Dark locks were pushed back, out of his face, away from his eyes. His gaze focused on the mirror in front of him, chest heaving as he slowly clutched onto the edge of the sink. Each high seemed to last less and less; but he only consumed more and more. The trail of cocaine that had been spread across the porcelain frame had been inhaled, bag idly thrown into the trash can that was nearly filled to the brim with evidence of his habit.
The private bathroom of the club was left, closing the door behind him as his footfalls carried him through the back hallway. He met the familiar gaze of female and male prostitutes alike, all of them friends, companions, sharing the same habits. They all lived under the same roof, boss keeping them well taken care of as long as they continued to sell themselves and the occasional drug that they weren’t consuming.
He watched as a few had taken clients into the back, moans and bedframes crashing the sounds of home. Griffin slowly moved through the curtain, the veil no longer concealing him from wandering eyes. The music was loud enough to drown the sounds out of the back, the club being more of a high-end stature than most that were opened underground. The boss only wanted the best, classy individuals to work for him. Griffin was adopted into this life, and despite the blood shot tint in his eyes, his appearance was nearly flawless.
While others danced to gain onlookers attentions, Griffin served. He took it upon himself to make the ones who seemed unsure, the ‘newcomers’ to feel welcomed. Making them comfortable, making them experience the den in a positive way meant they would come back. It meant more money for the facility, for his overseer, for himself.
He glanced around the full tables, making his way toward the bar as he leaned against it, gaze focused on every person that entered the ‘nightclub’.
