dot stilettos, with a graceful calm unparalleled to the tension in my hands. I knocked on the wooden front door, noticing the waxiness to the finish. My timid call brought no response. Hearing music coming from the inside, I summoned yet more courage and forced a more profound knock. This, finally, was greeted by a young man laden in superfluous gold jewelry. Before speaking, his eyes roamed over my body with a hungry smile. “You here for the bartending position?”

“Sure am! I’m so super excited to be working here!” I squealed with ridiculous excitement.

“Is that right?” He raised an eyebrow. “Well, you haven’t got the job yet. Come inside, Mack's over there. You'll be doing your trial with him.” He pointed out an older man sitting by the bar as he closed the door behind me. He breathed in deeply and stood so close that I could feel his body heat. “But from what I can see, you already appear qualified.” He gave an attractive bad-boy smile. “I’m Jase by the way. You’ll need to remember that when you get the job.”

I took a step inside, and just from the simple smell I was transported back to my clubbing days. I saw drink after drink procured in front of me, lines of white snow gallantly offered, erratic lights that caused my head to spin…and boys: new ones every night, new distractions, new lures into hell. Each night offered a new way to die, and yet I made it through my damaged period into adulthood. I ultimately stopped being suicidal, but walking back into that place I guessed that statement could be refuted.

I looked around, taking it all in. I could only see the one room clearly, yet the simple visage brought a detailed map back to mind. I recalled an extensive lounge area to the left, consisting of red leather sofas and tropical fish tanks lining the walls; that was where I smoked my first bong. To my right, was a dance floor lined with glowing blue tiles and a stage that was already set up for a band; that was where I grinded with my first 'serious' boyfriend. Right in front of me was the bar, this one dispensed just drinks. It was constructed of clear plastic with illuminated plastic balls inside that gave the semblance of bubbles; that was a bar I climbed onto once and stripped off both my top and bra.

My eyes scaled the room, settling on the focus of my mission—Mack. At least I assumed the spilling ass on the black pivot stool was the right guy. He was busy with some papers and sipping on something that looked like scotch or whiskey, appearing oblivious to my entrance.

I strutted toward the bar, donning what I hoped was a large, confident smile. “Hi there!” I threw out my right hand. “My name is Stacey Shaw, and I’m here for the bartending position. You’re Mack, right? The manager?”

He looked around languidly. “Yes, yes. Hm… your tits aren’t that great, are they? You’ve got a good ass, and nice legs, though.”

Anger flared inside me, but my face simply smiled, incredibly strained.

“Give us your resume and take a seat.”

I perched on a stool by his and fished through my handbag.

“Oh! Is this a new recruit? She’s pretty, but I don’t think she has the goods for performing.” A woman approached the opposite side of the bar and instantly leaned forward to nosy into whatever business was transpiring. As she hovered, her breasts almost popped out of the corset top she was wearing.

“Daphne, why don’t you go back to Freddie and the others and see if they need any refreshments, now.” Mack’s words came from tight jaws but soft eyes. His gaze scarcely left his employee’s endowment.

I handed Mack the paper. “I tried to mail it to you, you know, on the web, but the club’s site didn’t have an email address.”

“There’s a reason for that,” he replied shortly. “We prefer to do things in person.”

I know you do, I thought. The less trails, the better when you’re part of the Foxes.

“So, you worked at this Club Peninsula, I see,” he murmured as he skimmed through the papers. “Alright, go fetch me a scotch on the rocks. Treat me like a valued customer.”

There was meaning in those words which I translated to: be incredibly flirty and make me think we could have sex tonight, so when I whipped around to the bar side, I uttered huskily, “One scotch coming right up.”

I scooped ice into a short glass and poured straight from the bottle to the amount that I suspected was a shot's worth. I handed the four-fifth full glass to Mack and leant forward to display my cleavage directly toward seated eye-level. “There you are, hun.”

Mack took the glass and gave it a big swig without as much as a glance towards me. “Not bad.” He looked into the remainder of the glass. “However, for a valued customer, you should have filled it full way.”

My eyes widened. That resume was not entirely fictitious; I had worked at a bar while attending university. There I was taught to free-pour, tutored in some fancy cocktail recipes and was cautioned to follow the rule of never over pouring a drink— that would be too expensive. However, I should have realized that, at the Minx, it would be different. At a joint like this, the money made through alcohol was only a small fraction of the revenue. Here, alcohol served as a relaxant in order to open doors for patrons to pursue the many other, very illegal, services at the club. I realized then that their idea of good customers was not the big drinkers, but the drug addicts and playboys.

“I’m willing to give you a trial,” Mack sighed. “Stay on for the night, and if you please me, then you’ve got the job.”

“Oh, thank you so much!” I squealed. “I am so gonna make you hire me!”

“Yes, yes, follow me.”

As Mack led me to the back of the club, we passed the main stage that consisted of a front pole with two side cages that were each accessed via a set of stairs. Chairs were lined in front as if the place was a movie theatre. We passed behind the bathrooms and through a door that stated: Staff Only. Through this, we entered a hallway that faintly smelled of urine. From there we entered another door marked: Ladies Change.

Mack waltzed through the room and pulled out a corset, underwear and a pair of stockings. He held the scant fabric out to me. “This is your uniform. Put it on, but make sure you leave your underwear on underneath or we’ll charge you for cleaning. Come back to the bar when you’re ready.” He quickly left the room.

I looked at the clothes I was presented with aversion.

C’mon now, I told myself, Stacey would love this opportunity, and would have no qualms strutting her stuff in this skimpy little number.

My pride refuted, Yeah, well Jane doesn't! What if some girls don't follow the underwear rule and the outfit wasn't cleaned? Despite my disgust, I changed.

I peered into the full-length mirror in the room and desperately started craving alcohol. Even if I could inebriate myself enough to become more comfortable with my outfit, I needed to be clear headed, for this was the moment I had been seeking since I walked through that shifty front door. I was alone, and finally in a position to seek out the evidence that my story was lacking.

I retrieved my cell phone from my handbag and placed the rest of my belongings on an empty self. I tiptoed to the door, opened it slowly, and peered through the tiny crack it exposed. I could still hear the music from inside the club, but no other noise could be detected and nothing but a vacant hall could be seen. I entered it.

I thought about going back into the club, meeting Mack and beginning my trial, leaving this dangerous and very potentially frivolous search for the incriminating documents for some other opportunity. The smart thing would have been to give up my doomed mission entirely, but I could not back out now, not when my goal was finally in sight.

Stop, stop! My better judgment pleaded. Your foes are just on the other side of the wall. Just run away before they find you out. You know what these people are capable of. If they discover you, they will kill you!

“I'm too close,” I whispered back. “This is what every moment in my life has led up to. I need to do this. I need to expose the Foxes to the city. I need to end the crime and all the pain that has resulted because of it.”

I treaded lightly down the hall in the opposite direction to the patron side. I found another door and cautiously let myself inside the vacant room.

It was an office; of whose there was no indication. I crept toward the desk and opened the top drawer. Inside were various stationary items and a small bag of powder. I took a photo of this with my phone. Next, I pulled opened a side drawer. Seeing that this was full of papers, I pulled them out for my own perusal.

I skimmed through them but failed to find any damning evidence. The documents consisted of words such as; shipment, product, exchange piece, investment, but details were so vague they held no credible material to support my article.

As I placed the documents back into the drawer, I noticed a chrome dagger. The hilt was embossed with foreign scripts, perhaps even ancient. I wondered whose office this was and why that person had a knife like this hidden in a desk. I speculated that it could have been as a form of defense in case of any confrontations.

Finding nothing more of use in the drawers, I decided to explore the cabinet. Through its windows, grand crystal glasses and a wine decanter could be seen. Opening the mahogany doors, I found more drawers, each with a lock. There were no knobs to these, so I tested them using my nails in hope of pulling one free, but all were fastened tightly.

I fished into my hair and pulled out a bobby pin. I bent this to shape and tried earnestly to pick at the top lock. Thank you, James, my first serious boyfriend of all of three months. Good looking, good in bed, and good with locks— he would have been great, if only he wasn’t always high.

Click.

I was overcome with happiness. There it was in front of me, all the evidence I ever needed. I was finally going to be able to corroborate my story on the Foxes. A few simple photographs, and a quiet escape, and my article could be printed. The evidence would then be passed to the police; the responsible members would be convicted; history would be