Page 42 of Shamed
Payback from the universe.
Burning begins behind my ribs, crawling up my throat and then to the backs of my eyes, causing them to lose focus.
Jacob hinted at what he planned to do, didn’t he? Were there other signs I had missed? Nausea makes me want to empty my stomach, but there’s nothing in it to expel.
The squeeze of my mom’s hand on my arm startles me, and I drop her phone to the floor.
“Mase.”
I shake my head, Mom’s face coming back into view.
A look passes through her eyes. So brief. There and gone in an instant, but there, nonetheless. Was she wondering if they were right? Wondering if I already knew about it? Wondering if I am just likehim?
“Are you okay?” she asks softly, the thought having withered away, or just shoved to the back of her mind where it lingers quietly. “He’s your friend.”
I stand abruptly, pacing to the other side of the room and back, stabbing a hand into my hair and pulling. Hewasmy friend. I’ve known him for almost five years.
At least, I thought I did . . .
I turn back to stare at the phone on the ground, all the words I read that told me otherwise, burned into my brain.
He’s in fucking custody, and that doesn’t happen for no reason.
How can I even associate with him now? Ican’t.
I need to show her—prove to myself, prove to all ofthem—that I am nothing like him.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Mase—Present day
The alcohol burns as it slides down my throat, the liquid no longer cold since I’ve been nursing it for the past hour. The music playing is a sexy, seductive beat, meant to lure you into a trance of wanting more from these women, more than just looking from afar as they move their bodies.
You’re meant to want them to dance only for you.
Infront of you.
On top of you.
Of course, some men take it even further than that.
Not me.
I’ve been watching, observing them as they work. But not for the reasons people generally have when they come to places like this.
And it’s not that they aren’t attractive. Any normal person with warm blood in their veins or a working libido can see how beautiful they are and get turned on. But that’s not why I’m here, nor is this a place I make a habit of frequenting. And I’m not exactly normal, either.
I’ve been waiting for the club owner, Chester, who told me to sit and wait a few minutes for him . . . almost an hour ago.
He’s an interesting-looking man, wearing bold colors that don’t match, rings on each finger, and has so much gel in his hair that it looks wet. Truthfully, he looks like a sleazebag.
I focus back on the stage. It’s surprising, actually, that these women, though dressed in next to nothing, can look so put-together—even sophisticated—in a bar that smells like stale beer and dried cum. This place is the shittiest of holes, with most of the crowd matching the surroundings.
I know for some of the women it’s not exactly a choice to be here.
Another song starts as I take a small sip of my old fashioned, and a new woman gets on stage. I watch her face for a few minutes, her confidence showing in every piece of clothing she takes off, the eye contact she holds with the audience, and the genuine smile on her face.
She’s enjoying it. Not quite my targeted audience.
