Captives Read Online Free PDF

half-naked. All shapes, all sizes, he thought, smiling humourlessly. Beneath the calendar, tacked to a bright red notice-board, was the rota. On it he had written, in his neatest script, the working hours for the barmen, the doormen and the hostesses. He had eleven people working for him, although one of the girls was only part-time. They were pretty reliable, most of his staff. They did their work, did what they were paid for and didn't cause him much trouble.
        He'd been manager of 'Loveshow' for over three years now. The club was in Great Windmill Street, almost opposite the old Raymond Revue Bar. From his office window Scott could see into the street below, out onto the flashing neon and the rubbish that littered the road, some of it stacked up in large plastic bags and dumped on the pavements. He watched as pedestrians walked round it as if it were some massive dog turd. Others wandered in and out of the other clubs and bookshops that clogged the thoroughfare, each of them peddling the same merchandise. Books, magazines. Live shows. Scott remained at the window for a moment longer, then returned to his desk. He glanced at the portable TV set perched on one corner of it, thought about turning it on, then realised there was still work to be done.
        He reached into his desk drawer for the drinks inventory. Time to re-order. Scott pulled off his jacket and hung it carefully on the back of his chair, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt to reveal thick, hairy forearms. Despite a life spent behind desks (or at least the last six years) Scott was stocky and bore only the smallest of unwanted podges. He looked down for a moment at the flesh straining just that little bit too tightly against his shirt and shook his head. He sucked in a deep breath and held it, watching his stomach retract, smiling briefly before he released the breath and his belly flopped back into place. Flopped. He was hardly obese, he told himself. A few weeks working out in a gym would turn that irritating flab into muscle again. It wasn't too late. It was too early for middle-age spread. He was only thirty-two, for Christ's sake.
         Forget your figure and get on with your fucking work, a voice inside his head told him. He nodded as if in answer to the silent beration and picked up his pen.
        The office door opened and he looked up in surprise.
        The girl was naked apart from a pair of stockings, a tiny pair of G-string knickers and a black basque.
        'Fucking bastard,' hissed the girl, striding towards Scott's desk and lifting one leg onto it. 'Look,' she snapped.
        'What's the matter, Zena?' he said wearily, inspecting her leg but seeing nothing untoward.
        'Useless bastard shot his load all over my new stockings,' Zena Murray told him angrily. 'Look.' She jabbed a false fingernail towards a slick of slippery fluid on her thigh. 'Now he won't pay,' she continued.
        'What happened?' asked Scott, getting to his feet.
        'He bought a drink, bought me a drink. We talked, well, I talked for a few minutes then he pulled it out and asked me to wank him. I told him it'd cost him extra but he said that was okay.' She shook her head indignantly. 'So, what happens, I put one finger on it and he shoots, doesn't he? All over my…'
        'New stockings,' Scott said, completing the sentence. 'So what's the problem?'
        'They were new,' she yelled at him.
        'Jesus Christ, take some money out of petty cash for another pair. They're only fucking stockings,' Scott said, exasperated.
        'It's not just that. He says he won't pay now.'
        'So what are you bothering me for? Get Rick to throw him out,' Scott told her.
        'Rick's not here,' she told him scornfully.
        'All right, come on,' Scott said, pushing her in front of him.
        They left his office and walked along a short corridor, passing two doors marked 'Private' and another which bore the word L A DIE S in