The Truth About Unspeakable Things by Emily Myers (novel24 txt) 📕

when you received an invitation. Only the people who are invited know the truth and they swear you to secrecy before entry. How? They force the girls to strip down into their underwear and stand in front of a camera and reveal a part of themselves. If they speak of the club or what happens inside, the tape is released. I wish she would’ve left then. Maybe they didn’t let her. She never said. If she did stay of her own free will, maybe she didn’t mention it because she was ashamed. Maybe she felt her staying meant she deserved whatever happened to her inside, that she asked for it. Regardless of you or your reader’s belief, what happened inside that club should in no way be accepted or defended in a modern society. No one knows where it is. No one knows how to find you once you’re inside. They take your phone and your clothes. You have nowhere to turn. And they’re there, waiting for you with a drink in their hands. They laugh and talk with you. They allow you to get comfortable, if that’s even possible, and then they take you into their private room and . . . well, you can imagine. Ashley committed suicide two months after her assault. It was Beauregard Thomas. She told me herself. Now that she’s gone, I know she’d want me to share her story with you. Just make sure you do everything you can to take these bastards down. —Lauren Jameson on behalf of Ashley Roy

The day after ending things with Julian, I took a five-week sabbatical from work and started my deep dive into Beaux’s past. I never could have imagined what I’d find. But with my hard-earned research skills and a few key details to start with—his name, workplace, university, and fraternity—I found myself on a path that never seemed to end.

Beaux’s never been one for social media, but he is active in the New Orleans social scene. I checked guest registries for various corporate and charity events hosted in the city. I made a list of his dates, female coworkers, and tracked his notable female clients who have found new legal representation within the past five years. That’s how I found Marie and Samantha. Then, I expanded my search criteria another five years. And that’s when a single campus police report led me to Ashley Roy and the exclusive club no one speaks of called Gent.

I found fifteen women in total over a ten-year period that claim to have been sexually assaulted by Beauregard Thomas. Of the fifteen, only four agreed to speak to me. Their stories . . . I cry every time I read them, and I cling to them when my energy wanes and when I question the purpose of it all.

The women victimized by Beaux range in age, job, and social status. There is no pattern other than his incessant need to assert his dominance. He’s a predator and has been his entire adult life. Through his fraternity he assaulted women in college and continues to do so in his workplace. Extorting a client? Even I wouldn’t have thought him capable of that. Even now, his damaged soul surprises me.

I have enough against Beaux to turn over to the police. My fingers twitch over the keys of my laptop. With a few clicks of the keyboard, all of this could be over. I could email them everything I have and run to Julian, if he’ll still have me. But . . . somewhere along the way, it became more than that. This isn’t about taking down Beaux, not anymore. This is about taking down all of them.

* * *

Inside Club Gent, blood red and gold draperies cascade from the ceiling down the walls. They come together at eye level to enclose private rooms off the main space. Many of the rooms are open for viewing. Though I dare not walk too close. Aside from the private rooms, kitchen, and restrooms, Club Gent is a single room with cushions and couches cluttering the floor. In the middle of the space is a fountain adorned with flowers and candles. I’m sure to stay far away from it and the men entangled with women beneath it. Beaux is one of them.

I gained entry as a cocktail waitress. While my outfit, black underwear covered with a fishnet bodysuit, is barely more than the other women in attendance, I’m not supposed to be harmed. They handpick their victims. At least that’s what the manager told me when she sensed my concern over working the floor. And from the looks of it, she was right. Each man here, all dressed in suits, has at least two, some three girls surrounding him. All the girls are half-naked in heels with a purple drink in hand. The men practically force-feed them until they beg for a place to lie down.

I move around the space, carrying my tray, hoping to gain enough footage to turn over to the police. I was able to borrow a body camera from The Hub’s AV equipment and I’ve disguised myself with a short, brown wig, false lashes, deep burgundy lipstick and a hand drawn beauty mark.

It wasn’t easy finding this place. I had to review city blueprints to find possible locations before narrowing it down. I—

I gasp as a male hand caresses my bottom. I turn sharply, nearly spilling my tray of purple drinks. Before me stands a man with dark hair and eyes. My fear excites him. I can tell by the way his lips curl and his eyes move into slits.

He grabs two purple drinks from my tray, making sure to assess my cleavage as he does. He smiles, pleased with what he sees. So as not to reveal my intentions, I smile back. With a few lingering looks, he moves past me and returns to his prey. I begin to sweat.

What if this was a mistake? What if I’m caught? No one knows I’m here, not even Kat. I could’ve