No Escape From His Dangerous Love

Arlene stood in the shadows of the club's side entrance. She took a deep breath, her fingers gripping the thin fabric of her worn jacket. The late autumn wind bit at her exposed neck, raising goosebumps along her skin.

She kept her head down. Two massive bouncers guarded the main door. She needed to slip past them, blending in with a group of girls wearing tight dresses and high heels.

Suddenly, blinding high beams cut through the darkness. The harsh light pinned Arlene against the rough concrete wall.

Her stomach dropped. Her heart hammered against her ribs. She instinctively raised a hand to shield her eyes, her pupils contracting violently.

A black Aston Martin glided forward like a ghost. It stopped inches from her knees. The tinted window rolled down with a soft hum.

The scent of cold cedar and expensive leather spilled into the alley. Hardie Boone sat in the driver's seat. The faint glow of the dashboard illuminated his sharp jawline and the cold, hard set of his mouth.

The blood drained from Arlene's face. Her heels scraped against the pavement as she stumbled back a half-step.

Hardie's hands rested on the steering wheel. His knuckles were white. His dark eyes locked onto her face, analyzing every ounce of her panic.

"Arlene." His voice was a low rumble that vibrated in her chest. "Explain to me what you are doing here."

Her brain scrambled. The survival instinct kicked in, suffocating the truth in her throat. If he knew why she was here, he would make it worse.

"I..." She forced the lie past her dry lips. "I'm waiting for a friend."

Hardie's gaze dropped to her trembling shoulders. He took in her cheap, frayed jacket. A humorless, freezing smile touched the corner of his mouth.

"A friend," he repeated. The sheer contempt in his tone made it hard for her to pull air into her lungs.

He reached into the inner pocket of his tailored suit. He pulled out a thick, black business card. He held it out the window.

"If you run into trouble, call this number." It wasn't a suggestion. It was a command.

Arlene forced her legs to move. She reached out and took the card. Her fingertips brushed against his cold skin. She flinched, pulling her hand back as if she had touched an open flame.

Hardie saw the flinch. A dark storm brewed in his eyes, but his expression remained completely deadpan.

The window glided up, sealing the air between them.

The Aston Martin's engine roared. The tires gripped the asphalt, kicking up a cloud of dust as the car sped away.

Arlene stood frozen until the red taillights disappeared around the corner. She finally exhaled, her chest heaving.

She looked down at the heavy cardstock in her hand. The Boone family crest was embossed in silver above a private phone number. Nausea rolled in her stomach.

This wasn't help. It was a leash. The Boones never gave anything without demanding a pound of flesh in return.

She walked over to the rusted sewer grate near the wall.

Her fingers tightened. She ripped the thick card in half. Then into quarters.

She let the pieces fall. The wind caught them for a second before they dropped into the dark, filthy water below.

Arlene turned around. She straightened her spine and walked toward the heavy metal door of the club.

She didn't know the Aston Martin hadn't gone far. It sat idling in the dark alley across the street.

Hardie watched her through the rearview mirror. He saw the pieces of his card fall into the sewer. His jaw ticked. The muscles in his neck strained against his collar.

He pressed the button on his console.

"Find out who she is meeting tonight," he ordered the voice on the other end.

The heavy metal door slammed shut behind Arlene. The bass from the club's speakers instantly assaulted her eardrums.

She stood in the dark hallway. She dug her fingernails into her palms, preparing her body for the humiliation waiting inside.

An hour ago, Arlene had stood in front of the cracked mirror in her dorm room. She dabbed cheap concealer over the purple bruise on her neck. Sterling Prescott IV had left it there three days ago.

Her phone vibrated on the desk. A text from Sterling. Just an address and a smiling devil emoji.

Her hand hovered over the screen. Her fingers shook. She typed a quick confirmation and hit send.

Clara Finch leaned over the edge of the top bunk. Her face was pale with worry. "Are you seriously going? That's Prescott territory."

Arlene put the concealer down. Her voice was terrifyingly flat. "If I don't go, my scholarship is gone. I'll lose my campus job, too."

Clara jumped down from the bed. She grabbed Arlene's arm. "But Sterling is a psycho! Last time he almost..."

Arlene gently pulled her arm away. She couldn't look at Clara's eyes. "I just need to apologize. I'll keep my head down. Everything will go back to normal."

She pulled a black sweater from her closet. It was the only piece of clothing she owned that didn't have a hole in it. She pulled it over her head.

Clara leaned against the metal bedframe. "Arlene, doesn't the Boone family care? What about Dr. Hardie..."

Arlene's eyes turned to ice at the name. "The Boones only want to watch me die. They will never pull me up."

She grabbed her worn jacket from the hook by the door. She shoved a small can of pepper spray into its pocket.

Clara opened her mouth to argue again. Arlene shot her a look that silenced the room.

"Don't tell anyone where I went," Arlene said. She pulled the door open. The cold draft from the hallway rushed in.

She shut the door in Clara's face.

Now, Arlene stood outside the VIP room of the downtown club.

The bouncer looked her up and down. He let out a loud snort and shoved the heavy padded door open.

Hip-hop music blasted her in the face. The thick smell of marijuana and spilled liquor made her throat close up.

Sterling Prescott IV sat in the center of the room. Two girls in tiny skirts pressed against his sides. He held a glass of amber whiskey.

He saw Arlene. He shoved the girls away and smiled. It was a smile that promised pain.

"Look who it is," Sterling yelled over the music. "The Boone family bastard."

Arlene shoved her hands deep into the pockets of her jacket. She walked forward. She forced herself to look into his bloodshot eyes.

"I came to apologize, Sterling," she said. Her throat was dry, but she made sure every word was clear. "I shouldn't have talked back in seminar."

Sterling threw his head back and laughed. Kip Holloway and the rest of the fraternity brothers howled with him.

The laughter stopped abruptly. Sterling lunged forward. The smell of alcohol hit Arlene's face. "An apology? You think words are enough?"

He tilted his glass. The whiskey poured directly onto Arlene's chest. The cold liquid soaked through her worn jacket and the black sweater beneath, sticking to her skin.

Arlene's whole body went rigid. Her nails cut into her palms. She did not take a step back.

"Since you're here, we play by my rules." Sterling pointed to the glass table.

Two rows of shot glasses sat perfectly aligned. They were filled to the brim with clear liquor.

Arlene looked at the alcohol. A wave of pure despair washed over her, quickly replaced by a numb resolve.

If she didn't do this, she wouldn't walk out of this room.

"Fine," she heard her own voice say. It sounded dead.

Sterling pointed at the twenty shot glasses.

"The rules are simple," he drawled, leaning back into the leather sofa. "Either you take off your clothes and crawl to the door..."

His eyes dragged over her soaked sweater.

Kip Holloway laughed loudly. He pulled out his phone and hit record. The other guys followed suit.

Arlene's stomach twisted. Bile rose in her throat.

"Or," Sterling continued, "you drink us under the table. If you can still stand and walk out that door, your scholarship is safe."

Arlene didn't hesitate. Stripping meant social death. Drinking meant physical pain. She walked straight to the table.

Sterling looked surprised for a second. Then his eyes turned vicious. "Let's make it interesting."

He grabbed a small glass bottle from the ice bucket. It was a specialty hot sauce. Pure capsaicin extract.

Arlene watched in horror as he walked down the line. He poured a thick, red drop of the oil into every single shot glass. The red liquid bled into the clear alcohol.

"Now it's fit for a Boone," Sterling sneered.

Arlene stared at the toxic mixture. Her throat already felt like it was burning just looking at it.

She picked up the first glass. Her hand was completely steady. She threw her head back and swallowed it.

The liquor sliced down her throat. The capsaicin exploded like a grenade in her esophagus. Tears instantly streamed down her face.

Her stomach cramped so violently she bent forward. She bit her lip until she tasted copper, refusing to make a sound.

"Hell yeah!" Kip whistled. "Keep going. Nineteen left."

Arlene's hand shook as she picked up the second glass. Then the third.

By the fifth shot, her vision blurred. The neon lights in the room smeared into red streaks.

Sterling watched her, looking bored. He hadn't expected her to actually do it.

She reached for the eighth glass. Her fingers gave out. The glass slipped and shattered against the table edge. A sharp piece of glass sliced across her palm.

Blood mixed with the spilled alcohol. The sharp sting of the cut gave her a second of clarity.

She reached for the ninth glass with her bloody hand. Her knees buckled.

"Looks like you're done," Sterling said. He stood up and walked over to her. He looked down at her sweating, tear-streaked face.

He grabbed her chin, his fingers digging into her jaw.

"Let's go with option one. Take off the shirt..." His hand moved down to grab the collar of her sweater.

The last thread of Arlene's sanity snapped. She shoved Sterling hard in the chest. She grabbed the bottle of pure capsaicin from the table.

Before anyone could move, she brought the bottle to her lips and tipped it back.

The raw spice hit her stomach lining. She gagged violently, spitting up a mouthful of blood and saliva onto the floor. But she didn't stop. She fumbled for another shot glass still standing on the table and downed it.

Sterling stumbled back. His face went pale.

Arlene's vision went completely black. Her body folded in half. She hit the liquor-soaked carpet with a sickening thud.