Dolls Play a Dangerous Game | Episode 01: The Game Begins

Chapter 1: The City’s Hunger

Danger City isn’t really a city. I learned that while watching my mother give everything to those who haunted the streets and dared enter the gaping doors of businesses like willing meals sliding into a mouth. My mother did it three times over, working three jobs in the grit. She fed the neon lights until they burst and rained sparks down on me while I could only watch.

The City feeds on us all, consumes us, takes and takes until there’s nothing left. It pretends to offer us new shiny things – tech like holographic phones, the latest cars that will be stolen before you can stain the seat, a promise of safety in alarm systems that replicate dogs almost perfectly but lack the bite. Everything has a price tag that can’t be paid in money, only in blood, time, and effort.

It’s why people like me take control when they can. Seeing my mother struggle every day, dragging her aching, zombie-like body to and from a job that never remembered her name nearly killed me. But she did it because she refused to let the streets wear me down like sandpaper. She refused to let the conmen and drifters in the alleywamys see me as an appetizer or a prize to be sold, and refused to let anyone own me.

If the only thing I own is myself, then I’m living up to my mother’s legacy. Clients can have my company and my body because that’s what I choose to sell them. My emotions are mine, locked deep inside my heart where I’ve tamed them with domestic living and safety away from people who could hurt them.

Chapter 2: Rules of the Dollhouse

All the Dolls I’ve met have been very clear about what happens once emotions get involved. I’ve been warned that being too sweet, too nice, and too welcoming to my clients will bring the weight of Danger City’s teeth on me.

Self-control is the number one thing a Doll has. Let clients into your bed, let them explore your body, but never, never let them into your heart, or you’ll get lost in too-sweet words and confusion that distracts.

Fake emotions, fake desire, and the illusion of control is what the clients want. Make sure you know it’s fake – keep the wall there – and everyone will be happy

Asami Freya

“Fake emotions, fake desire, and the illusion of control is what the clients want. Make sure you know it’s fake – keep the wall there – and everyone will be happy,” the Doll who had been teaching me warned years ago.

As long as I maintain the balance and remember that pretty worlds are like dreams – always susceptible to sunbeams and too fragile to survive the sting of whiskey, let alone a knife – I’ll be fine.

It’s just a game of pretend. I pretend I’m more than flesh and bone wrapped in desire that’s thicker than tissue paper, so no one can see the secrets I keep despite the constant glow of neon. I have to be a constant fantasy and a glimpse of softness among the violence and head games that plague the city streets.

Chapter 3: The Black Wire

“Another drink, Asami?” Rowan asks as I sit in one of the tall stools in front of the bar.

“Only if you have something sweet, rimmed in real sugar,” I say with a smile. “How was your day?”

Rowan shakes his head slightly. When he rims a glass with sugar, he smiles gently. His normally black hair is painted a mix of red and blue thanks to the neon lights behind and around his bar.

The Black Wire is a safe haven, where the neon feels softer, even if it buzzes around us over the hushed conversations that take place. This is a neutral place where I don’t have to look over my shoulder. I can simply relax, drink, and trust that no one is going to kill or be killed over a deal gone wrong or a disagreement that sparks.

When Rowan slides my drink over the softened wood of the bar, he picks up another glass and starts washing. “My day is how it always is, Asami. There are patrons filling seats, no guns in sight, and I’m looking forward to keeping it that way.”

“If someone overheard you say that, you know they’d think this is heaven nestled into Neon Grit.”

“Only you’d think that,” he says, his face softening. “At least the Watchdogs leave us alone here.”

I take a drink of the honey mead that Rowan provided and smile at the flavor. It’s warm, sweet, nearly decadent. If the desserts in the Core were able to capture this flavor, I might be more excited to have dinner with the men in Umbra City.

“Any new gossip for me?” I ask. “Or should I bother River for that?”

Chapter 4: Playing Roles, Staying Safe

I raise my glass to another Doll I see here often, a Doll who’s welcomed me and regularly reminds me how to separate myself from who I am to clients. She’s more experienced—a fantasy entirely based on how she reads the men who approach her.

She can be the sweet, innocent girl they wish they’d married and called their own, the naughty, challenging brat that can never be broken and always has the energy for more, the controlling dominatrix that lifts the weight of the world from a man’s shoulders, or an outlet for pain that knows few limits.

The last option terrifies me, but River swears that it’s the only way to stay in the game if a Doll makes it past thirty—a rarity in the Fringes. River’s taught me plenty in conversations at this bar. We never see each other’s clients, we pretend we’re normal workers, and she’s simply walking me through the process of getting a promotion and gaining job security in a field where death and ownership are the normal price for failure.

“No gossip ever leaves my lips. I never hear a word,” Rowan says with a wink.

“Well, that was a test, and you passed,” I tease before giggling.

He chuckles. “How about you?”

“It’s been a busy week, but I have no complaints. My mother is getting her medicine, and I am getting fed. Oh, that man you introduced me to last week did wonders for our window, and he was very affordable. Thank you,” I say.

Chapter 5: The Fantasy We Sell

River walks over and sits beside me, her toe dragging up and down my shin as if we’re flirting. Rowan gives a knowing nod and heads over to take care of other customers, reminding both of us to be safe.

“Your regulars?” River asks.

“I have ten now. They rotate through the week,” I murmur, feeling my cheeks heat. It’s still odd to talk about the men who confide in me, pretend to trust me, and give me the love they should invest in others as clients.

“Keep files on them, it’s easier,” she suggests. “Your illusion will never slip, and they will keep coming back for the company. They want to believe they’re good, they’re understood, they’re loved, and we…”

She trails off and motions between us, waiting for me to fill it in—another test, another check-in. I sigh. “We give them that fantasy.”

“The fantasy, not the reality. Every backstory we give, every sliver of a life we offer when they ask has to be fake, has to be tailored to them. It’s safer,” River murmurs. “And safety, that’s what we want, not love.”

She says it with weight, with her lips turned down and a faraway look in her eyes, as if she’s seen the alternative and wishes it on no one.

I play with my drink, not wanting to get drunk. It makes me talkative, and more than once, I’ve felt the illusion I’m supposed to embody slip. It’s tempting. I want to be known as myself, not simply a seductress or Doll that says what a man wants to hear.

“Are you shopping for a client or hoping to stumble across one?” River asks.

“I could be meeting someone,” I grumble.

“Rowan doesn’t approve of that, not here,” she motions.

But we both hold to the bar as if it’s a life raft in a sea that wants to drown us. The Black Wire is a safety net that welcomes anyone’s fall with the promise they’ll be met with a measure of comfort instead of broken bones or the broken glass that litters alleyways.

I pick at my little black dress. It hugs my body in a way that used to make me blush, but now makes me feel kind of powerful, just like the heels I wear. They’re heavy and tall, giving me a few extra inches, and – as River’s pointed out – a weapon if needed. I toss my dark hair over my shoulder and look in the mirror behind the bar.

My choppy bangs brush my eyebrows, teasing my blue eyes in some areas. I lick my full lips and look away from my reflection. “Then I guess no one will approach.”

“Can you afford a night without work?” she asks.

Chapter 6: The Pretty Monster

Before I can answer, I notice a man I’ve never seen before. He approaches River and me openly, gaze flicking between us as if measuring the situation he’s getting into. He has a practiced smile, one that’s warm and nearly as sweet as my mead, but when I meet those green eyes, I notice the sharp glint buried in the hues of green.

He’s wealthy, that’s obvious in his perfectly styled dark hair—rumpled, but in a way that attracts rather than off-puts. He wears an unmarred black coat and deep green button-up that’s not missing a button and isn’t stained, but the top two buttons are open, revealing an unscarred throat without tattoos. He has a perfectly groomed beard and mustache.

“Asami,” River says, rubbing my knee.

She’s my life raft now, able to read people and their deeper intentions. My name on her lips is a whispered ‘no’ and a simultaneous reminder to look beyond the surface, but the surface of this man is so much more pleasant than what I’m used to.

Her prodding breaks through that haze.

This is a clearly wealthy man with no scars or marks showing, walking through Neon Grit without the obvious opulence of someone from the Core. If he’s this at ease, this clean, this unscarred, he’s either a man who’s high up in organized crime or the pretty kind of lethal that can stalk the night with earned fearlessness… because he’s worse. A pretty monster that can fit in wherever he goes.

“Ladies,” he says warmly.

“Sir,” River responds immediately. “If you’re waiting for a drink, Rowan’s the one to talk to.”

“And if I’m interested in company?” he asks, his gaze flicking to me. He slowly looks from my lips to my eyes, back to my lips, making my body buzz with electricity. “Sitting at a bar alone isn’t appealing when I’ve had a good day.”

“So you’re interested in making your day better?” I ask. “Should we be celebrating?”

He considers that and nods. “If we’ve survived until midnight, I think celebration is a given.”

“Depends on how we made it that far,” River answers. She glances from him to me, then mouths ‘dangerous’ before getting up.

Chapter 7: Dangerous Hands, Deeper Pockets

River lets me make my own decisions. She’s not a mistress that owns me; she’s not a pimp. She’s as independent as I am. The man takes River’s seat and taps my drink. “You can handle this level of sweet?”

“When the world has so little, I have to drink it where I can,” I answer. “It’s a treat. Consider it… my celebration, I guess.”

“If it’s that good…” he trails off and raises a hand. When Rowan appears, the man sitting beside me speaks, never looking away from me as I take a long sip. “A whole bottle of that.”

I try to convince him that one glass is more than enough, and we go back and forth until his fingers rub against my hand. The calluses are rough, a reminder of the jagged, potholed streets I’ve familiarized myself with, but there’s something refined about them, as if they’ve been glossed with the luxury that clings to his outfit.

His smile is just as mixed—practiced, but smoothed, as if he’s on the verge of laughing but realizes that holding back is more alluring. He’d do well as a Doll, but I recognize the ‘more’ that dresses him. He’s a man with power, and not the kind gained by breaking knuckles against faces.

His knuckles are unscarred, his fingers properly shaped, and even his nails are whole, without the chips or signs of wear I’m used to. Most clients are easy to place, but this one… this man is difficult. He’s danger, but I don’t know what breed of danger—whether it’s the kind where I should avoid all contact, the type that welcomes a challenge to a limit, or the version of a man who wants to save a damsel in distress.

“If we’re celebrating, let’s do it properly,” he says, working his pinky and ring finger between my fingers.

My eyes slowly trace over him again and land on his face. We watch one another, and he leans closer. “My pockets are deep.”

“Who said it was your pockets I was interested in feeling?” I tease.

His smile grows, and he manages to link our hands, lacing our fingers together as if we came together, and it’s only natural we leave together too.

“I’m Liam,” he says.

When I nod but bite my bottom lip, he arches an eyebrow. Rowan doesn’t really support Dolls working in his bar, but if I have a chance with a client that looks this good, is this charismatic, and is bragging about how much money he has to spend, I’d have to be stupid to say no.

Chapter 8: A Game of Half-Truths

This could be a better night than I planned. Spending it in bed with someone like Liam would be better than finding things to compliment about a man twice my age who corrects my wording, tells me to be his sweet innocent little girl, and wants me to thank him for the time spent together while he’s pushing around the dust in his pockets to find the payment he owes me. It could be very good, considering the mix of sin and tenderness in Liam’s eyes.

I suck my bottom lip for a moment, glancing back at my hand until he clears his throat. “Am I allowed to know your name?”

“You could,” I hedge, reminding myself that I’m supposed to start listing the fine print so there’s no confusion.

“I’d prefer to taste it off your lips, but that might be moving a little fast,” he croons. “I could start by reading your palm. I heard people used to do it.”

“As a con, of course,” I say.

He chuckles. “Maybe I could find a way to spell out your name in the lines of your palm if you don’t want to share it.”

“Your drink, sir,” Rowan says, sliding the bottle of mead and a frosted glass.

The frosted glass means he’s not a regular. Then I can’t get into too much trouble, at least with Rowan. Liam pours a drink for himself, then pushes it toward me, as if making it my option.

“You’re a mystery of a woman, you know that?” he asks gently. “So sweet and gentle-looking, but in a sexy, daring dress. A little talkative, then silent. You’re letting me take your hand but not telling me your name. I’m on pins and needles.”

“I’m not just a woman,” I whisper.

“Is anyone just their gender? We all have backstories we’d rather ignore,” he says as something flits over his gaze, temporarily darkening his eyes. “But there are better ways to distract from the things we don’t want to think about than drinking.”

“I’m a Doll,” I say. “My time comes with a fee, my attention with a bigger… price tag.”

“I’m sure the price tag isn’t based on the inches you’re given,” he says with a smirk.

“Usually not, maybe I should start adding a fee,” I say with a demure little shrug despite the fact that I haven’t missed how easily he accepted my profession.

Plenty of men have walked away the second that four-letter word crosses my lips, as if I’ve insulted their manhood and their appeal by telling them the reality of the situation. Others immediately start offering money and talking about how many hours they want. Liam doesn’t change at all.

He keeps talking with me, drinking, telling me half-truths whether I point it out or not. But he’s a man divided, I see it in him. So after an hour of drinking and talking has emboldened me, I slide onto his lap. He stares at me, something dark and fierce in his eyes.

Chapter 9: Four Hours

I stroke his face. “I see when you do that.”

“I don’t do anything, Doll,” he growls.

I lean closer to him. “You don’t have to hide. I can handle it all. I’ve seen the worst in life, and I’m still here. Nice and soft.”

Putting his hand on my thigh, I lean into him. “My name is Asami.”

He takes a slow breath. “You…”

Liam studies my gaze intently, like he’s not sure what to make of me. He licks his bottom lip, downs the rest of his glass, then meets my eyes with fewer shadows in his gaze. “How much do you like this drink?”

“It’s my favorite thing on the menu.”

“If I have you taste it off me, I have a feeling I’ll be your favorite thing off the menu,” he answers, his hand tightening on my thigh as he leans forward.

I’m tempted to give in to the kiss, tempted to fall into him, but because I want to, I can’t. I turn my chin so his lips graze across my jaw. I whisper in his ear. “You can do everything except kiss me, Liam. Taste every inch of me, memorize me with your tongue, spill your secrets across my chest, cuddle me, stroke me, fuck me, but no kissing.”

A low growl echoes in his throat. “I want to own you.”

I lean back and meet his eyes. Dark and light glint in his gorgeous green irises. “We can play pretend for an hour.”

He shakes his head. “An hour will give me just enough time to get drunk on you, not nearly the amount of time I need to get started.”

“Two hours,” I offer. “Two hours of my undivided attention wherever you like.”

His hand slides under the hem of my dress, his fingers trailing lazily across my skin in a patient, consuming way. He’s treating me like I’m precious, as if I have a say in this, as if my voice matters, and rather than making me more verbal, it tightens my throat around the prices I should be listing.

“Four hours,” he insists, running his lips towards my earlobe. “An hour to pour half my secrets across your skin. An hour to slowly undress you and make you crave my mouth on yours, to make you beg me to fuck you because you actually want it—because I won’t do it any other way. An hour to fuck you like you’ve never felt, so I can own every orgasm and know that you enjoyed it too… and an hour to take care of you after, so I can learn who you are.”

I shudder and arch against him before pressing a soft open-mouthed kiss over his pulse. I don’t know how to respond to that. I’m supposed to serve others. They enter their demands like they’re placing an order for food, and I take care of them with false enthusiasm and real concern over their pleasure. My feelings, my thoughts, my desires are an afterthought that’s rarely addressed, and more often, the men who ask want a lie.

The routine is always the same. I tell them how much I want them, listen to them purring compliments against my skin. They fuck me however they please, call me whatever name they want, then they clean up. Occasionally, they ask if I enjoy it, and the answer is always yes.

“I mean it, Asami, because pretend isn’t good enough. It’s not what I want,” Liam says as he draws back. “I’ve been with Dolls, I know the routine. You… you stand out.”

I blink at him, feeling my cheeks flush.

“You’re… genuine, as genuine as you can be, so the only pretend we’ll play is that we’ll last more than four hours, that I can own your attention, your time, your pleasure for longer than that,” he says.

“That’s… really intense. Four hours?”

“I’ll get us a room, one where you can stay all night if you choose, but I’m the only man you’ll fuck there,” he growls.

I swallow with difficulty. That’s a red flag. The ownership, the possession. I’ve avoided the ‘easy route’ time and time again. I could work for a brothel. I could have a pimp. There’s added safety, more protections, but my mother made sure no one owned me as a child. Allowing anyone to own me, to claim my emotions, my heart, the important things, is a danger.

“You own me for four hours,” I simplify. “My price—”

“I’ll double it,” he says without bothering to let me finish. “Tell me the total when we finish. Very deep pockets, remember?”

“And a very excited something else,” I hint when I glance down between us.

“Say yes because you want to, because you want me, and then you can have a better feel and look at what I have,” he purrs.

I shudder, and my nipples harden against my lingerie. The lace rubs me perfectly, since I’ve learned that more often than not, I have to get myself ready for a man. This one seems to be stripping me down with his words. The focus on my desires, the way his touch sinks deeper than my skin, down to my very soul with every stroke…

River called him dangerous for a reason, but I think it’s beyond life and death. He’s the kind of man that makes a Doll forget reality. The kind of man that can make a Doll feel like a real woman rather than a service. I shudder.

“Yes,” I answer softly. “Yes, Liam. Four hours, a room that you choose and I approve, the price—”

“Doesn’t matter because you’re worth everything in my bank account. The things I’d do to kiss you, to keep you right here on my lap… they’d make me insane,” he snorts.

I turn his chin back to me and meet his eyes. “Insanity I can handle. Violence I can handle. Sweetness is fine. I wouldn’t say yes if I didn’t think I could survive and enjoy the weight of all of you on me.”

He takes an unsteady breath and finishes his drink. “Don’t say things you don’t mean, Asami.”

“A good rule for both of us,” I agree.

“I say exactly what I mean. And I never have to deal with the consequences because I always follow through.”

I finish the glass I’ve been nursing for the last fifteen minutes. The buzz of the alcohol or his honesty is potent. I giggle into Liam’s neck and whisper in his ear. “I want to know you. I want to know how your body feels on mine, if you have scars you hide, who you are when no one but a Doll is looking. Do I get that in our four hours?”

“You get Liam Maddox – the whole thing, every inch.”

A pleased moan escapes my throat, and I slide off his lap. He moves with me like we’re orbiting the same star. Liam towers over me and grips my ass, pulling me tightly against him when I reach for my purse.

“You’re not paying for a thing. You’re going to give me the pleasure of paying for your drinks, for your room, and you’re going to come for me, really come, whether you want to or not.”

I know why I wouldn’t want to come. Plenty of Dolls have made an art of faking orgasms right before the real thing so that they never mix work and ecstasy in their own minds. Falling for a client is worse than dying. It ruins Dolls without the release and finality of death.

Instead, we’re left to drool over someone who sees us as nothing more than a toy to use when it’s convenient. I’ve heard plenty of horror stories about it, but there’s no way it can happen to me. What’s so wrong with enjoying a night of work? What’s so wrong with finding a client attractive? With wanting a taste of normality even if it’s as carnal and rough as Liam’s face is?

Chapter 10: Greed in All the Wrong Ways

We head to a hotel, and he follows through. He spills bits of his life to me, wrapped up in neat stories with a beginning, middle, and end that are far too neat until I point it out, and that only makes him smile and kiss along my body, teasing me with seeing too much, wanting too much.

“You’re as greedy as I am,” he growls against my hip as he continues pushing my dress up. He kisses along my hip, following the top hem of my panties. He sighs. “I’m greedy in all the wrong ways.”

“You’re too smart to say that,” I disagree, lifting my hips so he can push my dress up.

He groans and licks over my panties but continues dragging his tongue up to my belly button. After a thorough swirl, he sighs. “I’m supposed to be taking over Maddox Industries soon. I’m sure you’ve heard of it. But we’re more than what we market. So much of the industry is underground, buried in crime and violence.”

I pant as he continues undressing me while replacing every bit of my clothing with his mouth. I swallow. “Are you greedy for the income, the power, or the bloodshed?”

“You’re too fucking…”

He groans and bites the underside of my breast. I gasp and arch for him.

Marks fade. Marks can be covered by makeup. Marks are mine to fix before I see another man who wants a clean slate to make his own.

“Legacy hasn’t ever been my interest. Power can be made in plenty of ways. I don’t want the name tag, the title, the company. I want… to exist exactly as I am, every part of me clicked into place, whether it’s wielding a gun or a checkbook,” he says before ripping my bra off and swirling his tongue around my nipple.

I whimper and drag my fingers through his hair. He pops off my nipple and meets my eyes with an intensity that shatters the illusion that this means nothing to either of us. My wants and his collide in something that’s too insidious and fragile to exist in Danger City.

“Liam,” I whisper.

“I am who I am, Asami, and you… you are a secret I’m going to unwrap. I’m going to memorize the way you moan. I’m going to learn every pleasure point on your body. I am going to own your body until your heart opens up enough to give me something real,” he growls as he sits up.

He takes off his coat, then his shirt, revealing every thick-muscled, beautifully scarred bit of him. I trace his scars softly, then kiss one, letting my tongue soften any lingering bite of pain.

I’ll let him in this bed. I’ll let him between my legs. I’ll let him purr, praise, whatever he needs to say against my skin. I’ll even remember it and savor it. But my heart… that has to stay separate. If I had the ability, I’d throw it back to my home, stuff it under my pillow, and force it there so it stays safe. Because Liam… Liam’s a threat to the one thing that I have to hold onto: control.

I can settle for having him in my dreams for the rest of my life, but I know a threat to my sanity when I see one. And when my toes curl with the orgasm he gifts me from his tongue, before I can finish undressing him, I know that it’s going to be a battle to keep him where he needs to be kept—out of my favorite bar, out of my life, and out of my head.