Fawn: A Dark Mafia Shifter Romance (Blackfang Barons Book 1)

by Elaina Jadin

  No one had answers for me. Not my therapists. Not the police. And certainly none of my friends.

  Or rather… former friends. When you’ve been committed to a mental institution and swear you saw giant dog-like beasts attack your family, people tend to avoid your calls.

  The only other person I had was Bryan. I was barely a wisp of a girl when his family moved into the subsidized housing down the street. He was older and seemed so wise and worldly at the time.

  I developed a starry-eyed crush on him almost immediately, and secretly harbored that crush for ages until I was brave enough to approach him the week I turned thirteen.

  We’d just started really hanging out together when the incident happened, so he was the last person I expected to seek me out when I was released from residential therapy after being lost to the world for two years.

  But he’s the only one who did.

  He didn’t run from my pain, but instead seemed to accept me, invisible scars and all. As I got older, he helped me manage it when my medications didn’t help. Taught me how to self-medicate with vodka and stolen opioids.

  That worked for a few years. My aunt never even noticed that her prescriptions were running out faster than usual. I didn’t do it often—only on the nights when I couldn’t stop shaking, when it felt like my nerves were on fire and my stomach might turn inside out.

  On those nights, Bryan would pin me down when we were in bed. I couldn’t handle it sweet or nice, and that really wasn’t his style, anyway. The act itself wasn’t satisfying in the way I imagine it is most other people, but then again, I wasn’t chasing pleasure.

  I wanted the ache and discomfort to distract me. I’d beg him to make me hurt, however he could. I wouldn’t complain when his bony knees and elbows pressed into me, or when an odd position put me in a strain, or even when I was too dry to ease the friction. Because if I felt new pain, if it coursed through me raw and fresh, then I couldn’t feel the old wounds.

  But nothing could truly protect me from the memories that haunted me every night, not for very long.

  When my aunt died of a heart attack two years ago, Bryan moved in. He took over everything, and I let him. It was just easier. Being alone left me with too much time to think, to feel… to wonder if one day the beasts would come back to finish the job and take me to my grave. Being alone was worse than being with him.

  Bryan had a hookup at Lucky Devils since he used to be a bouncer there. So I started dancing.

  Nobody there cared if I hardly slept, so long as I used enough concealer. And I think Bryan likes dating a dancer, as though he’s worked his magic and shaped me into a desirable woman. As if it’s through his saving grace that I’ve become an object of lust. He likes to joke about how he owns me.

  It should bother me, but I don’t have the energy to care.

  I’m just another girl, dancing with her eyes closed, letting men leer while I take their money. It pays the bills. And while I’m on stage, I don’t have to think about what happened. I’m free, in a sense, even if I’m an actor in my own skin.

  Pulling myself up from the bathroom floor, I draw in a deep breath to steady my nerves. It’s over for now. Once I’ve relived the memory in full, horrific detail it usually leaves me alone for the rest of the night. But it’ll be back tomorrow. And the next night. And the next.

  I tiptoe out of the bathroom, hoping I don’t wake Bryan. A glance at the bedside clock tells me it’s almost morning. Dancers sure don’t keep banker’s hours—by the time I get home, it’s usually the middle of the night.

  Bryan used to wake up when the nightmares were especially bad, like tonight, but now he usually sleeps through them. It’s just as well, because he’s never been one to offer words of comfort. Pills or booze, sure. Anything beyond that was expecting too much.

  He seems to be sound asleep, a dark lump on the other side of the bed. I ease into the mattress and pull the covers up slowly, but my head doesn’t even touch the pillow before Bryan grumbles and rolls onto his side away from me, taking all the covers with him.

  “Goddammit, Jemma,” he huffs. “Can’t I ever just get a fucking night’s sleep?”

  I resist the urge to kick him. Instead, I draw in a deep breath. My nerves are already shot, and I don’t have the energy to fight with him right now. “I wasn’t trying to wake you up.”

  “Could’ve fucking fooled me,” he snaps, punching at his pillow to wedge it under his neck. “I could hear you crying in the bathroom again.”

  An angry retort forms on my lips, but I bite it back as I glare at him in the dark, even though he can’t see my face. As if I want to have these nightmares playing in my mind on repeat. Twisting my stomach into knots until I’m dry heaving in the bathroom. Filling my body with dread until I’m shaking uncontrollably.

  He leans up on one elbow, still facing away from me. “Stop fucking staring at me. I can feel you burning a hole in my back.”

  I promised myself I wouldn’t argue with him tonight, that I’d let it go so that he’d shut up and go back to sleep, leaving me to do the same in peace. But I can’t help the words that claw their way out of me. I’m so tired—of the dreams, of remembering, of spending my night curled up on a cold tile floor.

  But I’m especially tired of his mouth. “You don’t have to be such a jerk, you know?”

  “Maybe I wouldn’t be if you could let me get some goddamn sleep!” His tone gets louder until he’s yelling the last few words.

  I say nothing, frustration and anger burning inside me so bright that I can’t form words. I am so sick of having the same fight, over and over.

  It’s moments like these when I start fantasizing about a different life. Anything but this one. Just quietly gathering up a small bag of my things and slipping out the door in the middle of the night. I have enough cash for bus fare to get me about halfway across the country.

  After that, I have no idea what I’d do, but on nights like this, I don’t care. I tell myself I could work out the details later.

  The fantasy gives me solace, even though I know it’s not a feasible plan and that I’d end up worse off than I am now, with no job or money or even food to eat.

  Even though I’m not leaving the state tonight, or even this shitty apartment, I don’t want to be near Bryan. The living room is dark and small, and the couch is upholstered with a cheap, scratchy fabric, but it’s better than sleeping next to the asshole in here.

  He’s already stolen the covers anyway, and I doubt he’s feeling generous enough to kindly give my half back, so I get out of bed and kneel on the floor, my hands searching in the dark.

  My sketchbook and pouch are still where I shoved them between the aged, peeling dresser and the thin mattress.

  I don’t look back at Bryan as I stumble into the living room, clutching the sketchbook and a single pencil before me as if I’m Joan of Arc wielding a shield and sword. But instead of leading a war against invading armies, when I put the pencil to the paper, I wage war against memories. Every harsh stroke of the pencil is another stroke of my sword against the wolves.

  Perched on the edge of the couch, with only the dull orange glow of the lamp for company, I carve them out of my thoughts. The terror they inspire rushes my movements, and the anger at myself presses the strokes harder, as if I’m trying to push the darkness from me and deep into the paper. Their hulking canine forms appear on the page, the lines full of fury, the jagged edges of their bristling shoulders, the piercing strokes of their fangs, the massive slope and rise of their wide paws.

  All of it spills chaotically onto the page, my hand nearly vibrating as the pencil races over the paper. I only grow still when I reach their eyes, my lips pressed together tightly in concentration as I etch them in detail. I can never draw chaos there, because when they looked at me, all I saw was purpose—an unrelenting, singular focus to orchestrate my death.

  Their eyes are what terrify me the most.

  Not their jaws dripping with saliva from their feral hunge
r, not their claws digging into the earth or splintering the wood as they tried to get to me, not even their beastly size. When I dared to look out, it was their bright yellow eyes that provoked the greatest horror, watching me with sinister clarity, as though they had swallowed all the light of the stars in order to see me better.

  Did Joan of Arc feel this violent chill of fear after the men she’d saved tied her to the stake?

  The harsh scrape of paper fills the tiny, quiet living room as I flip to a clean page, beginning the battle against my memories again. This war will never be over. Not for me. I’m trapped with the wolves forever—always running, always hiding, always trying to escape.

  As the energy drains out of me, sweating as if I’d really been in a life or death fight, I let the sketchbook and pencil drop from my hands. In my imagination, they hit the cheap linoleum with the heavy clanging sound of a sword and shield falling upon the stone floor of a great hall.

  Tears slip from my eyes as I turn off the light. I’m not like Joan of Arc. There will be no one dragging me to the stake, no one binding my arms tightly, and no one setting me on fire. I’m a girl who’s gone mad so quietly that no one notices all the cracks I’m barely holding together.

  I’m nothing more than a broken thing, masquerading as something whole. One day my pieces will finally split apart, and I’ll shatter at last.

  I lie on the couch in the dark, listening to Bryan’s rhythmic wheezing coming from the bedroom. Usually I’m exhausted after the nightmare plays out—thoroughly drained, emotionally and physically. But tonight there’s a restless energy stirring inside me, battling against the fatigue of a long day.

  Rolling to the side, I glance down at the sketchbook resting on the floor. Deep shadows of the room fall across the drawings, shrouding the beasts, muting them. They’re done with me, for now.

  Snuggling against my pillow, I curl my legs onto the couch and close my eyes, willing myself to fall asleep.

  3

  Jemma

  The music beats through my body, and the flashing lights lull me into the zone where I can disappear even as men look at me with their hungry eyes. It’s the second time I’ve been on stage tonight, and already I know that none of the onlookers will ask for a lap dance at the end of my set.

  I can always tell, based on what they’re wearing, how much they’re drinking, and the way they interact with the people around them.

  The men who come here wearing nice suits, expensive watches, and real leather shoes—they eagerly pay for lap dances, and generally tip well, too.

  I like the quiet ones, even if their eyes seem vacant as they take in my body. I’m nothing but a form of passing entertainment for them, only here to fill their head with enough fantasies to tide them over for another few days so they can go back to their thankless job and go home to fuck their indifferent wife in their loveless marriage.

  Then there are the guys who think they’re hot shit, drowning in cheap body spray, their big poofy jackets pushed off their shoulders as they throw dollar bills at the stage like money’s going out of style. The flashiest ones always want lap dances, and their eyes burn hot with the fire of intoxication.

  They’re the loud, grabby drunks, the ones who think I get as much out of the lap dances as they do. Like I should be thanking them for the privilege of turning them on. That without them, my body means nothing.

  I loathe the nights when the club is filled with that type of customer.

  Thankfully, tonight is quieter.

  A group of friends in their early twenties has come in, teasing and jousting with each other. They’re probably about my age, but they still have their full potential inside them. One of them is wearing a college alumni shirt, and while it isn’t Ivy League, I know it’s a good college. It’s one that I considered applying to in a brief moment of hope.

  They’re the kind of audience that wants to drink a few beers and have me shake my ass in their face so they can feel like they did something fun and risqué. They’ll go home later, jack off in the shower, and crash into a deep slumber, full of youthful pride for having lived like there’s no tomorrow.

  They can never have one of us, but that isn’t what they really want. They only want the idea of us.

  That’s all I am to these broke college students. A fantasy that they’ll forget by the time they wake up.

  When my song ends, I sweep up two handfuls of ones and fives before hurrying off the stage. None of the guys call out to me, asking me to take them somewhere private, offering to slip me a twenty for five minutes of false intimacy.

  I make my way into the back and sit down at my makeup booth to count the money. Thirty dollars from this round of dancing, plus twenty-seven from my first set. I stare at the short stack of crinkled bills. At this rate, I’m going to need to pull an extra shift to make sure our rent is paid.

  There are better clubs to work at, but Bryan won’t let me leave this place. This club is another link in the chain he has around my neck.

  My phone buzzes, and I see a text from Bryan. Biting my lip, I debate whether I should open the message. If he’s in a bad mood, it’ll throw me off for the rest of the night. And then I’ll dance like shit and won’t make the money I need.

  I tap to open it, deciding to treat it like a Band-Aid and rip it off.

  Nice performance. When do you go on again?

  Tension rolls through me. My guts turn to ice before flaring up in a massive wave of heated irritation. Bryan is here.

  He’s not a bouncer here anymore, and he knows the girls aren’t supposed to let their boyfriends come around. But Mack, the owner, lets him in and doesn’t give him too much shit. Bryan doesn’t drink more than a beer or two when he’s here, at least. And he stays in the back, away from the valuable audience space right next to the stage.

  But I hate the nights he’s here the most.

  When Bryan’s here, it really does feel as if he owns me. Like he’s watching to see how his investment performs, his eyes evaluating my every move, sizing me up to determine if I’m meeting expectations.

  It’s a Tuesday night, so there are only two other girls, which means we’ll rotate through our turns on the stage quickly. My thumb hovers over the keyboard before I tap out a fast reply.

  Probably 15 minutes. Do you want me to come out?

  I ask out of habit, not because I’m hoping he’ll yes.

  No, I’m here on business. Be a good girl and make sure your next dance is damn sexy.

  Fuck. I set my phone down hard enough to make Chrissy jump at the vanity next to me.

  “Hey, can you cool it?” She lifts up her eyeliner and shoots me a glare before leaning toward the mirror. “I don’t want to fuck up my makeup.”

  “Yeah, sorry,” I say, but she’s already ignoring me again.

  I shove the wrinkled money into the velvet pouch that I keep my tips in while I’m working—the bills will get straightened and counted again by Bryan once I’m home. I’ll slip a few dollars out before then to add to my squirrel fund. Just a little, not enough to make him suspicious. He’s terrible at finances, yet somehow he has an eerie accuracy when it comes to knowing how much I should make on any given night.

  Right now, though, my attention is on his current reason. Bryan wants me to dance for him, which is nothing new—he’s always showing me off to the latest acquaintance he’s buddied up to, as though I’m his personal puppet. But he’s never brought any type of business here before, and that, more than anything, makes me nervous.

  The music pumps through the walls, the beat of the bass sending my nerves higher. Chrissy leaves the dressing room, and I know that I need to get ready. She’ll be done in less than ten minutes. Then it will be my turn again.

  My locker is against the opposite wall of the little dressing room, and my hands shake as I pick out which outfit to wear. My well-worn sketchbook rests between my second pair of heels on the top shelf. I brought it to work with me today for some reason, even though I haven’t been able to
bring myself to look at the drawings I did last night.

  I wish I could pull it out, flip to a blank page, and sketch something, anything to settle my nerves. I don’t have time for that though.

  I curl my hands around the sheer black chemise hanging on the right side of my locker. Black contrasts nicely against my pale skin. Customers always say it makes me look like a porcelain doll. I guess that’s supposed to be a compliment, even though they’re comparing me to an inanimate object made for the sole purpose of sitting in some collector’s display case.

  Draping the chemise over my arm, I reach through my usual outfits to the shelf at the back and pull out the lacy black bra and its matching thong. It’ll pair well with the see-through fabric of the little slip dress. I bought the set a year ago, but the tags are still on it.

  I’d gotten it planning to surprise Bryan for our anniversary. But we got into an awful fight that day, so I hid it in my locker at work, yet another unpleasant memory I wanted to bury.

  But now, I’ll wear the lace like armor.

  The pounding rock music of Chrissy’s set list grows quieter, signaling that I’m up next. I check my heels, rubbing the soles along the floor to make sure they’re clean, and run my fingers through my hair to give it a sultry volume. Guys like it when your hair looks like you’ve just been fucked.

  The DJ announces my club name, Prudence Sweet, and I step out on stage. The lights hit my eyes, but I don’t look towards the back, where I know Bryan’s lurking. Instead, I give my sugary come-hither smile to the crowd in front of me, scanning for the ones that look full of promise.

  One of the regulars, an aging alcoholic, has shown up, but I don’t pay him any attention. He’ll drop a couple fives on the stage, and I’ll stick my breasts in his face.

  A couple of the college guys have moved to the bar, no doubt trying to hit on Scarlett, the bartender. Guys seem to have the mistaken impression that she’s an easy target. They think she must be desperate for a little attention since everyone else’s eyes are fixed on the stage. But Scarlett has more experience than any of us. If they hang around over there long enough, she’ll talk them into buying ridiculously overpriced bottles of champagne and milk them for every dollar they have.