In Peace Lies Havoc (Midnight Mayhem #1)(3)

Even though I can only make out the outline of his eyes, I feel them on me. Eye contact is the language that no one can speak, but chemistry is fluent with; it’s the language of fate. It’s two souls catching on fire without a single word being spoken. I continue dancing to the song until the very last strum before making my way backstage, wanting to see if I can get a closer look at him. Him. There’s an air of familiarity that hovers over his body, enticing me. Or maybe it’s the language that no one speaks, and I’ve suddenly decided to take classes.

“Hey, Dove!” Rich interrupts my thoughts, nudging his head toward me as I make my way to the bar. “The usual?” Rich is a middle-aged man with a full beard. He has two little girls who he raises alone since his wife died in a car accident when they were babies. Richard also owns this bar. Most people would think that some guy who owns a strip joint must be desperate and sleazy, but that’s just not the case. He has three girls who he kept on since he purchased the place from the previous owner a couple of years ago, and that’s not by his choice, because he kicked all the rest of the girls out, wanting to turn this into more of a biker bar—since that’s what he also does—but he knew Tash and I needed the work and the tips. We could have taken on the bar by bartending, but he had already promised the barmaids that they would keep their positions. So he kept Tash, Vane, and me, which worked out perfectly since the three of us get along quite well.

“Yes, please,” I say, my eyes flying around the room to see if Mystery Guy is still here.

He’s not.

My heart sinks a little, so I pick up my vodka, lime and soda and shoot it back, running the cushion of my thumb over my lip to swipe off the residue.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.” I slide my empty glass over toward Rich, who runs his hand over his long, scruffy beard.

“Yeah, all right, baby girl.”

I slip to the back of the bar toward the staffing area, grabbing may long coat that drops to my knees, and buttoning it up. I pull my phone and headphones out of my pocket, swiping through Spotify to find a new song. Something I can maybe sweat out to when I go back to my run-down apartment. I love to dance. It’s something that keeps my soul alive and my limbs on fire. Music is the cure to all of my troubles for the exact minutes that it plays. After a while, I push on any song as I’m shoving through the back exit of the bar.

The door slams closed, and I fidget with my phone, ready to walk to the bus stop.

A hand slams over my mouth, shocking me into fight-or-flight. I tear out my earphones, kicking and screaming to turn around, but the thick body that’s behind me holds too tight, unwilling to let go.

I feel soft lips brush against the lobe of my ear, warmth slithering over my skin. “If you want to break free, Little Dovey, I would advise you not to scream.” His other hand comes up to the front of my throat, and he clenches. “It gets my dick hard, and you don’t want that.”





I lie on pristine marble flooring, my body jerking with every breath. The room is clean, almost sterile. It’s one large square with cell bars as a door. There’s a diamond chandelier that dangles lavishly from the center of the roof and a single toilet and basin to the back of the room. A ball of fire has sparked inside my chest, its grip refusing to let go. I’m cold. So cold. Goosebumps scatter over my skin in colossal welts, my once tanned skin has now fallen to a sepia white. Grazing my finger over the leftover crumbs from my cookie on the ground, I draw the number twenty-one.

Twenty-one is how long I’ve been here.

The men who visit me usually arrive in fours, but this morning, the man who is seated opposite me is alone. He’s not someone I have seen before now and something tells me there’s a reason why. He’s wearing a black party mask with neon lights attached to it: both eyes are blue crosses. He tilts his head, but doesn’t speak, almost like he’s examining me.

I crawl backward, not wanting to be near him. I can feel him. I felt it when he walked down the corridor. His anger. His antagonism. He picks up the knife that’s beside him, blood dripping off the blade and falling to the once spotless floor. I watch as his finger runs over the red liquid, tainting his skin. Then he suddenly flies to his feet, and I jump, horrified by what might be to come.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Four steps and he’s in front of me. I don’t want to be here. My body shakes, and my head pounds. They keep us fed and hydrated, so I know it’s from fear.

I squeeze my eyes closed as the sound of his zipper slashes through the empty room. The smell of blood is stronger the closer he gets.

I picture myself dancing. Happy. Pointe shoes tied around my ankles, my hands flailing above my head as I begin the steps to execute a perfectly elegant arabesque. Smooth flesh comes to my mouth, and I don’t have to open my eyes to know what it is. I bite down, not wanting to spread my lips, but his hand comes to the back of my hair, and he yanks my head back, my eyes flying open. The man picks up his knife and presses it to my throat. I can feel the blood dripping down my collarbone. Either from me or from whomever else he had just killed.

I continue to refuse, so he presses the blade harder while his cock jerks against my soft lips.

Tears pour down my face as my resilience kicks in. My mouth parts, and his cock slips in. I’ve never been raped before. Never felt forced. Something happens when you’ve been taken advantage of. It’s as though they take some of your humanity and replace it with their odor. His dick slides in and out fast, forcing himself down my throat. When I bite down on it roughly, he leaves it lodged down my airway, cutting off my breathing. Once he’s had enough of me fighting him, he shoves me backward and crawls up my body, his hand cupping my pussy. He shoves through two fingers then three, before tearing off my shirt with his other hand.