Maia Mesa grew up with her family in Cuba, but that suddenly changed, and she found herself in a position no one wishes to be, without family.
Marcus Burnett, a repentant and good soul takes her as his own daughter, as well his wife Theresa, a new...
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"Now, I definitely wish to be wearing anything but this stupid shirt. I feel naked." My voice wavers slightly, betraying the discomfort I'm trying to suppress.
The place is suffocating, and my frustration is bubbling to the surface.
As we step through the doors of The Pony, the scene unfolds before us—dark, loud, and thick with the scent of sweat, stale beer, and sex. The pulsating bass of the music vibrates through the floor, rattling in my chest, while the flashing neon lights cast eerie shadows across the faces of the patrons.
Most of the men in the room are glued to the stage, their eyes following the movements of scantily clad women who sway and gyrate to the rhythm, their bodies on display for the highest bidder.
Armando takes it all in, his expression as unreadable as ever, but I can tell he's just as uncomfortable as I am. The place is a seedy bar masquerading as a strip club, the kind where drinks are overpriced, and the company comes with a catch. A couple of guys nearby whistle, their eyes shamelessly roaming over me as if I were just another attraction.
I tug at my shirt, wishing for something, anything, that would make me feel less exposed. I can't help but feel like I'm being watched, scrutinized. The eyes of strangers linger too long, their stares heavy with intentions I'd rather not think about.
I tense up, but then, Dad's firm hand lands on my shoulder, grounding me in the moment. His grip is reassuring, a silent promise that he won't let anything happen to me.
He leans closer, "Do not leave my side."
We step into a brightly lit room, the air is heavy, almost stifling, thick with the lingering scent of perfume and the unmistakable haze of smoke that clings to everything like a second skin. Women are scattered throughout the space, their bodies barely covered by lingerie that seems more for show than comfort. They lounge across couches and chairs in languid poses, their expressions a mix of boredom and curiosity. Their eyes follow us as we enter, glancing over us with fleeting interest, like we're just another spectacle in their long, monotonous day.
At the far end of the room, a woman sits with an air of authority that sets her apart from the others. Her presence is commanding, her posture relaxed. Her eyes are fixed on the women before her as she barks orders, her voice cutting through the room like a whip. "I need Instagram, I need my Friendster, I need more sex," she commands, her tone sharp and grating, like the screech of metal against metal. "You all look beautiful, now get back to work."
She barely glances up as she speaks, her focus remaining on the women, ensuring her orders are followed to the letter. But when she does lift her gaze, it's as if the temperature in the room drops a few degrees. Her eyes lock onto us, narrowing slightly as they take us in, and a slow, predatory smile spreads across her lips.
