I flip up my mask and flash my ID to the bouncer for admittance. Because of the upstairs club, they tout anonymity as one of their marketing ploys. That’s a partial lie. What they don’t advertise is that they also snap a picture of your face for security purposes. Not tonight though. I tampered with their software. It’s currently on the fritz. I also brought three other masks with me, in case.
Crowds aren’t my thing, other than La Lune Noire, where my family and I feel as though we’re shrouded in a thin veil of safety. Every other public gathering is a minefield. Someone could recognize us from our past. And that wouldn’t end well. It’s always a risk. For that reason, I’m embracing the disguise. Simple all-black attire with a matching mask. Nothing notable.
Slinking through the throng of drunk and overly eager patrons, I head straight for the Rock Through the Ages lounge. It’s her kind of music. She’d better be there because my patience is thinning. With every second of searching, that wrathful part of me I attempt to snuff out gains purchase.
I wander around for what feels like an eternity, scrutinizing every dancing, screaming, drinking female. She’s not here. And the band just finished, so maybe she’s in the gothic room. That is the characteristic she sold to me. I can’t picture her enjoying heavy metal music, but maybe I’m wrong.
When I’m making my way to the far corner exit, a woman’s voice blares out from a microphone, announcing her band, The Mystifiers. They must be well loved because cheers abound. I’ll stop back here and check again if Rena isn’t in the other areas.
As I reach the door and dip into the hallway, the voice captures my attention again. “We are so excited to welcome back our special guest star from last night. Put those hands together for Little Moon.”
My heart practically stops, lungs seizing.
Little Moon.
She used the nickname I’d assigned her as her stage name? I turn on my heel and race through the people for a better view as a guitar riff belts through the air. It’s her.
Fuck me. She looks sexy up onstage.
Confident and carefree. In her element.
And so unbelievably talented.
That riff bleeds into No Doubt’s “Just a Girl.” And her whole beautiful face beams. Everything blurs into a backdrop as I gape, mesmerized by every strum of her fingers, every quirk of her full lips, every bop of her head. Breathtaking.
She leans into the lead singer, crooning some of the lyrics into the mic. And our gazes collide, like, somehow, within this audience of several hundred people, she felt me. Knew where to look, who she fits with. Belongs to. Every part of me coils tighter, incapable of severing this hold she has on me. I’m not sure I understand it, and I certainly don’t know what the fuck to do about it, but I’ve never been so captivated.
She smiles, her focal point never shifting from mine as her fingers continue to skate across the strings. Magnificent. When she lifts her chin higher in a subtle confirmation that she’s just as much of a hostage as I am, the angle of her face casts a strange shadow on her cheek. Maybe from her eye mask or … I glance around for the source, but there’s nothing.
It’s a goddamn bruise. Has to be. I tromp toward the stage, slithering through people to obtain a better angle. The closer I get, the more irate I become.
Rough crowd?Some motherfucker put his hands on her.
Who the hell hurt you, baby girl?
It all blurs to slow motion. Fading in and out. The only sounds—my crashing breaths, the distant echo of chords and shouts, and the swishing blood flow assaulting my eardrums. My fists clench at my sides. Black spots mar the corners of my vision.
Slipping.
Crunch. Squeak. Blood. One wrong choice.
Until it all comes zooming back with an unwavering fury, amplified when I catch her tentative gaze slicing to the corner, as though something there is unnerving her. My feet carry me around the stage of their own accord.
One thought grounding me:Someone dies tonight.
Since everyone is cloaked in disguises, it’s challenging to determine who Rena may have been peering at, so I switch tactics, deciding to get to her first.
A guard stands in front of the door that leads backstage though. He’ll probably make me wait until her set is over. That’s not happening. So, I bump into a group of women standing nearby and duck out of the way before they can pinpoint the culprit for their faltering. They squeal, drinks spilling all over their scanty lingerie-inspired ensembles, and as I hoped, they cause quite a commotion. But the guard doesn’t abandon his post, like I expected, which makes my actions despicable and useless, but I have only one girl in mind right now.
As I’m scouring for another diversion, a conversation behind me pulls my concentration. “Yeah. The hot-as-fuck guitarist.”
“Little Moon,” another guy warbles, and I feel every cell of my body ignite with turbulent ferocity.
The first guy lets a dark chuckle rip. “Total bitch, but she’ll be a firecracker.”
My jaw clicks, but I steady my breathing and listen.
“If she doesn’t break something else of yours. How’s the nose, jackass?”
