Suck it Up

Suck it Up THE HERITAGE EMM DARCY MAY SAGE Contents I. The Monster Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 II. The Deal Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Chapter 35 Chapter 36 Chapter 37 III. The Girl Friday Chapter 38 Chapter 39 Chapter 40 Chapter 41 Chapter 42 Chapter 43 Chapter 44 Chapter 45 Chapter 46 Chapter 47 Chapter 48 Chapter 49 Chapter 50 Chapter 51 Chapter 52 Chapter 53 Chapter 54 Chapter 55 Chapter 56 Chapter 57 Chapter 58 Chapter 59 Chapter 60 Chapter 61 Chapter 62 Chapter 63 Chapter 64 Chapter 65 Chapter 66 Chapter 67 Chapter 68 Chapter 69 Chapter 70 Chapter 71 Chapter 72 Chapter 73 Chapter 74 Chapter 75 Chapter 76 Chapter 77 Chapter 78 Epilogue Willow Fuck It Up Chapter: Bonus Toxic Hearts PART ONE The Monster I wish he’d been violent. I wish I could recoil at the memory of what he’s done to me, what he made me do. But Camden Hunt is a different beast. If I tremble when I think back to that night, it is not in fear. Anger and shame, I can muster. Fear, not so much. Which is probably why I made so many mistakes when I met him again, and ended up imprisoned in his web, this time, permanently. Chapter One I need a new job before I murder my boss. Silks was never the most upstanding of strip clubs to begin with. Plenty of the girls dancing and serving here are happy to go into private rooms and work on their backs for a hundred bucks, but when Vinnie owned the place, the rest of us felt protected. If we wanted to keep our masks on, do our jobs, and go home without seeing a limp cock, we could. Bernard, the new sleaze in charge, views the world differently. “No.” You’d think that word would be simple enough for his diminutive brain. Two letters, one syllable. Most toddlers understand it. “Now listen, sweetheart." It's hilarious he thinks I'm the one not listening when he's completely ignoring my straightforward answer. "They’re offering a lot of money to talk to you privately. Just a talk, mind." I suppose his attention is too focused on my exposed tits for him to hear me. Some guys just can’t multi-task. I pull my hoodie over my head, covering the cupless silver bra and nipple stickers. Back in Vinnie's day, we could wear whatever we wanted as long as it was short and revealing. I found the perfect balance to get the most tips and the least amount of handsy creeps was a cropped top and a pair of shorts. Then Bernie instituted a "uniform." I should have quit as soon as I saw the ridiculous outfit, mostly comprised of intertwined strings, but the AC broke again and I needed the money. Badly. As I usually do. Maybe getting dressed will help the jerk concentrate on my actual words. “I don’t serve the VIP section. I don’t do private dances. I don’t do private talks. And I sure as fuck don’t do it for a thousand dollars.” No one would offer that much cash without expecting to get their dick very, very wet. I’m not a prostitute. I wait tables in this strip joint because I can take home over two hundred bucks per night in tips on weekends, and I have bills to pay. I have no time for day work, between my classes and the fact that, for all intents and purposes, I’m my little sister’s parent. Mom’s still around, but only when she’s passed out. As soon as she wakes up, she gets out the door and rushes to the thug hangout where she can get her fill of drugs, alcohol, and cocks. I’m only free at night. There isn’t much else I can do except working at a gas station, and that wouldn’t cover a tenth of my expenses, given the cost of the insulin Willow needs to live. I actually used to like my job, before Bernard bought the place. Watching the insanely talented women dance on the poles is fun. Sure, some clients get a little grabby, but Vinnie’s bouncers used to stop them the moment they put their hands on us. Now, I’m on my own when someone wants to cop a feel. I don’t judge the girls here who screw their clients. My closest friend, Lola, started fucking for cash when she was sixteen because she couldn’t find a job, with her baby face and her two left feet. Among my fellow waitresses, I know that Marina has two kids with special needs. You wouldn’t believe her hospital bills. If taking flacid dicks helps her stay afloat, good for her. I just don’t want to fuck strangers for money. In fact, I don’t think I want to fuck anyone at all. Sex can lead to children, and I already have one—a fourteen-year-old, barely four years younger than I am. I’m tired, broke, and bitter. Let’s not add pregnant to that shining resumé. Thankfully, my hormones are on my side on this. Men don't do much for me—with one notable exception, but he doesn't count. He scarcely know I exist. My brain wisely chose a completely unattainable object to obsess over, probably out of self-preservation. “Look here, Morgan.” Bernard crosses his arms on his chest, endeavoring to make himself look impressive, I suppose, but he's five-five to my five-six. The only thing imposing about him is his beer belly. I think could take him. That is, until he calls his bouncers. “You work for me. If I say you gotta talk to those clients, you gotta talk to