Getaway Car [HS]

Chapter Thirty-Six

"I don't like this."

The dressing room of the club is nicer than she thought it would be. For some reason, she thought it'd be dim and dark and filled with workers doing drugs like every other strip club she's seen in movies or TV shows, but this is surprisingly nice. As soon as they walked in the back entrance, it became clear to her that this is an upscale club, although, the first sign of it should've been Garrett calling it a "gentleman's club". The high-class aspect does little to overshadow the debauchery, though.

She sits in front of the mirror and stares at her reflection, scarcely able to recognize herself with how they've directed her to get ready for the night. Two of the other girls helped her with the wig since most of the women, whether they're servers or dancers, wear them to prevent repeat customers from being able to recognize them in the real world. It's a shade of pale blonde, cut with wispy bangs in the front to further conceal her features, and the makeup she applied takes it a step further. With the dim lighting in the part of the club she'll be serving, they can afford to get away with more drastic methods of altering her features. For one, her eyes are hidden behind contacts to change the color, as well as dramatic false lashes decorated with gems serving as her eyeliner to alter their shape.

Harry stands against the table with her products scattered atop it with his arms crossed over his chest. He's said the same thing roughly five times since they arrived, and she refuses to give him a different answer no matter how many times he brings it up.

She shrugs.

"Listen, I don't like it either, but what other choice do we have? It's either this or jail, so, if you don't mind, I'd like to keep us away from that option."

Tonight is his worst nightmares all wrapped up in one—being unable to protect her, risking her life, being forced to do dangerous things against his will, and, of course, having other men look at her when she's hardly wearing anything. The mandatory uniform here would offend any woman who visited. All there is to cover her breasts are a pair of star-shaped nipple pasties covered with gems that glitter in the light circling the mirror like a field of stars. Mercifully, the club's owner, paid off by Garrett for the night to allow her to step in for a sick server girl for the night, would have allowed her to wear a thong that matches rather than go bottomless as the other women do, but she refused.

"Please, just wear the fucking underwear," he says. "I don't want either of them to see y'like this."

The sound of her sighing again has him shutting his eyes in restraint. It's taken multiple moments like these to keep himself from throwing her over his shoulder and bringing her home. The audacity of Garrett to force her into something like this, to walk around nude for hoards of men to leer at and hit on like she's a piece of meat, almost drove him to the point of murder when the other girls briefed her on what she'd have to do to cover their friend's shift.

She shakes her head.

"You know that if I stick out or act different than any of the other girls, it'll attract attention. You said that earlier, not me, so I'm just doing what I was told."

With that, she pushes the chair away from the vanity and stands with the intention of following the other ladies out of the dressing room, but he stops her. He reaches out and wraps an arm around her waist, pulling her around until she's pressed against the table and forced to hear him out. This whole time, she's been thinking single-mindedly about the job they have to do without considering what he's been saying. She never stopped to wonder that it wasn't a matter of him being in control, but instead something that truly bothered him.

He presses his forehead against hers, his eyes shutting again to savor the moment before she's to leave him and potentially risk her life for the cause.