Vicious Texts
Vicious Texts (Captive Writings #3)
Copyright © 2022 by M.L. Philpitt
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ISBN: 978-1-990611-00-1
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All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, persons living or dead are entirely coincidental.
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Warning: This book contains mature content. Reader discretion is advised.
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Cover Designer: Cat Imb, TRC Designs
Editing and Proofreading: Rebecca Barney, Fairest Reviews Editing Services
Formatting: M.L. Philpitt
“Russian Roulette” by Rihanna
“Princesses Don’t Cry” by CARYS
“Stockholm” by Bianca
“Like a Vampire” by Catrien
“Still Here” by Digital Daggers
“Treat You Better” by Shawn Mendes
“Battle Cry” by Beth Crowley
“Love Me Like You Do” by Ellie Goulding
“Without Him” by Christina Grime
“Ember” by Katherine McNamara
“Rise” by Katy Perry
“Tattoo” by Jordin Sparks
“Infinity” by Jaymes Young
“Denial” by Sevendust
“Here Without You” by 3 Doors Down
“the lonely” by Christina Perri
“Requiem” by Avenged Sevenfold
“Punching Bag” by Palaye Royale
“How Do You Love Someone” by Ashely Tisdale
“I’m a Mess” by Bebe Rexha
“Move Like a Solider” by Kristina Maria
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Listen here
Important. Author’s notes in general are important, but this one is extra important for the warning I’m about to provide.
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There will be moments you may not like the character of Teagan, and this is okay. I encourage you to look past her actions and continue to the end of the book. Her actions are rough, her thoughts may be cold, but there is a purpose that is later revealed. I implore you to hang on for this insane ride.
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Vicious Texts is the third book in the Captive Writings series, which must be read in order. Start the series with Ruthless Letters.
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Vicious Texts is a dark romance with content some readers may find triggering. Since some retailers don’t like to see warnings on the purchase page or even within the initial pages of the book’s file, if you are concerned about triggers, please visit my website for a list or contact me. Due to the nature of the book, I encourage you to look at the list, especially if on-page SA/non-con is triggering (not done by H)
For all survivors still fighting the trauma
TEAGAN
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He ensured he kept his promise to protect me. At one point in my life, his text messages were the shining light—the proof someone cared. But presently, his texts have changed, and I’m merely a tool, no different than I’ve been for him.
Brent Thorne was my best friend. No—he was more than my best friend; he was my soulmate. The guy who kept my secrets, held my hand when I needed, and gave me his shoulder to cry on. He knew everything about me, and no matter what life brought, he loved me through it.
Until the one unfortunate day during senior year when I got with him, and it all changed. He calls it love, but I label it as obsession—fixation in its unhealthiest form. He took me for himself, made my life toxic, and even when I thought I escaped from the pretty monster he eventually showed himself to be, he found me, tightening the leash around my neck as he dragged me home.
He changed my life, but not for the better. For their safety, I let go of everyone I cared for. The day I lost Brent was the day I lost myself too, for nothing mattered any longer. Nothing beyond surviving.
I’ve been living the lie for five years, until a random Sunday night becomes the catalyst for change. When Brent appears in my life again.
Only, he’s no longer the white knight I left behind; he’s an antihero who’s come to slay me.
TEAGAN
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Unknown: Hi.
Scowling at the message, I tuck the phone away in my purse. It’s likely some overeager customer who somehow got my number, but at the moment, it’s not my problem. I’ll delete it later, after this night concludes, and I return home, pretending I’m a normal woman.
“Evening.” Josh, the linebacker-sized security guard, opens the staff’s side entrance and lets me slip in. “Have a good shift.”
My lips lift in a polite smile as I flick my hair back around my face, so he can’t see my actual feelings. It’s not his fault I’m stuck here, so I have no reason to be a bitch.
I slip down the dark hallway, only lit by a few white pot lights in the ceiling, and enter the girls’ changing room, shutting the door and muffling the erotic music from farther down the hall.
Being ten o’clock, the club’s in full swing. Starting later in the night, like now, is preferred because it involves less waiting around for clients to arrive, which means I’m able to pick whatever man doesn’t currently have one of my co-workers hanging off him, do my job, and move on to the next. The nights go quicker, the men a blur of faces passing by, and before I know it, it’s two in the morning and Josh is telling me to have a good night’s sleep as he walks me out of the club before assisting the other girls.
The changing room is empty, leaving me to prepare in much welcomed and needed silence. It’s almost deafening, increasing the awareness of the music’s volume past this room. When the girls are in here, they try to spark up conversation, but I’m never in the mood.
Ever.
Because they’re choosing to be here, and I am not.
If I have to pick a moment to hate the most, it’s this part. When I’m forced to sit on the cushioned bench in front of a lit-up mirror and primp and prime myself for strange men. Sometimes women—those that are curious, accompany their own guys, or the few open lesbians, but mostly, it’s men.
Strangely enough, when I’m out on the floor, it’s not the most-hated portion of this whole ordeal. Not when I’m undressing for their greedy eyes or touching my body in ways meant to tease and heighten their desire. Those moments are easy to tune out as I let my mind wander to a place outside these four sin-soaked walls.
The worst part is when I can feel my self-loathing growing as I apply heavy amounts of makeup, douse my body in glitter that’ll sparkle beneath the stage lights, and slip into a bikini so revealing, I wouldn’t dare wear it outside this building.
Right on schedule, there’s a quick rap on the door and my boss, Mason, pops his head in, his somber expression devoid of emotion. He’s not surprised to see me; it’s why he’s come here in the first place. It’s our nightly routine in which he needs to retrieve me, aware I’ll never willingly stride from here on my own.
Mason, help me. Save me from a madman. Words that are always on the tip of my tongue, but never spoken.
Like Josh, my situation has nothing to do with Mason, so I can’t hate him. Secondly, for a club owner, he’s damn good to us. Nothing like the girls from other clubs say about their bosses. Mason never forces us to do anything we don’t want, isn’t unmannered or disgusting, and seems to genuinely care about his staff. But like me, he works under a bigger boss—the same as mine, actually—and it’s why he
’ll never speak his pitying thoughts.
“Sorry, Teagan, it’s time. You’re up in a minute. DJ’s readying to announce you.”
Not me. He won’t introduce Teagan Faber to the strangers beyond this changing room because, to everyone else, that’s not who I am. I transform into a different person to make it through these nights. It’s yet another way my identity has been yanked away from me.
“All right,” I agree, not that I have a choice in the matter.
Through the mirror in front of me, I see Mason still waiting by the partially open door, frowning expectantly. I sigh and fluff my hair—a deep red and a signature colour around here—check my matching lipstick and stand, taking one last glance at the small silver bikini. If it can even be called that. Triangles that barely cover my nipples, while the thong bottoms call attention to my ass. It has maybe two inches of material covering my pussy.
I lower my eyes and breathe in so deeply, it echoes through my ears, before turning my back on the reflection and not giving self-hatred a chance to intensify any more than it already has. Mason closes the door behind me, throwing a tight, understanding smile over his shoulder.
“You’re beautiful. Do your usual out there, and it’ll be over before you know it.”
For the second time tonight, I smile politely and walk by him, heading down the hallway and toward the music. I approach the stage just in time for the DJ to announce my name.
“Please welcome… Cherry!”
Cherry. The day Mason asked me to select a stage name, it’s the one that slipped out. A name I stopped hearing years prior, so I’m not sure why I allowed it to resurface in my life, but it has. It’s a name to remind me of everything once good in my life. A name—
I halt my thoughts before they get anymore wayward. I know why I chose the name, but it doesn’t mean I need to think about it. Like every other good past memory, it went into a little box, which I locked and stuck under my bed.
Compartmentalizing is necessary.
Between clenched teeth, I suck in and hold the breath in my lungs before bracing my foot on the bottom step leading to the stage. The mile-high heel wobbles, a sign of how my insides vibrate with hate—a frequent feeling—before I block all emotion.
Cheers rise from behind the curtain as I’m swallowed by the stage and leave the service hallway behind. Like usual, the club assaults my senses, though nothing in my view is new. It’s the same scene, unchanging over the past couple years.
A rainbow spattering of lights rain down on me, blocking my vision from anything beyond the edge of the stage. I’m fine with that, since it means I won’t need to meet any hungry gazes ogling me. My attention remains focused on the pole in front of me. It’s a job, a task, nothing more. One song, approximately two-and-a-half to three minutes of dancing, and it’ll be over.
There’s a reason I’m on the stage every night, and my body’s perfect curves are part and parcel to that. Because he always ensures I stick to my morning exercise routine, I have breasts that are large but never spill out of a man’s hand, an ass that’s round and eye-catching, toned legs and arms, and a perfectly flat stomach. I’m thin without being skinny—a body men flock to see. I dance to increase the desires of the observing clientele, silently encouraging them to purchase dances from myself and the other girls.
I’m the piece of meat the club offers up to encourage buyers to check out the other stock.
Stock. It’s all any of us are, really.
My hands grasp the cool, metal pole, and I lean onto it, twirling around with one leg lifting high in the air. I hover it there for a beat before wrapping my ankle around it and spinning in an arc. I feel the pole all over my skin, and it becomes a symbol of what every man in here wishes they could be right now.
With my back to it, I survey the crowd, the subtle shape of them I manage to make out through the bright lights. I may not see every individual person here, but I feel them. Feel their sick eyes studying every inch of my body, wishing they could touch what they salivate over.
A particular beat of the familiar song comes, signalling my next movements. I turn, giving the crowd my ass as I shake it, fingers playing with the strings at my hip. I won’t be removing it; my dance is centred around the tease of it all. It’s then, I lose myself. My mind drifts elsewhere, finding blackness. My moves continue, but I’m no longer on stage with them.
Another beat comes through the nearby speakers, reminding me of the next step in my dance of seduction. My hands slide down my sides, pausing for a brief second on my bikini top. I take another spin around the pole, and when I return to the front, my fingers find the tie at my back.
I undo it and a hush travels over the gawkers. The entire room adopts a beat of silence as they wait for more. I roll my shoulders and hips against the pole, expanding the moment, before finding the tie at my neck and tugging the dangling string once.
My bikini top falls away, my breasts shining beneath the stage lights. The air, though warm, perks my nipples. Whistles pierce the dimness, entering my safe space on the stage. My eyelids fight to remain open and not block them out completely because Mason won’t approve of me physically checking out too. Mental is enough. I know what they see though, and that’s the point in the dance.
I roll my body around the pole again, pressing it between my breasts before grasping the bikini top and flicking it into the crowd for added effect. Almost always, someone tries to steal it—the pathetic guys they are—but I require it for after the show, when I do this again for someone else in private. Mason or one of the other servers oversees retrieving it after the dance.
The routine continues, me flipping and twirling around the pole until the song comes to an end. The lights dim and the DJ calls, “And that’s Cherry!”
Without waiting another beat, I escape the stage, my mind returning to the moment. The room’s air pierces me, hot and heady, knowing I’ve increased the men’s desires and they’re waiting for me to enter the main floor. Instead, my chest heaves, catching up with the exercise I’ve just completed on stage.
As usual, Mason is right there in the service hall, my silver bikini top pinched between two fingers. I grasp it and get to tying it on my body again, right in time for him to jerk his chin toward the other hallway.
“Room two. You know the drill.”
He means the button on the far wall if someone is too overeager and not following the rules. It’ll ring his cell phone and the pagers the security guards keep on them.
“Yep.” Despite the familiarity of this conversation—since we have it so often—my body grows hotter, and irritation makes my neck prickle. It’s harder to check out during a private dance, though I’ve become semi-proficient at it.
“Two guys, but only one to start. The other will be a few minutes late.”
“Sure,” I mumble, brushing past him and stalking toward the private rooms. I walk quickly, my five-inch heels eating up much of the floor in my rush to arrive, but also to ensure no one else stops me on the way there.
I make it to the line of four rooms, nodding to the guard stationed there. He ensures no patron who shouldn’t be here makes their way to the back. The men who pay for private rooms pay well and will never be interrupted, as per Mason’s rules.
I slip inside the door marked with a two, instantly swallowed up by the dark red light. It flashes against my skin, reinforcing my stage name, a theme Mason really enjoys playing on.
Seated on the couch, at the opposite end of the room, I spot my customer. He’s bathed in the red light, and no part of him is hidden, for my safety. The colour washes his hair, but I can tell it’s light in colour, like a blond. Dark tattoos creep up his neck from his plain white shirt and down his arms, stopping short at his wrists. Bright eyes blast through the light, pinning on me before he grins, his lip ring lifting with his movements.
He’s hot, but even if I was free to fuck anyone, he’s not my type.
“Hi there.” My voice is low, a tone meant to be sultry and invit
ing to the clients.
He doesn’t answer, not that I’m necessarily expecting him to. Sometimes my clients do, and sometimes they don’t.
“Heard you’ll have a friend joining us soon,” I go on. “Do we wait for him or begin now?”
“Now.” The voice isn’t one I can identify, not that I recognize everyone who comes through here, but he’s certainly no regular.
Private dances are worse than the stage. On the stage, I can pretend no one is watching me. Pretend that while I’m up there, I’m all alone in the room and merely dancing for my own entertainment. I’m meant to captivate eyes, but not keep a single one for myself.
But in the room with a single person, there’s no way to pretend their attention isn’t soaking up everything I do—every look I give, every move I make. It’s as though they can see inside me, and yet, they still want to search deeper and bare all of me. People are selfish like that.
I tap a button on the far wall and a popular song blast through the speakers. With its beginning beat, my eyes slide shut, and I allow it to move me. It controls my hips and my arms with every slow step I take.
My eyes lock with his in time for my hands to find the tie behind my neck. Biting my lip, I fiddle with it, aiming for playful, but when I stop in front of him, I find him looking… well, bored.
I’m doing my job. I’m fucking sexy, and if he’s not into this, it’s his problem. Perhaps he’ll want to end this sooner then I can move on.
My hips bounce from side to side as I turn, giving him my back and bending my knees until the bare skin of my ass brushes against his rough jeans.
Before I can move again, his hands clamp my hips and he spins me quickly, placing my tits in his face.