Chapter 2: Lines You Can’t Uncross

2.

I’d been out of school for months and still couldn’t find a job. It was either a nine-to-five for barely over minimum wage, or working myself to death and spending it all on doctor bills.

I’d sent out resumes by the dozen—marketing, admin, you name it. All I got back were polite rejections or, worse, silence. My college roommate landed a gig at a start-up in Austin; my parents kept sending me links to temp jobs. The whole thing started to feel like some cosmic joke.

Then I happened to see a massage parlor downstairs was hiring. It caught my eye.

The sign was one of those flickering neon jobs wedged between a nail salon and a vape shop. "HELP WANTED – GOOD PAY. APPLY INSIDE." I hesitated on the sidewalk, backpack slung over my shoulder, listening to the hum of traffic and the buzz of a nearby food truck.

Honestly, I used to joke I’d flip burgers before I’d work here. Guess the universe had other plans.

I figured only dropouts or people who’d made questionable life choices wound up here. Now, here I was, considering it with my shiny new degree.

But the benefits were surprisingly good: $1,350 salary, room and board included.

Not to mention the free wi-fi, cable TV, and, as Rachel would say, "all the Gatorade you can drink."

At the time, I thought to myself…

Hmph, a massage parlor? Not even a dog would—

Work here.

I’m working at a massage parlor.

Not only is the job easy, but I get to look at legs every day.

A bunch of beautiful women in their twenties whispering sweet nothings in your ear.

What more could a guy want?

Sometimes I had to pinch myself—was this real? It was like being backstage at a concert, surrounded by glamorous women who seemed to exist in some parallel universe from my quiet, suburban upbringing.

The woman on the couch is my manager, Rachel. She’s usually pretty good to me.

She’s got this big-laugh, tough-love thing going, the kind of person who’ll roast you in front of everyone but bring you a cup of coffee before your shift. Most of the regulars love her.

Right now, she stretched lazily, showing off her perfect figure.

The sunlight caught her painted toenails and shimmered on the gold chain around her ankle. She had a way of making the whole place feel like her living room.

"Tyler, what time is it?"

I glanced at my watch. "It’s eleven, Aunt Rachel. Even Denny’s is closed by now."

I stifled a yawn, thinking about the stack of late-night leftovers waiting in the fridge. In our part of town, Denny’s closing meant it was officially late.

Rachel waved her delicate hand. "Open up, let’s do business!"

She said it like she was about to host a party, not manage a crew of tired therapists and a guy with a mop.

3.

I pulled up the rolling door and went to knock on three doors upstairs.

The hallway smelled faintly of lavender oil and instant ramen. I tapped on each door, my knuckles echoing in the stillness.

"Wake up, time for customers."

Soon, three girls came down.

Each one was young and beautiful, full of charm.

They descended the stairs in a cloud of perfume and tired giggles. For a moment, it felt like we were in some makeshift sorority house instead of a strip-mall parlor.

One flopped onto the couch and grumbled at me.

"So noisy, Tyler. You’re even louder than I am when I’m singing."

That was Madison, the star of our shop.

Madison’s hair was always perfectly curled, her lipstick never smudged—even when she was hungover. She could belt out Taylor Swift like nobody’s business, and the regulars adored her for it.

Great figure, amazing skills.

She’d won Employee of the Month three times running, her picture taped to the wall behind the counter.

Every night, her karaoke is the loudest and most enchanting.

Sometimes she’d croon old-school R&B, other times she’d go full-on Broadway. It wasn’t unusual to find a few customers lingering just to listen.

If customers want her, they have to make a reservation in advance.

The other two girls just yawned and sat down to touch up their makeup.

Natalie fished around in her purse for a tiny compact, while Paige ran a brush through her hair, humming softly to herself.

Their names are Natalie and Paige.

And yes, you guessed it—Paige is Aubrey’s older sister.

It’s the kind of small-world coincidence you only get in strip-mall America. Family, in every sense of the word.

Aubrey and I handle the daily business, while Aunt Rachel takes the other two to serve customers.

Aubrey kept the schedule running, answered phones, and handled walk-ins with a practiced ease that made my own nerves look silly by comparison. I mostly cleaned, stocked supplies, and occasionally handled the register.

Just after opening, a customer arrived.

A balding man in his forties or fifties poked his head in from outside.

He looked like he’d just come from a bad happy hour—dress shirt rumpled, eyes darting around the lobby like he was casing the place.

"How much for a session here? Manager Lisa from Oakridge Realty recommended me."

How much per session? It’s a couple hundred bucks a pop at our place.

Depending on what you wanted, of course. Our price list was tucked behind the counter for a reason.

Rachel smiled and welcomed him in.

She had her customer face on—friendly, but with a razor’s edge.

"A friend from Oakridge? Come in, sir. Our therapists have different skills and prices—take your pick."

The balding man leered at Madison. "How much for you? Is it by session or by the hour?"

He made no effort to hide his interest, his gaze lingering a little too long.

Madison forced a smile and held up one finger.

"A hundred?"

"No, a thousand."

She delivered the number without blinking, a little smirk playing at her lips. Madison knew her worth and didn’t play around.

The balding man fell silent, then pointed at the less attractive Natalie.

Natalie’s shoulders stiffened, but she kept her eyes down.

Before Natalie could answer, Rachel smiled and introduced, "This is our new girl, five hundred per session—guaranteed to make you comfortable."

She delivered it like a sales pitch on QVC, voice honey-smooth, hand gesturing toward Natalie with practiced flair.

The balding man nodded and pulled Natalie upstairs.

He moved quickly, like he didn’t want to give anyone time to second-guess the arrangement. Natalie shot us a tiny, anxious smile before following.

Within minutes, off-key singing drifted down from above.

The familiar wail of bad karaoke, punctuated by drunken laughter, made the air heavy. Downstairs, we all exchanged glances, the kind you share when you know you’re just waiting for the next shoe to drop.

4.

Madison lit a cigarette and slumped down next to me.

The flick of her lighter was like a starting gun for break time. She exhaled a lazy cloud, toes tapping the base of the coffee table.

She blew a smoke ring in my face. "Hey, Tyler, admit it—your sister’s not half as cute as me, right?"

I glanced at her soft features and replied calmly, "You’re pretty."

Hearing this, Madison leaned closer, pressing her body against mine. She whispered in my ear,

"Seriously, you’re making me work for it? Most guys would be begging. If you ask me out, I’ll definitely say yes~"

Her perfume was strong—vanilla and something spicy, the kind that lingered long after she walked away. My face burned, but I forced a smirk. If I gave her an inch, she’d take a mile—and probably tell everyone.

Seeing me just smile and stay silent, she added,

"So bad, making me chase after you… Fine, babe, I like you…"

She gave my arm a little squeeze, then let go, blowing one last smoke ring toward the ceiling fan.

At that moment, Rachel shot me a look and came over to break things up.

"Alright, stop teasing Tyler. Go touch up your makeup."

Rachel’s voice had that don’t-mess-with-me authority. Madison rolled her eyes, but she got up and sauntered to the mirror.

Madison gave my thigh a little pinch before sitting down to do her makeup.

I let out a quiet sigh of relief. This woman is just too much to handle.

It’s not that I don’t like her, or women in general. I just haven’t been here long, the boss is watching, and I want to keep my job.

It was the kind of workplace where one wrong move could mean getting the boot—no matter how friendly the crew acted after hours.

Listening to the singing upstairs, I thought about playing a game on my phone.

But the next second, chills ran down my spine.

The singing upstairs suddenly turned into screams of pain.

The hair on my arms stood up. It wasn’t the usual drama—this was something else, something wrong. Everyone in the room froze, all eyes darting to the staircase.

4.

I rushed upstairs, ready to knock on Natalie’s door.

My feet barely touched the steps as I took them two at a time, phone clenched in my hand, adrenaline flooding my veins.

But the door was already locked from the inside, and Natalie’s anguished screams kept coming from within.

I could barely breathe. Each scream was a gut punch. I rattled the handle, called her name, praying for any answer but another cry.

I pounded on the door and shouted for Rachel, who hurried up to find the key.

Rachel fumbled through the keyring, her hands shaking. I could hear Madison and Paige running up behind us, their faces pale.

Natalie’s screams mixed with the balding man’s twisted laughter.

I knew I couldn’t wait.

I stepped back and kicked the door open with all my strength.

The splinter of wood echoed down the hall. My heart pounded so hard I thought it might burst from my chest.

The sight inside made me gasp.

Natalie was tied to the bed, her body covered in whip marks.

And the balding man was pressing a candle to her skin.

The smell of burning wax mingled with the sharp sting of fear. Natalie's wrists were red and raw against the cheap nylon rope.

Natalie screamed in agony from the burns.

My heart sank.

One look and I knew—the balding man was definitely high on something.

His pupils were blown wide, sweat slicking his forehead. He was mumbling to himself, lost in his own twisted world.

I grabbed his collar and threw him to the floor.

The balding man snapped out of it from the impact.

He staggered to his feet, pointed at me and shouted, "Who let you in? Get out!"

Rachel untied Natalie while yelling, "Tyler, throw him out!"

Rachel’s hands trembled, but her voice was strong, fierce in a way I hadn’t seen before.

The balding man tried to protest, but I grabbed his collar and dragged him downstairs, kicking him out the door.

"Get lost. Don’t ever come back."

He tripped over the curb as I shoved him out, barely catching himself on a parking meter. I slammed the door behind him, my chest heaving.

Frightened by my strength, the balding man’s voice trembled. "Aren’t you afraid I’ll call the cops?"

I sneered, "Go ahead. Assault is enough to get you a few years."

He glared at me, lips curled back, but there was fear in his eyes. He wasn’t used to being challenged.

Realizing he couldn’t scare me, the balding man spat, "Fine, just you wait. I’ll be back with people."

He ran off, and when I returned, I saw Natalie curled up in Rachel’s arms, sobbing, her makeup streaked with tears.

Rachel kept comforting her, then turned to me. "Clean up. We’ll close the shop for a few days."

She wiped away Natalie’s tears with the back of her hand, her own voice thick with worry. I nodded, silently grabbing the mop and disinfectant.

Incidents like this had happened before, but this time was different.

The balding man was from Oakridge Realty.

Rachel had told us before—anyone causing trouble should be thrown out, except for Oakridge.

Everyone in town knew Oakridge ran the block—cops, landlords, even the pizza guy. If you crossed them, you didn’t just lose your job. You disappeared.

Rumor was, Oakridge paid off just enough city officials to keep everything running. It was the kind of unspoken arrangement everyone in our part of town understood.

Whenever they needed something, they came to this street.

They’d swagger in after midnight, laughing loud, flashing wads of cash. We were just another piece of their playground.

All the massage parlors here had become their playgrounds.

If they came for us, none of us could escape.

Rachel asked Madison to take Natalie to the hospital.

Madison threw her jacket over Natalie’s shoulders and helped her into an Uber, hands gentle, voice low and reassuring.

Then she slumped on the couch, silent.

She sat staring at nothing, one hand pressed to her forehead. The TV played on mute in the background, a flickering haze of late-night infomercials.

I knew that if the balding man hadn’t gone too far, Rachel wouldn’t have dared to offend him.

The rules were clear—keep Oakridge happy, and maybe they’d keep us safe. But tonight, there was no way to look away.

Now, after I kicked him out, he’d definitely retaliate.

I watched Rachel’s jaw clench. She didn’t have to say it—we all knew trouble was coming.

Sure enough, not long after, the balding man came back with reinforcements.

5.

With a bang, the door was kicked open.

The glass rattled in the frame. Even the neon sign outside flickered at the commotion.

Rachel came out from behind the counter, her face cold.

Her lips were pressed into a tight line, eyes narrowed, hands clenched at her sides.

The one who entered was the balding man.

He swaggered in, flanked by two guys in hoodies. Their faces were hard, their knuckles bruised like they’d been in fights before.

He looked at a man in a suit and tie beside him and said, "Look who’s here."

Rachel forced a smile. "Mr. Howard."

Her voice was brittle, the kind of customer-service smile you put on when you’re dying inside.

The man in the suit acted like he owned the place. He pulled up a chair and sat down.

He didn’t wait for an invitation, just dragged the chair over and lounged back, one leg crossed over the other.

"Rachel, what’s going on? This guy came to have some fun, how did he end up getting beat up?"

Rachel poured him a glass of water, crouched down, and handed it to the suited man.

"You don’t know, this guy went too far. My girl is in the hospital now, still getting treated."

She glanced up at him, trying to gauge if there was any empathy in his eyes. There wasn’t.

Mr. Howard’s smile never reached his eyes. He drummed his fingers on the table, the sound sharp as a warning.

Mr. Howard raised his eyebrows and glanced at the balding man.

The balding man said dismissively, "Mr. Howard, why waste words with this bitch? She’s lucky I didn’t kill her. Came here to have fun, of course I want to enjoy myself."

I clenched my fists. Aubrey tugged at my shirt from behind, trying to keep me from doing anything rash.

Her fingers dug into my arm, silent warning. It took everything I had to stand still.

Rachel’s face was tense, but she still said to the balding man, "Mr. Howard, next time we’ll treat you well. Let’s just let this go."

She kept her voice even, but her eyes darted toward the door, calculating every exit.

"Let it go? Your security guy blocked the door and beat me up, and that’s it?"

I took a deep breath. I’d only kicked him once—this guy really knew how to twist things.

Rachel glanced at me, then said to the man in the suit, "Mr. Howard, how about I pay for his medical bills, and next time he comes, it’s free. Will that do?"

She tried to sound professional, like she was haggling over dry cleaning instead of someone’s safety.

The man in the suit smiled. "That’s easy. I’m a bit tired today. Let us relax for a while later."

His smile never reached his eyes. The whole room felt colder.

Rachel replied, "Of course, Mr. Howard. I just bought some new uniforms. You’ll be satisfied."

She tried to pull the man in the suit upstairs.

She motioned for him to follow, putting on her best fake enthusiasm.

But he didn’t budge.

"I mean you, Rachel. You come keep us company tonight."

Rachel’s smile froze.

She looked like someone had just dumped a bucket of ice water down her back. Her knuckles whitened on the bannister.

I looked at the goons he’d brought—at least a dozen of them. Was he insane, expecting Rachel to serve them all by herself?

They crowded the entryway, blocking out the little bit of streetlight sneaking in from outside. The odds were ugly.

Rachel wanted to say something, but the man in the suit waved her off.

He didn’t even look her in the eye—just snapped his fingers like she was a waitress at a diner.

"Rachel, you know Oakridge Realty runs this street. If you don’t serve our guys properly tonight, your shop can forget about opening again."

He sneered, "No matter where you run, we’ll find you. You know that."

Rachel struggled, but after looking at us, she finally forced a miserable smile.

She bit her lip, eyes flickering to the other girls, weighing her choices. For a moment, she looked ten years older.

"Mr. Howard, let’s go."

Mr. Howard laughed. "That’s right, now you’re being sensible. Let’s go."

His laugh bounced off the tiled walls, mean and sharp. The rest of the crew smirked, expecting a show.

Just as they were about to head upstairs, I suddenly spoke up. "Rachel, come back here."

My voice echoed louder than I meant. The whole room went still.

Rachel stopped in her tracks.

I said again, "I said you’re not allowed to go. Did you hear me?"

I forced myself to meet her eyes, willing her to see I meant it. The girls behind me shifted, and for the first time, the room felt like a united front.

These past few months, the girls had treated me like family.

We’d watched each other’s backs, shared late-night takeout, even covered shifts when someone was sick. This was more than a job—it was survival.

Even if they sold their bodies, each had their own hardships.

There were student loans, sick parents, runaway rent, dreams deferred and barely spoken about over cold slices of pizza in the breakroom.

If there was another way, who would choose this life?

I clenched my jaw. Sometimes you don’t get to choose your battles.

If I just stood by and watched Rachel be forced into this, I’d be ashamed to call myself a man.

My heart hammered. I could feel everyone’s eyes on me. This was the moment—either I stepped up, or I became just another bystander.

Rachel turned around.

In that moment, something changed in her eyes.

She let go of the suited man’s hand and stood firmly by my side.

She moved quietly, but with purpose. Even the other girls seemed to draw a breath of relief.

"Mr. Howard, sorry. We won’t be keeping you company tonight. Please leave."

Her words hung in the air, fragile but unbreakable.

The man in the suit stared at me in disbelief, then suddenly laughed.

His laugh was dark, echoing with the promise of trouble.

"Alright, young man. Got some guts."

He waved his hand. "Baldy, teach him some manners."

The balding man clenched his fist and swung at me. "You’re looking for trouble!"

I grabbed a vase beside me and smashed it over his head.

It shattered with a satisfying crack, glass flying everywhere. The sound rang out, final and sharp, as silence fell over the room.

The room went dead quiet. Blood dripped down Baldy’s face. I didn’t know what would happen next—but I knew I’d just crossed a line I couldn’t uncross.