Bonus #1: Cinnamon

Hello!

This chapter has nothing to do with the main story; consider it a parallel universe; it is an extra, hence free. (If you have read ‘Bound to…’, you know the drill.)

This is my appreciation for the support you have shown the work thus far; like before, this is a test run. Let me know if this is something you would like to read more of occasionally, perhaps during some holidays or if the bonus is negatively affecting your relationship with the main plot. (Again, think of this as a parallel universe; it is not part of the plot.)—If it is, I’ll scrap them, don’t worry.

Quick disclaimer: Most bonus chapters will contain CNC (Consent-non-consent) content.

Note: Bonuses will always be free, and the regular chapters resume tomorrow

As always, thank you for reading!

P.S. There is a limit to how many words I can give in the author’s note, so most bonuses will be split if they exceed the limit.

Undercover_Ostritch (Ostrich Ostrich)

**

The club is full, and the dim lighting only serves to agitate the crowd. The only place with bright lighting is the stage where Candy dances, twirling her hips from side to side as the gems covering her nipples glimmer teasingly.

The music, despite its loudness, is drowned instantly by the crowd when one of the pebbles falls out of place…but Candy is a pro; she continues to dance, using her wiles to captivate the rowdy men.

A hand reaches beneath my skirt, squeezing the flesh of my butt before letting go.

In an instant, my gaze flies to the giggling fraternity boys; they look rich— their designer clothes give them away.

"Lap dance, Shawty?"

'Lap dance Shawty'? Ew.

"Careful with your hands, kids. Don't want to have to deal with the bouncer, do you?"

I respond with a smile because ‘rich people privilege’. Were they drunk and dressed in scraps, I’d have them out of the club in an instant, with the help of Maurice, the bouncer, of course, but who knows how it goes with the rich.

Dominic, the club’s owner, does everything in his power to please them—case in point, the last time a bunch of rich grabby assholes groped Trish, she was the one who had to apologise.

Hence, ‘rich people privilege’.

A blonde boy from the frat group pulls out a wad of cash from his…ugh... groin.

"I said Lap dance... Shawty."

Ew...where does he get the confidence?

"I‘m sorry, I am a waitress."

I gesture to the empty beer glass in my hand in case my uniform does not make it obvious, I am glad they are empty; I would hate to douse him in beer and get into trouble…well, if only something could be done about my intrusive thoughts that beg me to hit him with the platter that holds the glasses.

"In that itty bitty dress, you are a slutty waitress. Now come here, sit on Daddy's lap."

His friends laugh at his joke.

“I would be happy to get you a dancer for the night.”

Breathe in and let it out. The sound of wind rustling leaves, the sound of water rushing dow-

Another hand cups one of my butt cheeks, and the surprise causes the glasses in the tray I hold to rattle, but before I can register how tightly I held the tray with the intent of hopefully crushing one of their skulls, a voice calls my name.

“Cinnamon. Girl, Wanda is losing her shit backstage, go before she tears this place down; I’ll take this to the kitchen.”

Brie, another dancer, says as she takes the tray, winks at the boys, and guides me away from them.

“You okay, Ruby.”

She asks as soon as we reach a less crowded area of the club, meaning also less noise.

“I’m fine, would have been better if I could hit them.”

“Bad idea, you know how Dom gets, now backstage; I did mean it when I said Wanda is losing her shit.”

**

"What's going on?”

I ask as soon as I arrive backstage.

"Get dressed, Cinnamon, Kaylee is taking the day off."

Wanda, an older woman with curly hair that holds streaks of white to tell of her experience, utters in a tone that grants little patience.

"What? No, today is auction day, I don’t dance on auction day-"

"Do you want to take this up with Dominic?"

Wanda asks as she takes some costumes from the available rack.

“Wanda.”

“I know, Ruby, I know. But we are understaffed, and we need a dancer tonight because a VIP is dropping in. I will give you tomorrow off.”

“Saturday, too, and you have to bid for me; you know I don’t do personal lap dances.”

“Fine, fine, just sit down and let me turn you into Cinnamon.”

Her switch between my name, Ruby and Cinnamon, my stage name, is unnerving. In this industry, it's easy to lose yourself, so I find myself yielding to anyone who recalls my name.