In Peace Lies Havoc (Midnight Mayhem #1)(2)

Present



I was fourteen years old when I stopped expecting the world to soften its edges for me and learned to roughen mine instead. I learned that if you find yourself in a dark day, it only means that the sun is about to rise. Well, it was a mantra that I became accustomed to as I was growing up. I had to bring it down to that simple paragraph to strengthen my mind and remind it that I was going to survive. Bouncing from foster home to foster home until you hit eighteen isn’t ideal, but I’m an optimist, so the way I see it, I never had to really rely on anyone.

Not. At. All.

And besides, I’ve managed to keep a fairly positive outlook on life, despite my current circumstances. Once I hit eighteen, I emptied my bank account and hitched a ride way the hell away from where anyone would know me, or where most people like to call Miami Beach. Okay, so it’s not a terrible place to live, and it’s probably one of my favorite places to be, but eventually, I want to bail. Maybe settle in the PNW or somewhere with a little more frost in the air. I prefer cold to the heat.

“Dove!” Richard calls out from behind the bar. I work in a bar right on the outskirts of the city. It draws in the right crowd for good tips. Rich folk who just want to splash some cash.

I raise my eyebrows at him in question, so he continues to jog toward me, his hands shoved into his pockets. “Sorry. I always forget about the speech thing.”

They always assume that because I don’t talk much that I’m incapable of doing so. Humans are so quick to slap a label on someone who doesn’t conform to the norm. I do talk, but I don’t talk much here where I’m scared and shackled to the reality of always being watched. I knew it wasn’t safe. I wasn’t safe. “I’ll hear you when you speak.” I shiver, zipping my leather jacket up farther while slipping my hands into my pockets to keep them warm. “Are you able to work at the bar tomorrow? Jules called in sick, and we usually have a backup, but we can’t get ahold of any of the temp girls.”

I shrug, nodding my head. “Sure!”

“Good!” Richard murmurs. “I appreciate it, Dove.” I watch as his back disappears into the dark room, strobe lights flicking and flashing, cutting through the obscurity like light sabers during a Star Wars movie.

I quickly slip through the thin crowd of people, heading straight for backstage.

“Dove! Hey, girl!” Natasha waves at me from her makeup cubicle.

I nod my head at her, slipping off my clothes until I’m standing in nothing but panties and a bra.

“You up second tonight, boo!” Tash further says, swiping blood red lipstick over her soft lips.

I smile, gathering up my belongings and placing them in my cubicle. I begin on my makeup and hair, making sure I go extra on both. Peering back at myself in the mirror, my lips curl between my teeth. My skin is silky smooth with a natural tan, and my hair is a deep red. Girls used to be envious of my skin because it’s never seen one freckle or imperfection, and unlike most redheads, I don’t burn in the sun; I tan.

I pile my hair onto the top of my head and get started on my makeup. Lining my dark green eyes with black liner, I giggle as Tash begins rapping beside me. It’s what she does to warm up every night. I love Tash, but I feel sorry for her. She has a five-year-old daughter and a shit excuse of a husband. I know that if she could, she wouldn’t work here. I’ve asked a couple of times why she does, but she shrugs me off as if she’s made peace with her fate.

It makes me uncomfortable, and we’re not that close, so I leave it.

Thirty minutes later and I’m ready.

I step out onto the stage, all lights cutting out as a single spotlight flashes on me. Clutching the pole in my hand, “Voyeur Girl” by Stephen starts playing. It’s the song I always open to. Now it’s almost as though the beat and lyrics are inscribed into my bones, orchestrating my fluid movements as I dance around the stage. I lose myself in the music and let my body be taken over by the trance-like sound. I don’t have to look around to know that people are watching. Tash says that men come every night when they know I’m dancing. I don’t know how much truth there is to that because I never pay attention. I know I’m above average. My mom and dad had paid good money all my life to make sure my footing, my temperament, and body remained in sync with whatever music was playing, but aside from that, I have always had a natural wave for dance.

I continue to float around, my body rolling against the pole. I skim my hand down my belly, toward my upper thighs as I bend down, spreading my knees wide and bringing them back together. I slowly open my eyes, but I don’t know why because I never open them. My eyes are always closed, fixed on splashing art against a dark canvas by the waves of my body. But I open them, and they land on a man seated by the bar. I can’t make out his face because he’s wearing a dark hoodie that’s covering most of it. His knees are spread wide as he lounges back against the bar. I may not be able to see him, but I feel him on me. With every thrust of my hips, I feel as though his eyes are caressing the curves of my body. Chills creep over my flesh as I squash the thoughts that are invading my mental space. The song winds down, and sweat pours out from me as I flick my long red hair all around. Gazing back to where the man was, I find him still there, watching me carefully. Everyone fades into the background as the energy surrounding us crackles in the air. I watch as the tip of his cigarette burns like a lit match, calling me to him with every inhale. Smoke clouds gather around him as he exhales. Why can’t I look away?