“Yeah, yeah, the school.” Her upper lip twitches unnaturally, and at first I think she’s near tears, but that heavy scowl she’s emitting my way makes me think otherwise. “I think it’s best if you find somewhere else to place your students. It’s bad enough around here with the regular crew. We don’t need to be adding to the misery by having a bunch of college students running amuck doing God knows what. You can slice a hand off with some of this machinery and not notice for a solid minute.”
An explosion of light goes off behind her as sparks fly through the air, and I watch for a moment as a welder blasts something to hell quite literally.
“You’re probably right,” I lament. “It looks a bit too hazardous.” I pump my shoulders as if accepting my fate. “Hey, I’m sorry about your brother. I lost my sister last year unexpectedly. I know how hard that can be.” And I mean it. Losing Emilia was the hardest thing I’ve gone through in my life. It was gut-wrenching when it happened. Still is. Time doesn’t always heal all wounds. It simply draws them out and reconfigures them for another day.
She barks out a laugh. “Oh, hon, it’s not that hard, trust me. He wasn’t the easiest person on the planet to get along with.” My brows bounce at her strange response. “I guess it hasn’t hit me yet, though.” She shrugs it off. “I’m not big on feelings and all that crap anyway, so I doubt it will.” Her face twitches up at me. “Sorry about your sister, though. I can tell she meant a lot to you.”
And I can tell her brother didn’t mean a lot to her.
“Thank you. I didn’t get your name.” I’m quick to extend my hand. “I’m Shep Collins.”
“Shelby Trainee.”
“Shelby. It’s nice to meet you.”
“Whatever.” She takes off back into the smoking maw from where she came.
Strange.
I head to my truck just as the sun dips behind the horizon. Instead of heading home, I take myself to dinner at a grease pit down the road and contemplate Emilia and all the things she’s missed out on in one short year. I think about the kids she’ll never have, the husband she’ll never marry, and suddenly I’m infuriated with whoever the guy would have been for trotting off and finding some other woman.
I do my best to shake all thoughts of my sister and her fictitious future out of my head. Instead, my thoughts drift back to Shelby and her odd mannerisms, that howling laugh she emitted when I let her know how hard life must be for her. Strange indeed and I tuck her away in the back of my brain to deal with later.
After dinner, I head downtown and am shocked to see the Vegas-like transformation of this once quiet, sleepy—yet perpetually seedy town. And then I see it, like a beacon begging me to come inside and forget all of my troubles.
Anonymous.
Instead of making a right and getting out of Dodge, I make a left into the lot.
What the hell. The worst that can happen is that I forget about life for a few good hours.
I don’t see the harm in that.
I’m pretty sure that’s what I said to myself on that fateful night I headed to the Black Bear, and that turned out to be an unforgettable event. Although, I seriously doubt this will be.
A thick crowd of beautiful women stream their way in, all of them in short sparkling dresses and heels that make their legs look as if they extend for miles. I don’t see a single thing that I don’t approve of.
On second thought, this might pan out to be an unforgettable night after all.
Death Becomes Her
Serena
Serena
Anonymous isn’t quite the dingy hole-in-the-wall I had pictured. Instead, we’re met with clean aesthetics, plush white furnishings, and marbled flooring. Chandeliers glitter across the ceiling in every shape and color, deep rustic ambers, ocean cobalt blues, and champagne pink. It’s a dream come true, a wonderland,and pardon my French, but a mindfuck all at the very same time. The entire establishment is rife with bodies, each and every face well-hidden beneath an exotic mask—beautiful bejeweled and feathered numbers for the girls and black fitted hoods for the men. It looks perfectly perverted, and, I won’t lie—the entire scene has got my thighs quivering just thinking about what or who could be lingering behind the male versions of those disguises, and what ambiguous things he might want to do to me. The music is so loud it pulsates right through my chest like a rhythmic heartbeat, and a part of me is loving the psychotic vibe. A very small, perverted part of me.
No sooner did Harley and I enter this fantasyland than we were ushered into a dimly lit room where we were briefed on their myriad of rules and regulations—and, my God, there were many. If there happens to be a pop quiz later, I can assure you I will ace the BDSM SAT. Not that there is anything remotely scholastic going on here.
Before we left the briefing chamber, as they so indelicately referred to it, we too were offered an array of masks to help hide our features. The club, as its moniker suggests, is centered aroundanonymity. And although they graciously offered to hijack our phones for the evening, I aggressively declined. Instead, I signed a waiver that nary a finger shall twitch in that direction. They prefer all social media, texts, and other phone fondling tasks be done outside of their fine establishment in order to protect the rights of the not-so innocent.
I get it. People are lined up for miles outside just hoping to get in and get laid. Not physically on the premises—or at least I hope not. I swear, if I spot a single act of fuck-fuckery taking place, I’m hauling Harley and her sparkly, hot pink feathered bit of facial camouflage right out that bejeweled front door. And why does this entire scene feel as if we’re at a spoiled thirteen-year-old’s birthday party? It’s the perfect marriage of new money meets back alley porn.
My mask is a bit demure in comparison—peacock feathers woven together, high toward the ceiling in the shape of a giant heart. Thank heavens for the anonymity. God only knows who’s lurking in these unhallowed halls, and heaven forbid word gets back to my sister. Lex will have me roasting on a spit if she finds out I’m trolling the underworld for a sex slave—worse yet, offering up my vaginal services to the endeavor. Not that I’m doing so. Absolutely not. I’m simply letting Harley have her way on a Friday night. Next time I’m choosing the outing, and I much prefer the Hollow Brook Cineplex to the dark halls of this BDSM empire.
Before us is the main room with its naughty nightclub appeal, and to our left is a corridor lit with bright red spotlights that I’m guessing leads to a demonic coital playground. There’s an archway over the entry to that portal of sin made of chain link, and attached to it is every leash, collar, choker, and whip you would need to have a fantastic fit-to-be-tied time. Rest assured, neither Harley nor I will follow the fornicating crimson brick road.
A tall guy with a hooded mask stalks this way and doesn’t waste any time grinding his hips against Harley’s.
