Forgetting The Monster Who Broke Me
Language: en
In my third year working the VIP lounges of the city's high-end clubs, the name Beckett Clifford meant absolutely nothing to me. I was mid-shift, the air thick with expensive cologne and the clink of ice, when a stranger’s hand began to slide up the hem of my skirt. Before I could deploy my practiced "polite deflection," the heavy oak door of the private suite was kicked open with a violence that silenced the music. A man stormed in. He didn't say a word before his fist connected with the guest’s face, leaving him a bloody mess on the velvet upholstery. That was Beckett. He stood there,…