Page 16 of House of Sin
His eyes narrow. “C’mon now, it was just a little pinch. You’re really gonna get your knickers in a twist over that?” He huffs, rolling his eyes like a brat denied dessert. “You work in a whorehouse. Thought you girls liked a bit of rough.”
That earns a few sidelong glances from the other patrons.
I lean in slightly, dropping my voice to a low simmer. “Isn’t it a bit extreme to touch a woman without her permission, Mr. Tiddly?”
“What’s extreme is you acting like some kind of queen,” he mutters, loud enough for the room to hear. “You think because you’ve got rules on a wall and a fancy bar, you’re better than the rest of us?”
I squared up to him. “No. But I know I’m better thanyou.”
His cheeks flush red, but he keeps going, digging in deeper. “What, you get one little business and now you think you’re some untouchable bitch?” He sputters. “News flash, sweetheart, underneath all this, you’re just another hole.”
Then he spits in my face and the room stills.
I don’t flinch. Instead, I wipe the saliva off with the back of my hand, then drag it across the hem of my skirt like it was nothing more than dust, never breaking eye contact.
His smirk is gone and that’s when I know, I’ve already won something he doesn’t even realize he’s lost. “Tsk-tsk, Mr. Tiddly,” I whisper, voice low and lethal,every syllable sharp enough to draw blood. “You’ve just broken rule number three.”
I lean in, close enough for him to smell the metallic edge of my perfume. I say it slowly, savoring the moment like the first bite of something forbidden. “No. Back. Talk.”
His eyes dart, panic blooming on his face as he starts shaking his head, lips fumbling. “I didn’t mean, look, I didn’t know ...”
“Oh, hush now,” I coo, my voice syrupy sweet. “It’ll be over before you know it.”
Behind him, Emil appears, as if summoned by the scent of fear.
Mr. Tiddly’s breath hitches, his fight folding in on itself like paper in fire, and I step back just slightly, giving them space. Leaving him to face his consequences.
Because that’s the thing about rules. They don’t mean much until someone pays the price for breaking them.
Emil’s hand wraps around Mr. Tiddly’s neck, his grip tightening until the man wheezes, eyes bulging. “Second offense,” I say with cruel calm, “you’ll be left broken and bleeding in an alleyway.” Emil nods onceand drags Mr. Tiddly through the back door like he weighs nothing at all. The door slams behind Emil and Mr. Tiddly, the final punctuation to a lesson well learned.
For a moment, the room is still, suspended in silence. Glasses pause in midair, jokes are left half finished, and even the music halts, the pianist’s hands frozen above the keys.
But then, like a wick catching flame, life returns.
The piano picks up again, soft at first, then swelling into a sultry, bluesy rhythm that breathes warmth back into the walls. Violet gives a little shimmy where she stands, her smile curling like smoke. “Well,thatwas exciting,” she purrs, swaying back toward her piano man, who looks appropriately terrified and aroused.
Elona cackles as she reappears at the top of the stairs, adjusting the strap of her dress with a satisfied glow. “Did I miss the fun, or was that just foreplay for the rest of the evening?”
Maeve lifts her whiskey glass, half full, untouched through the whole ordeal, and tosses it back in onesmooth motion. “I give the whole show a solid eight outta ten. Points lost for spitting ... too predictable.”
Nell leans over the bar, casually wiping down the wood like nothing happened. “Don’t worry, ladies, he won’t be returning. Emil doesn’t take out the trash unless he means to leave it somewherefarfrom our doorstep.”
I give a small smile then: my girls didn’t miss a beat. Storm or no storm, this house belongs to them. To us.
I pull a fresh bottle of whiskey from beneath the counter and refill everyone’s glass with a generous pour. The liquid splashes gold under the low lights, catching the glint of sequins, skin, and power.
“Alright, ladies,” I shout, raising my glass once more. “To soft beds, hard bodies, and a night that pays more than it takes.”
“Cheers!” They chorus, the room once again crackling with warmth and wickedness.
The Oily Cat slips right back into its rhythm, hips swaying, laughter reverberating, drinks flowing like sin in a bottle. More men pour in, all smiles and desperation, none the wiser that the fire they feel betweentheir legs is matched only by the fury and grace of the women who run this place.
Outside, the world might be hard and cruel. But in here? We make our own rules.
And God help the man who daresforget them.
9
