Puck Me Harder: A Stepbrother Romance [BL]

Micah’s POV

Just as Eve had warned, she really didn’t give me any wig to wear. Instead, she took a long, thin strip of matching crimson fabric and delicately tied it into a sleek choker laced around my neck. The makeup she applied to my face was almost invisible—she completely ignored foundation or eyeshadow and only touched up my lips with a subtle, dark tint.

"You already have perfect skin," was all she said in that flat tone when she finished, stepping back to inspect her work.

Now, she was leading our quiet group through the dimly lit hallways toward the grand VIP wing of the club. The air was thick with the faint scent of expensive cologne, and I could hear the muffled, soft hum of rock music vibrating through the heavy wooden doors as we passed various private suites.

Eve stopped in front of certain rooms, glancing at her phone before turning to look at the other performers walking alongside me. They were all dressed impeccably—stunning, glamorous figures draped in silk, lace, and heavy makeup, topped with long, flowing wigs.

Even though some of them looked remarkably feminine, they couldn’t entirely hide their masculine builds. They wore long-sleeved dresses to cover their broad arms, and their long wigs cascaded over their shoulders, clever strategically to soften their backs and shoulders.

I didn’t have any of those things. I was completely exposed in a sleeveless dress, with my natural short hair and bare arms. Was that why Eve had chosen this specific look for me?

"VIP 5 requested you, Lady Fiona," Eve said, stopping outside a heavy door. "Make sure you do well tonight."

"You know I always do well," a performer dressed in an elaborate, medieval-style maid outfit replied with a confident smirk, tossing a long wig back over their shoulder before slipping smoothly into the VIP 5 suite.

I clenched my hands into tight fists against my thighs, my stomach twisting in nervous knots. Panic flared deep in my chest. This was my very first night here—surely no one was actually going to choose me, right? I was completely plain compared to the rest of them.

After dispersing three more performers into different rooms, Eve brought the remaining five of us to a stop outside a massive, gilded set of double doors—the main VIP lounge. Among us was Camille, who looked so strikingly beautiful with his long hair that anyone could easily mistake him for a woman at first glance.

Eve turned her head to face us, her cold eyes scanning our faces. "The guest inside this room is a new VIP. His name is George Jenson."

A collective gasp echoed from the other three performers.

"Holy shit! The George Jenson?"

"What on earth is a man like him doing here?"

My heart hammered against my ribs as I looked between them in complete confusion. Who the hell was George Jenson? I had absolutely no idea. But the sheer shock and terror on everyone else’s faces made it painfully obvious that he was someone incredibly powerful and dangerous. Camille, of course, remained completely unfazed—he wasn’t from this country, so the name meant nothing to him either.

"He will be making his choice tonight for whoever he wants to spend the evening with," Eve explained, her gaze shifting deliberately toward me. "Even if you wish to reject him, there must be a valid reason. You tell me first before you utter a single word of refusal in front of him. Is that clear?"

Everyone nodded immediately. I kept my mouth shut, my mind spiraling into absolute chaos. Fuck. None of this was clear to me. I was terrified out of my mind.

Eve paused, tapping her chin with her phone. "Oh, right. Camille and Micah, neither of you have chosen your stage names yet."

Camille lightly fanned his face with a decorative designer fan, rolling his eyes casually. "I’ll just switch to Camilla. Simple and perfect, non?"

Eve gave a single, firm nod before turning her sharp eyes directly onto me. "And you?"

What did she want from me? A fake female name? My throat felt completely dry, the pressure suffocating me as I stuttered helplessly. "I... I don’t have one."

"Tsk!" Camille rolled his eyes with a dramatic sigh, and the other two performers groaned under their breath in sheer annoyance at my hesitation.

"It’s fine," Eve cut in, her voice leaving no room for argument. "I will assign you one. Let’s head inside."

She pushed the heavy double doors open, and we stepped into the private suite.

The harsh, heavy stench of expensive cigarettes and spilled liquor instantly hit me like a physical wall, stinging my nostrils and making my throat catch. I squeezed my eyes shut for a brief second, desperately wanting to cover my nose, but I forced my hands to stay flat at my sides. The other performers were clearly enduring the suffocating air without flinching, so I had to force myself to do the same.

I trailed nervously behind them as we lined up in a neat row across the plush velvet rug, facing the lounge area.

Three wealthy men were sprawled across the leather couches. Two of them were blatantly, heavily intoxicated, laughing stupidly among themselves. But the man sitting in the center was completely different. He sat up straight, entirely sober, holding an air of cold, lethal authority that filled the entire room. I didn’t need anyone to tell me who he was. This was George Jenson.

"Everyone is here, Mr. Jenson," Eve announced smoothly, gesturing toward our lineup.

I stood there, shivering uncontrollably in my thin dress, my blood running ice-cold.

George slowly lifted his head from his phone screen, his expression unreadable. His dark eyes flicked across the five of us in one quick, careless glance before dropping straight back down to his device.

"They all look boring," he said, his voice deep, thick, and completely devoid of interest.

"Boring?" Camille echoed, his pride clearly wounded.

Before Eve could stop him, Camille stepped out of line, ignoring the sharp glare she shot him. He strutted arrogantly toward the couch with a fluid catwalk, sliding himself down right beside George. Camille reached out, his manicured hand rubbing trailing down George’s broad chest, his fingers attempting to slip beneath the dark fabric of his unbuttoned shirt.

George’s head snapped toward him, his face twisting into a cold, terrifying glare.

"Get out!" George barked out, his voice sharp enough to slice through the air like a blade.

Camille flinched violently, pulling his hands back in utter shock, his face going completely pale. "I was only trying to—"

"I’m disappointed, Eve," George interrupted, standing up from the leather couch in one swift, intimidating motion. His tall frame loomed over the room, radiate pure menace. "Since when do these tools talk back and lay hands on VIP clients without permission?"

He was leaving? Relief flooded my chest so fast I almost gasped out loud. Good. Please leave.

The rest of us quickly bowed our heads in silence, avoiding his gaze, while Eve let out a low, controlled sigh. "Forgive him, Mr. Jenson. He’s new today and hasn’t fully grasped the strict protocols of this establishment yet."

George didn’t look remotely convinced. He turned his back on his half-conscious, drunk friends and began walking toward the exit, his heavy leather shoes thudding softly against the floorboards.

Just as his hand reached out to grasp the brass door handle, he froze.

Silence stretched through the room for two agonizing seconds. Slowly, he turned around.

My heart dropped straight into my stomach as his footsteps echoed across the room, heading directly toward where I was standing. Even with my head shoved down toward the floor, I could feel the suffocating weight of his gaze locking onto me. The polished leather of his expensive shoes appeared in my peripheral vision, stopping mere inches from my feet.

I started trembling violently, my knees threatening to buckle under the sheer terror crushing down on my chest.

Suddenly, broad, icy fingers reached out, gripping my chin tightly and tilting my head upward, forcing me to meet his cold brown eyes.

"You..." George murmured, his dark gaze scanning every inch of my exposed face, his sharp features softening just a fraction. "Who are you?"

I couldn’t speak. My breath was trapped in my throat, my mind paralyzed. Up close, he was terrifyingly handsome, but his eyes were so cold they looked completely lifeless.

"He is also new," Eve interjected smoothly from behind him. "His stage name is Roxie."

Roxie? The name echoed strangely in my head. That was the identity she had just handed me?

George’s lips curled into a faint, dangerous smirk. "Roxie?" he repeated, his voice low as he leaned his face closer to mine, his hot breath brushing against my skin. "What is your actual name?"

Eve stepped forward slightly, her voice tightening with caution. "Mr. Jenson, you know that asking for a performer’s legal identity is strictly against the club’s rules..."

"I don’t care," George cut her off without taking his eyes off me. His fingers tightened their grip on my jawline, digging into my skin just hard enough to send a wave of sharp pain through my face. "Tell me. What is your real name?"

I squeezed my eyes shut, tears of pure terror stinging the corners of my eyelids. I couldn’t breathe. I was trapped between this terrifying man and the nightmare I had run away from just hours ago.

Slowly, I opened my eyes, meeting his piercing, cold brown gaze once more.

"M-Micah," I whispered out, my voice shaking so badly it was barely audible.

"Micah what?" he demanded smoothly.

"Micah... Miller," I choked out.

A slow, triumphant grin spread across George’s face, sharp and predatory. He released my chin, his heavy hand sliding up to cup the side of my face for a terrifying second.

"I will return tomorrow night, and he had better be waiting for me in this room," George stated firmly, his eyes fixed on Eve before leaning down to press a firm, cold kiss directly against my forehead.

My heart completely stopped. Cold sweat broke out across my back as panic clawed furiously at my throat. Tomorrow?! He was coming back specifically for me?! I had to get out of here. I had to find a way to escape this club, or hide, or disappear before tomorrow night came. I couldn’t do this.

George pulled back, looking down at my pale, horror-stricken face as if he could read every frantic, desperate thought passing through my head.

"I’ll return tomorrow for you, Micah," he murmured, his voice laced with absolute, terrifying authority. "Or should I call you Roxie? It doesn’t matter. You’ll meet me—whether you like it or not."

He turned on his heel, pushed the heavy VIP doors open, and walked out into the corridor, leaving me standing frozen in the dark room as my entire world crumbled around me.