by Myles, Eden
Kevin was exhausted, the sweat dripping from his face, when Roman finally undid his bonds. He felt full and satisfied as he dropped down and rubbed himself between his two lovers. The three lovers licked at each other’s mouths, then Roman shifted to his full wolf form and barked for the two of them to follow.
The three werewolves raced out into the twilight forest to hunt as one pack, and somewhere along the way, Kevin thought, Finally, I’ve come home.
* * *
Bonus Story #1
MEPHISTO’S WALTZ
by Alex Crossman
“Well, Miss Wiggles, this is it,” I said to the cat carrier sitting in my lap.
Miss Wiggles let out a plaintive meow as if she were agreeing with me. At least someone has my back, I thought, looking nervously at all the glitzy posters on the walls for various Las Vegas acts.
The big bouncer standing by the curtain motioned for me to follow. He was a huge mountain of a man, bald and covered in tats, but I sensed he was sweet and a little oversensitive. In fact, the more I concentrated on his face, the more information I picked up. For instance, I could tell he was feeling worried about his partner—a man—and that his partner’s name was Brian or Billy. I knew Brian or Billy was ill. Leukemia or cancer. I also knew that he would be all right. Things would be rough for a while, but he would pull through.
All of my life I’d had gut feelings about the people I was in close proximity to. They were always right. Over time, I’d learned to live my life by them.
“Coming? The boss ain’t got all night, girlie,” said the bouncer. His voice was harsh and booming, and his expression stone hard, but I could tell he was a nice guy. That he cared about the girls he protected. A little tag on his red bouncer shirt said “Vincent”.
I got up from the plastic seat I was sitting in and set Miss Wiggles down on it. “Is it okay if I leave my cat here?”
Vincent’s eyebrows peaked upward. “You brought your cat to a dance audition?”
“I had no one to watch her.” I didn’t add that I had no accommodations, that I was essentially homeless.
“I guess. I mean, there ain’t no rules about cats.”
“Thanks.” I passed Vincent on the way to the stage, then stopped and put my hand on his big, tattoo-sleeved arm. He jumped a little like I’d shocked him. “He’s going to be okay. Your lover. Just have faith, all right?” I stepped out onto the stage to audition for the dancing position at Mephisto’s Waltz, leaving Vincent behind with a shocked expression on his face.
* * *
When I was fourteen years old, growing up in Teaneck, New Jersey, I had a vision that my father would throw me down a flight of stairs and kill me. He’d always been a mean drunk, but something about this time frightened me more than usual.
I stayed down in the kitchen that night, and when he came at me, I bolted for the door of the house, but he caught me by the back of the shirt. I kicked him and flipped around. He was blocking the front door, so I went up the stairs, the only place I could escape to, even though I knew I shouldn’t. I knew it was a deathtrap. He followed me up, and at the top, he grabbed my hair. I knew this was it, so instead of trying to fight to get away, I threw myself against him and we both went down the stairs together. I lived; he didn’t.
After that, I made the round of foster homes. I was difficult to place. I was older, not a cute little kid anymore, and I continued to have those visions, although sometimes they were just hunches. I knew when someone was going to have an accident, for instance, or get sick, or even die. It creeped a lot of my foster parents out, not that I could blame them. Those four years of my life were like hell. I was relieved to turn eighteen and become emancipated.
The day of my eighteenth birthday, I packed my secondhand Volkswagen rabbit with all my earthly possessions and drove west, not knowing where I was going. All I knew was that I had to get out of New England, get away. I drove all day and slept in the car at night. I did odd jobs to make money. I found out there were plenty of unscrupulous bosses willing to pay a young girl next to nothing if it meant money under the table. Something they wanted more than just work out of me, but again, my instincts told me which people to avoid.
Along the way, I learned to wash cars, to wait tables, to clean and repair just about anything. In Oklahoma City, I found work at a roadhouse, serving drinks to drunken rednecks. The work sucked, but the girls who stripped there were nice, and they showed me how to dance. I found I liked it a lot, and they said I had plenty of talent. With a little skill under my belt, I could make a career out of it.
Shortly afterward, I found myself in Las Vegas. I loved the lights and the crazy energy of the casinos and clubs. At first, I worked cheap dives and roadhouses, but I soon discovered they actually had talent scouts for strippers. One suggested I apply at this college bar, which I did. I got the job on the spot, and the owner was nice enough to pay me in cash and let me sleep in the storeroom if I kept an eye on the place at night. It was there I found Miss Wiggles.
The place was always jumping, and the patrons were usually respectful, even observing the “no touch” rule during lap dances. Then I met Jason, a college kid with serious self-confidence issues. I felt sorry for him and one night I gave him a free lap dance even though he creeped me out a little and I had a bad feeling about him. Unfortunately, Jason got it into his head that I was madly in love with him, and the next time he saw me at the club, he proposed marriage. I tried to explain that I wasn’t interested in marrying him, but Jason didn’t get it and he hit me. He kept hitting me until one of the bouncers heard the commotion and pulled him off me.
I thought that was the end of Jason, but a couple nights later, he broke into the club and cornered me. He tried to rape me, but when he put his hands on me, and I started screaming and fighting, they erupted into flames. I called the police and they dragged him away to the hospital. Turned out, Jason had family in the police and they thought I had purposely set him on fire somehow, which was true, in a way. The police started hanging out at the bar, and the boss let me go, saying I was a troublemaker.
After that, Miss Wiggles and I spent a few weeks on the streets, but each time I thought I could settle down in one of the homeless communities, I felt like I was being watched, as crazy as that sounded. One night, I found a bouquet of dead, withered flowers lying next to the park bench where I was sleeping. Another time someone spray-painted Exodus 22:18 on the wall of an abandoned building where I was staying.
Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.
It was hard to get work after that, and I found myself looking over my shoulder constantly. But I didn’t want to leave Las Vegas. I felt at home here.
Then one day I spotted the flier for dance tryouts at Mephisto’s Waltz, one of the larger and more respected joints on the Las Vegas Strip. I knew it was a long shot, but when I saw the place, which looked like a luxurious black and gold palace, complete with lighted turrets on top and stone gargoyles out front that blew fire at passersby, I was too intrigued to walk away. It was glitzy, beautiful, and fantastical like a fairytale come true…like everything else in Vegas.
My gut told me to go inside, not to be afraid. This was a good thing. Journey’s end. I had learned to trust my gut. So, toting Miss Wiggle’s carrier and a dry cleaning bag containing my stripper costume, I went inside and decided to try out.
* * *
A tall, beautiful Asian-American stripper in a tiny, glitzy costume passed me as I made my way to the stage in my costume and glass stripper heels. She was sweating, and she looked exhausted and disappointed.
“Good luck, darling. You’re going to need it,” she said in disgust.
“What do you mean?”
“That guy’s a bastard,” she said, lifting her upper lip in a snarl to reveal her teeth.
Her reaction made me pause as I stepped out onto the lighted stage.
The club was huge but dimly lit, and almost resembled a church in some ways—there were tall mosaic windows in shades of red
and hot pink, and an arched ceiling from which hung square red glass chandeliers on long chains. Tables were scattered about, covered in fine, red linen cloth, with tall black candles set in the center of silver pentagram centerpieces. Tall, black iron candelabras lined both sides of the building, but instead of candles, they features torches on top with actual fire. The joint looked elegant, but also a little creepy, like some kind of satanic church. Then I remembered it was called Mephisto’s Waltz, and laughed to myself. This was Las Vegas. Everything was overkill!
Dressed in my tiny, red and black striped, burlesque costume, I felt myself melting under the powerful strobe lights. I had designed and sewn the costume myself for maximum movement and to be light and airy, but I was immediately drenched in nervous sweat. There were lights in my eyes, making it hard to see if anyone was sitting at the tables at the foot of the stage. I thought I saw a shadow, but it was hard to tell. I felt jittery, which was very unlike me. I’d done this a hundred times.
Then the shadow spoke. “Tell me about yourself.”
The voice immediately calmed me. I had never heard anything like it before. It was deep, dark, and melodious, like soft velvet brushing my body. Unmistakably male. That one little sentence made me drench my panties, as miniscule as they were.
“Um…my name…my stage name is Kat,” I said. “I’m twenty-three years old and I’ve been dancing for four years.” That’s all the info I volunteered.
Thankfully, the voice’s owner didn’t demand more. I didn’t like telling people my real name or where I came from, or anything about my past. I wasn’t a part of that life anymore.
“Who…who are you?” I ventured.
“I am master here,” he said. The shadow lit the candle on the table he was sitting at. I heard the spurt of a match, smelled the brimstone, then a small flame came alive. I saw his eyes first, the way they caught the candle flame, then the rest of him.
Holy Jesus, I thought.
He was gorgeous. He looked like a daytime soap star, one of those impossibly beautiful men that Hollywood produces, even though I was pretty sure he hadn’t had any plastic surgery. He was tall and slim in a long black leather jacket, red shirt and black skinny tie. His hair was a raven black, luxurious, and curled just behind his ears. His stubborn jaw was darkened by the stubble of a strong beard, but his lips were soft and sensual, slightly smirking at the corners. His expression reminded me of a cat when it was up to no good. He had the most intense eyes I’d ever seen on a man, and they were of that particular hazel color that changes with the environment. Right then, they looked pale and almost golden yellow in the light of the candle. His devilishly arched eyebrows were pulled down at the center as if he were silently challenging me to run away.
I thought about what the Asian stripper had said, and tried not to be too afraid.
He smirked like he knew what effect he had on people and took a sip of dark red wine from the glass goblet on the table before him. He licked his lips slowly, sensually, making a show of it. I felt my thighs squicking in my outfit. “My name is Mr. Angelus. I’m the owner of Mephisto’s Waltz.” Even after he set it down, he kept his fingers on the rip of his glass, rubbing the edge a little so it sang in the quiet club. “You’ve been on your own quite some time.”
I didn’t answer that. I wondered how he knew. Did I really look that rough?
He narrowed his cattish eyes. “Do you know what I’m looking for?”
“Yes,” I said, even though I didn’t.
“Do you think you’re the right girl for the job?”
“No,” I answered completely on gut instinct. I had a feeling it was a challenge. “I know I am.”
“You’re a proud woman. Girl, don’t you know pride goes before the fall?”
I didn’t answer that. I didn’t know what to say. It was hard to think with him looking at me that way.
Mr. Angelus’s smirk inched up on one side, making a dimple form on that side of his face. The effect was dangerous and sexy at the same time. The light of the candle turned his smooth, milk-white skin rosy and caught in little red sparks in his eyes. At the same time, his brows came neatly together, making them arch even more. It made him look deliciously wicked. “I like a proud woman.”
“I’m a good dancer.” That was no lie. I was small and flexible. I’d done gymnastics in high school. I’d landed a lot of dancing jobs simply because I looked younger than I was and the owners of the clubs wanted girls that looked underage but weren’t. It wasn’t something I was proud of, but you’ll do a lot of things just to survive.
“You have a beautiful body, and I love your eyes, but you judge yourself very harshly,” said Mr. Angelus, and I wondered if he could read my thoughts. The idea didn’t seem all that farfetched. I had feelings about other people all the time. Maybe he was having feelings about me? The idea excited me.
“Shall we begin?” he said, indicating the stage. He blew out his candle.
A frenetic house beat started up from the speakers hidden in the ceiling, and soon the room that looked so much like a church thudded with noise and energy. The strobe lights began to flicker and gyrate. I swallowed against the lump in my throat and told myself to pretend I was alone. It had always worked to ease my nervousness in the past, and with the lights in my eyes, it was hard to see, which helped. I swayed my hips enticingly as I approached the long, stainless steel stripper pole. Clamping both hands around it, I started to dance. I wrapped both legs around it the way you wrap your legs around your lover and let myself go. For the next few minutes, I was lost in the music and my own little world.
Some dancers are real acrobats, but I’d learned long ago that the girls who had the most money stuffed in their g-strings at the end of the night were the ones that played it slow and easy, who got the crowd hot. I took my time, twisting and snaking up and down the pole like I was making love to it.
At one point, hanging suspended and twirling like a top, I was sure I caught a glint of narrow fiery eyes from the shadows at the front of the stage. I moved with the music, let the music move me. Near the end, as I slowly and sensually let myself down onto my back on the floor, I realized that Mr. Angelus was smiling. I knew because his teeth, like his eyes, seemed to glint in the dark.
I’ve got this, I thought. Grabbing the pole, I pulled myself upright onto my five-inch platform heels.
By then, the lights in the room had come on, and I realized Mr. Angelus was standing and clapping, a pleased expression on his face. Still, something bothered me. For one second after the lights had sprung on, his knee-length leather jacket seemed to be shifting around him, though I couldn’t detect the slightest breeze. I stared at him long and hard, but he was just a devastatingly handsome and sexy man in a leather jacket.
“You’re her,” he said. His voice was smooth and confident. “You’re my new girl. You’ll start tomorrow night. Vincent will show you where the ladies’ accommodations are. Don’t be late.”
“I won’t,” I said, the slightest quaver in my voice. I turned to go backstage and collect my cat, but I felt his eyes on me the whole way.
* * *
I felt both guarded and a little surprised when Vincent led me up a long glass elevator at the Sands Hotel and down a twisting corridor that faced out over the indoor pool. There were kids and parents frolicking in the pool down below, and a good number of mucky mucks walking the hallway in their complimentary terrycloth robes. “Are we in the right place?” I asked when we came to a stop before one of the shiny hotel room doors.
Vincent laughed. “The boss likes to take care of his girls. You can find your own place, of course, but until then, why not enjoy it?”
He used an electronic key to lead me inside a huge, posh hotel suite that looked better suited to a princess than a pole dancer. The walls were flocked in gold wallpaper, and there was a plush white shag carpet. The furniture was all made of glass or black leather, and the bed was huge and comfy-looking. There was a million-dollar view over the lighted Las Vegas St
rip. I didn’t even need to go to the huge, panoramic window; I could see the lights from here.
Miss Wiggles let out a concerned mew in the carrier at my side and I started. “They aren’t going to let me keep my cat, are they?”
Vincent flashed me a grin. “Boss is friends with the owner, so, sure they will. Just don’t let her get out.”
I smiled. “I won’t.” Then a thought occurred to me. “Do I have to sleep with any johns? Because I don’t want to do that.” I prided myself on being a dancer, not a hooker.
Vincent gave me a sympathetic look. “You’ve been out on the streets a while, haven’t you?”
“Does it show?”
“A little.”
“I mean, I will if I absolutely have to, but I don’t want to. That’s not what I’m here to do.”
“You don’t have to sleep with anyone,” Vincent said, setting my one traveling bag on the floor. “But you should know the other girls do intermission acts at the club. Chelsea sings, and Darlene does a magic act. It keeps things interesting. Do you have any experience with that sort of thing?”
I thought about that but decided to be honest. I shook my head. “No, sorry. Well, I did acrobatics in high school. Does that count?”
“An acrobatic act might be interesting.” Again, Vincent smiled. I could feel that he liked me, that he felt protective toward me already, and that made me happy. I hadn’t encountered too many people willing to watch my back that way. “Right now, though, just take it one step at a time. The boss will come around soon enough, and he’s a real slave-driver, so try and rest up.” He patted my shoulder. “Sleep well, girlie.” He left me alone in the sumptuous hotel room, closing the door behind him.
I look around the suite, the king-sized bed and widescreen TV, the adjoining kitchenette and bathroom, the glass chandelier hanging from the ceiling. I touched my very own complimentary terrycloth robe hanging on a hook by the door just to make sure it was real and I wasn’t dreaming. It was the most beautiful and amazing room I had ever seen.