She wasn’t looking for trouble. But the girl in the mirror had a bruise the size of a fist under her eye. Samantha asked one question. And then she couldn’t walk away.
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She couldn’t have been older than twenty. Short blonde hair, a tiny wrist tattoo. Five-foot-four and skinny as hell. She wore heels under a tight little dress and a big-ass coat. But what really caught the eye was the shiner she tried to bury under half a pound of makeup.
I walked into the bathroom of the coffee joint and spotted her right away — through the mirror. The skin around her right eye was deep blue, like a rotten plum. A small cut just under the brow, crusted with dried blood. A busted vein in the corner of her eye. Blunt force trauma, the cops would’ve called it.
Or maybe she just walked into a door.
I stepped into a stall and dropped my jeans. Watched her through the slit between the dividers while I pissed. She moved fast and sharp with the concealer, like someone who’s done this before. From where I stood, the swelling was barely visible anymore. Then mascara — which didn’t go so well, ‘cause the tears were already coming down her cheeks.
I washed my hands and looked at her through the mirror.
“You alright?”
“It’s nothing,” she said softly.
“Doesn’t look like nothing,” I said. “You just used half a goddamn makeup bag to cover it.”
“I ran into a door,” she mumbled, eyes down.
I didn’t say anything. Dried my hands under the noisy-ass blower.
“It was my boss,” she said, just before the sound died out.
“Your boss? You’re fucking kidding me.”
“Forget it,” she snapped. “I gotta get back.”
“Wait,” I said, quick. “Didn’t mean it that way. Your boss did that? Aren’t they usually a little more careful with their… merchandise?”
She looked at me, eyes wide.
“How’d you know…?”
I smirked. “The dress. The purse. The chopped hair. Bet you wear a wig when you’re on stage. I figured some asshole client took a swing at you.”
Her hand drifted back to her face.
“Not a client. They’re usually okay. But Miss G… she wants it all. Everything. She can be… pushy.”
“Fuck Miss G. Walk the fuck away. Tonight. Right now.”
“To what? Slinging beer for seven bucks an hour? Running a checkout at Walmart? Girl, I’m pulling in seven hundred a night.”
“It ain’t worth it.”
“Maybe not,” she said, thinking out loud. “But it’s all I got.”
She looked at me — sad, honest — grabbed her bag off the sink, and walked out the door.
Back at my booth, I sipped my coffee and stared at my own reflection in the window. My hair’s long and wild. No tattoos. I’m at least forty-five pounds heavier than her. My hands are rough. So are my knuckles.
I’ve never had to work a strip club in my life.
I do other things to get paid.
I tossed a few bucks on the table and stepped outside.
There was only one club around here that fit the bill — Club Octopussy. Notorious dive off 8th Avenue. The owner made the news now and then. They called him the underking of Midtown. I’d never been inside, but I knew the stories. I’ve got my own kinks, sure — But what goes down in there? That’s for the connoisseurs. The freaks. The heavy hitters.
The place sat wide and low, surrounded by a sea of cracked parking lot. Almost empty. It was still early. The building itself was flat and dark, no windows. Just a single pink light glowing over the front door. The bass from inside thumped like a slow heartbeat. Two guys were smoking by the entrance. Bouncers. They checked me out as I crossed the lot.
“I’m here to see Miss G,” I said, bold and flat, standing in front of ‘em.
The first one gave me a slow scan, eyes lingering on my boobs before drifting back to my face. He looked at his buddy, who shrugged without a word. Then he opened the door and led me inside.
The music hit me like a freight train. We were in a dark hallway. Empty coat check to the right. Further ahead, the hallway opened onto the club proper — the main floor. A high stage with three poles. Booths wrapped around it in a half circle. More booths behind them, elevated. Everything black leather and hot-pink accents. Everything flashing in seizure-bright strobe lights.
But no one was there. The club was dead empty. The bouncer pushed me along. Past the restrooms. Toward a door marked PRIVATE. He opened it and gave me a little shove.
The room behind the door looked like a holding pen for dancers. Sofas, a cheap-ass TV, a makeup table with bright vanity bulbs — like some worn-down French escort lounge. Two girls were slouched on a couch, smoking, half-dressed. Never seen them before, but they looked like clones of the girl from the diner restroom. Same frame. Same sad eyes. Same dead vibe. They barely glanced at me. Just watched, like ghosts.
The bouncer shoved me again, into the next room. An office. It was small. No windows. A corner with two beat-up couches and a glass table littered with half-empty bottles. Boxes everywhere — club crap: flyers, LED junk, heels, god knows what. A big wooden desk with a chair and a laptop.
Behind the desk: a woman.
The bouncer gave me a final push.
“One for you,” he muttered, and flopped onto a couch to light a cigarette.
The woman stood up.
She was something else. Tall. Broad-shouldered, like an Olympic swimmer.
Except older. Way older. And with tits way too big for her frame — obvious silicon jobs, the kind that don’t move when she does. She was probably a knockout once, back when Reagan was still in office. Now her face looked like sun-warped leather. Wrinkled body, botched lips, caked makeup in loud, tacky colors. Hair bleached white.
Miss G. Had to be.
“What’s your name, sweetheart?”
“Samantha Rayne.”
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-six.”
She nodded, like the important part of the conversation was already over.
“You wanna dance here?”
“Depends,” I said. “What are the working conditions?”
“The pretty girls make a thousand bucks a night,” she said, eyes locked on my tits.
“That’s not what I meant,” I replied.
Miss G walked around the desk. Stood right in front of me. Too close. Her boobs nearly touched my chin. She reeked of sweet perfume, the kind that tries to cover rot.
“We’re open Tuesday through Saturday. Ten to two. Fridays and Saturdays we run a second shift — two to six. That’s where the real money is. Most girls fight for those.”
“Just dancing?”
“And other things,” she whispered, winking like we were besties.
“That’s why we ask girls to prove themselves first. Show us they’re serious.”
She grabbed my wrist. Hard. She was stronger than she looked. With her other hand, she snatched a pair of fuzzy pink handcuffs off the desk — the kind you buy at gas stations for bachelor parties. She yanked my other arm back and clicked them shut behind me before I could move.
I was locked. Helpless.
“What the fuck is this?” I snapped. “Take them off!”
“You know those fancy consulting firms? Where they make you do a test project before they hire you? Same idea. You wanna work here — you show us what you got.”
She snapped her fingers at the bouncer on the couch. He stood up. Dropped his pants. Like it was nothing. Like he’d done it a hundred times before. Hell, maybe he had. His cock sprang to life — twitching, stiff, ready.
“You’re all fucking crazy,” I screamed.
I twisted my wrists. The cuffs creaked and bent, but didn’t break. Instead, they bit into my skin like teeth.
“Let’s see if you’re serious,” Miss G growled.
She shoved me forward. I stumbled. Fell onto the couch. The bouncer’s dick bumped against my forehead. I gagged.
“If you make him cum, I’ll unlock you.”
“Fuck you both!”
“Less talking. More sucking, Samantha. You know how this works. Don’t play dumb with me.”
I refused. Of course I did. Every muscle in my body screamed no. I ended up on the floor, flat on my back. Cramped between the man’s legs, the couch, and the glass table. Two wicked faces leering down at me. And that bouncing fucking cock.
It filled me with rage. Hot, black rage.
Adrenaline hit me like a shotgun blast. Something animal crawled out of my throat — a guttural scream. I arched my back. Tightened every muscle.
Fists clenched. Arms locked. I pulled with everything I had.
CRACK.
The cuffs shattered.
I shot up like a wild animal. Miss G looked at me for half a second — amused, almost smiling — like this was some kind of prank. But for me, it wasn’t a joke. It was war.
I charged. Head low. Slammed my skull straight into her ridiculous fucking tits. She flew back and smashed hard against the desk.
The bouncer stood up from the couch, pants still around his ankles, frozen mid-thought. I spun, lifted my boot, and kicked him square in the dick. Something shot out. No idea what — didn’t look. Didn’t care.
Miss G grabbed me from behind. Her grip was iron.
“Little bitch,” she hissed in my ear.
I drove my elbow into her ribs, but it was like hitting a wall. She squeezed harder. All the air rushed out of my lungs. My vision went white with stars. The bouncer crawled across the floor, his bare ass flashing under flickering lights. He was reaching for the phone on the desk — probably to call backup. I panicked.
Snapped my leg out and kicked him in the head. He dropped. Out cold. His cock deflated like a sad balloon.
Miss G cranked up the pressure. I felt my ribs pop — one, maybe two. I threw my head back and cracked her in the lip. She yelped. Loosened her grip for half a heartbeat. That was all I needed. I grabbed her fingers. Yanked them backward until they bent in ways fingers were never meant to go.
She screamed.
Let go.
She stumbled back, shaking her hand, snarling something I didn’t understand — rage boiling out of her mouth like poison.
Then she came at me. Like a fucking bull.
I was ready.
I dropped low, pushed hard with my legs, and rammed my shoulder into her ribs. Her momentum carried her up and over me. She flipped, sailed through the air, and crashed down — neck-first — on the glass coffee table.
CRACK.
Glass exploded. Her body hit the carpet in a spray of blood and shards. I turned around, ready for round two. But Miss G wasn’t moving. She was gurgling. Still alive. But not for long.
A foot-long shard of glass stuck out of her throat like a meat thermometer. Blood pumped out in waves, soaking the carpet. Her hand twitched toward her neck. Her eyes met mine — pale, wide, pleading.
I stood there. Gasping. Broken. Ribs bruised, wrists torn up, sweat dripping down my neck. I’ve killed wild animals in the woods with less mess than this. But this was different.
This was done.
I ran.
I stumbled through the hallway and smacked right into a wall of human flesh. A man. Massive. Morbidly obese. Wearing a tailored suit. Cane in one hand. Pinky ring catching the light. He looked at me — surprised, a little amused. I knew who he was.
Freddy Rubano.
The man who owned Club Octopussy.
My stomach turned. I said nothing. Just bolted for the exit. He didn’t try to stop me.
Later. Back at the diner.
Same booth. Same chair. Same window. I sat there, staring through the glass. Playing with a couple quarters from the payphone near the restrooms. An empty glass of rum sat in front of me. The booze still burned on my lips. The waitress asked if I wanted another. I shook my head. Out the window, I watched an ambulance scream past. Right behind it: three black-and-white cruisers, lights blazing.
I left some bills on the table.
Got up. Walked out.
And headed the other way.
Who is Samantha Rayne?
Samantha Rayne is a fictional Americana drifter character featured in cinematic pulp stories, photo journals and roadside fiction. She left home at sixteen and never looked back. No fixed address. No ties. Just the road, a backpack, and a very particular set of instincts she picked up growing up on the South Side of Chicago. Wherever she goes, trouble finds her. She doesn’t look for it. But she never walks away from it either.