Ever.
In fact, few people ever see my real hair.
Mostly because it’s fickle and temperamental. Today, it’s a dark, golden blonde, honey with amber and russet tones. But I could wake up tomorrow, and it might be jet black with a stripe of solid white.
Or auburn brown. Or so deeply reddish orange that it looks like a wig.
There is no rhyme or reason to it. Sometimes, it’ll stay one color for weeks or even months at a time. Then…poof.
The only thing I can control about it is the styling and length, but I rarely get it cut at a salon. I keep it trimmed long enough I can pull it into a ponytail, not much longer than shoulder-length.
It’s done this all of my life. I think sometimes it has to do with my mood, but it only changes while I’m asleep.
Yes, I’ve tried filming it, and the camera or phone or whatever I use always fails. I finally gave up trying because it’s too frustrating when that happens.
My mom always nervously laughed it off as fickle genes, likely from my father’s side. He apparently gave me my violet eyes, too.
Except I can’t ask him about them because he’s dead. I have literally zero information about him or his family, other than his real first name and the last name of Smith. I was only eight when he died.
But that mystery will remain hidden in the past, the way the rest of my history is forever buried, since both of them are dead now. There’s no one I can talk to about them, no one who knew them except a close family friend of Dad’s, whose full name I don’t even know and who I haven’t seen since Dad died.
Once I have my wig firmly anchored in place and I brush it, I apply a light dusting of makeup and do a quick twirl in front of my bathroom mirror. I always wear bike shorts under the short black skirts I frequently wear to work a shift at Club Toxic, like I am tonight. I’ll wear jeans, too, but it’s May in Tucson right now and already hotter than balls out, even though the temps will drop after dark. The shorts help keep my full thighs from chafing and give me an extra layer of protection if any of the customers get a little too handsy when I have my hands full of drinks and can’t defend myself.
Not that they get handsy with me—or any of the other servers—more than once.
I pull on thick, wool socks, lace up my black Doc Martens, and give myself another look in the mirror. The comfortable sports bra I’m wearing helps push my girls up under the black Club Toxic T-shirt. The shirt’s neon pink logo lays right across the girls and will glow in the black lights. Lucius allows me latitude with my uniform that no other employee gets, and for good reason.
I make him a fuckton of money, with relatively little outlay on his part. It’s a win-win situation for both of us.
Plus, I’m close friends with his mate, Selene.
My shift doesn’t start until six thirty, and the club doesn’t open until seven, but I have keys and an alarm code. I make sure I’m at the club by five thirty this time of year.
Well before twilight sets in.
Ironic, I know. I’m afraid of the dark, and yet I work in a club full of vampires.
I mean, it’s not the vampires I’m afraid of, obvs. Or of the other races who live in and around Tucson. It’s not even the dark I’m afraid of, per se.
It’s what’s sometimesinthe dark that I don’t want to face. Because if I’m not careful, I’m afraid that, one day, those things will find me again.
And that the next time they do, I might not be able to escape.
* * *
Technically,I’m the assistant manager at the club, even though I told Lucius and Selene I didn’t want a title. The less attention focused on me, the better. I don’t need a title to do my job and earn money.
So far, Tucson has been safer longer than anywhere else. I don’t yet know if it’s because of the high concentration of vampires, shifters, and other miscellaneous supernatural oddballs who make the region their home, or some inherent power in the land itself, or my own extreme, rigorous caution this time in my personal habits, or what.
Don’t know, and have stopped caring.
All I care about is that I’m safe.
I live downtown in an apartment building owned by Garrett Green. He’s the Alpha of the Tucson werewolf pack, and a pretty nice dude, even if he looks scary as fuck. I do errands for them and for the vamps, and everyone gives me protection and leaves me alone. They pay me in cash, too, meaning I’m totally off-the-grid.
Well, I mean, off-the-grid with all the amenities I could ask for while living in a nice efficiency apartment in a high-rise in the middle of Tucson.
I also earn extra cash selling my blood to Lucius every few weeks. That part of our deal is secret. I don’t want anyone knowing I am the source of the highly popular special vintage he sells as top-shelf, and the reason he makes a fuckton of money on that part of his operation.
