by Shen, L. J.
“I can’t believe they didn’t ID you, bitch. Sam’s gonna shit so many bricks, he’ll be able to build a replica of the Empire State Building!” Emmabelle—Belle for short—hi-fived me, whisper-shouting as we shouldered past hipsters, brushing along psychedelic art deco wallpaper and neon faux taxidermy.
Belle was my only partner in crime when it came to going out on the town, seeing as both our other friends—Sailor, and Emmabelle’s baby sister, Persephone—were new mothers, and therefore more interested in catching power naps and exchanging breastfeeding tips than downing drinks at a bar.
Belle was also the owner of Madame Mayhem, a notoriously sordid club downtown, and always enjoyed sniffing around the competition, so convincing her to come here today was no issue.
Badlands was darker and smaller than I’d imagined it. Dripping decadence. We reached the end of the stairway. I noticed that the club was no more than a few velvet couches, a small dance floor and a long bar made out of black wood. Above the bar, small, vintage televisions were lined up, all of them playing the same black-and-white movie: Dr. Strangelove.
“Fool’s Gold” by The Stone Roses played in the background, shaking the floor beneath my knee-high leather heels.
Partygoers in costumes sniffed cocaine off the bar, and there was a couple at the far corner of the club having full-blown sex on the couch. The girl, dressed as the Queen of Hearts, bounced up and down on the guy while sitting on his lap, her dress covering their dirty deed.
This club was Sam personified. Dark and wretched yet oddly beautiful.
I smoothed a hand over my outfit. It was Halloween. A great excuse to cover my true identity. I went for Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman and put on a short, blonde wig, complete with sunglasses, scarlet-red lipstick, and blue miniskirt, and cropped white top.
Belle had covered her blonde hair with a raven wig, a-la Uma Thurman in Pulp Fiction. She blew on an e-cigarette theatrically, looking around for her next victim. “Anyway, Sam’s an asshole for blacklisting you in the first place.”
“Sam’s an asshole for many reasons, none of them have anything to do with blacklisting me, but banning me from his club for no apparent reason just shows how much of a tyrant he is,” I murmured.
I didn’t speak ill of Sam often—or anyone else, for that matter—but when I did, it was to Belle, because I knew she wouldn’t judge me.
“Do you think he did it because you are Hunter and Kill’s sister?” Belle asked.
“No, I think he did it because I remind him of all the things he wants to forget,” I said honestly but didn’t elaborate.
The carnival.
That kiss.
Our conversation.
Sam never thought he’d see me again. I wasn’t in his plans, and whatever wasn’t in his plans had to go. That was why he treated me as he had—with indifference dipped in cruelty. Looking past me whenever we were in the same room. Never acknowledging anything I said or did.
Both Belle and I perched on high stools at the bar. I motioned for the bartender to get us two gin and tonics, doing my absolute best not to slump and/or cry into someone else’s drink.
At twenty-seven, I’d only been to bars a handful of times. I’d been too busy with med school until a second ago to really dive into the club scene, and now I had a residency. Or so people thought. But tonight, I wanted to do something reckless, dangerous, and stupid. To remind myself I was alive.
Tonight, I wanted to seek Sam Brennan out, even though I knew I shouldn’t.
Because tonight, like that other night, I watched someone die.
And whenever death was close, so was my need to curl into the soul of a monster and hide from the world.
To make matters complicated, I saw Sam all the time.
At dinners, charity events, and parties.
He had been working for my family for almost a decade now.
Somehow, I’d let the worst happen. I continued loving him from afar, like the sun loved the moon. Coexisting, but distantly. Eternally star-crossed, but never close enough for comfort.
We’d spoken very little to each other since that evening, even though our families had grown close to one another through Hunter and Sailor. Seeing him was always a bittersweet cocktail of elation and pain.
I’d learned to get high on both feelings.
“Forget about Sam tonight.” Belle sucked on her straw, inhaling the gin and tonic like getting trashed was an Olympic competition. Under her costume, she was the closest thing to Margot Robbie I’d seen up-close. Feline blue eyes, sunshine blonde hair, delicately arched brows, and a sinfully full bottom lip.
“You haven’t gone out once since you started your residency at Brigham and Women’s Hospital. That was over six months ago. Find yourself a hookup. Have fun. You earned it, Doc.”
“I don’t do hookups,” I pointed out, crushing the lime with my straw in my drink like it wronged me somehow.
“Time to change that. It makes no sense that an OB-GYN in training—a woman who literally takes care of everyone else’s vagina—does not care for her own. You can’t pine for an unrequited penis. There are plenty of fish in the sea.”
“Well, I sincerely hope you don’t get mercury poisoning, Belle, because you seem to enjoy sampling said fish a bit too much.” I took a generous sip of my drink, knowing I sounded prudish and regretting my remark immediately.
Belle threw her head back and laughed, far from offended.
“Oh, Ash, you are a hoot. That’s the thing most people don’t know about you. Underneath the polished exterior, the American Princess longs for the monster to steal her, not for the prince to save her. You’re kind of a dangerous creature, when you want to be.”
The drinks kept on coming, and the indie music was good and loud. Before long, Belle pulled me to the dance floor, where we ground against each other to the sound of The Shins, Two Door Cinema Club, and Interpol.
Tendrils of my blonde wig stuck to my face and lip gloss as I sweated away the memories of today’s shift at the clinic, and I belted out the words to “Runnin’ with the Devil” by Van Halen with a drunk, elated crowd, once again using noise and lights to drown my sorrows.
Ms. B.
Needles.
Death.
Mother.
Despair.
At some point, Belle zeroed in on a man as she always did.
Emmabelle Penrose was a self-proclaimed non-monogamous woman. While she wasn’t predatory, she was definitely not looking for a serious relationship and loved nothing more than indulging in one-night stands. Monogamous relationships were a foreign concept to her, like a bidet or brown sauce. She was aware it was something other people enjoyed, but was never tempted to try it out herself. But in the rare times she’d picked a lover, be it a woman or a man, she was fiercely devoted to them and made them feel like the center of the world.
Which was probably why she broke more hearts than she could count.
Her victim tonight was a tall, dark, and handsome type dressed as Zorro.
They met halfway, striking up a conversation while I self-consciously danced by myself before retreating back to the bar.
She reappeared by my side ten minutes later.
“We’re going to the Four Seasons. He’s got a friend in management who can hook us up with a presidential suite. Doesn’t he give Antonio Banderas a run for his money?” Belle sank her teeth into her lower lip, watching him from across the room as he retrieved both their coats from the cloakroom, sending her nervous glances to make sure she didn’t run away or change her mind.
I leaned my forearms against the bar, smiling. “Definitely, but the costume’s a bit cheesy, no?”
“Cheesier than Domino’s pizza. Luckily, I’m spending one night with him, not a lifetime.” Belle winked, smacking a kiss on my forehead.
“Happy Halloween, Doc. Make sure you don’t leave here alone and text me if you need anything, yeah?”
She left without waiting for an answer.
I entert
ained the idea of calling an Uber and going home, but then what was the point? My parents were still out, attending one of their charity dinners, which was the reason I was here in the first place; normally, when my mother was home, she insisted we spend time together. My brothers were with their respective wives and children.
I’d be going back to a pointless and excessively large manor to dwell in my own thoughts, dark memories, and regrets.
I signaled the bartender to get me another gin and tonic, downed it, and got back on the dance floor, dancing by myself.
Ten minutes later, a guy in a Ghostbuster uniform began dancing in my vicinity, drawing closer to me as he did. He looked young. Younger than my own twenty-seven years. College-aged and blond, his face pink from the bite of the Boston cold. We danced around each other for a while before he yelled in my ear, “I’m Chris.”
I leaned forward to answer him, even though I knew there was no way Chris and I were going home together. For better or worse, I wasn’t the type to go home with a random. I wasn’t a nun by any stretch of the imagination, and I wasn’t dumb enough to save myself for Sam, but I could also count on two fingers the men I’d slept with in my lifetime and knew their addresses, full names, phone number, and—embarrassingly—college grades.
“Ash,” I answered, keeping it vague.
Ash could mean Ashley or Ashlynn.
Aisling wasn’t a very common name, and everyone knew the Fitzpatricks in Boston.
“You look hot as fuck, Ash.” He licked his lips, undressing me with his eyes.
“Thanks.” I smiled grimly, mentally putting my clothes back on.
“Can I buy you a drink?”
I was aware I was treading into tipsy territory, but I was still far from drunk. I nodded. “Anything bottled works. I’ll open it myself.”
“You don’t have a bottle opener.”
“I have teeth,” I replied.
Literally. Figuratively.
He arched a brow, grinning.
“Right on.”
Chris brought me a beer. We danced some more. When “Heads Will Roll” by the Yeah Yeah Yeahs started, Chris shifted behind me and began grinding against my ass. He was hard, and I was over it. Over everything, really. Especially today.
I wasn’t going to see Sam tonight. He wasn’t here. My whole plan was a bust, and it was time to cut my losses and lick my wounds back home, where I could at least drown my sorrows in more alcohol without risking getting raped.
“It’s been fun, Chris. Thanks. Have a good night.” I grabbed my small clutch and turned toward the stairway, but Chris had other ideas. He snatched me by the arm, pulling me back to the busy dance floor, his rancid vodka breath wafting toward my face.
“Not so quick, Pretty Woman. Where’s my thank you for the beer?”
Ah-ha.
He was one of those men that thought buying a girl one drink got them a direct ticket into their panties. I reached into my clutch, plucked a crisp ten-dollar bill and threw it in his direction, smirking as it floated between us, sailing down like a feather all the way to the sticky floor.
“Here. Buy yourself something nice. Maybe the common sense not to sexually harass women.”
I swiveled on my heel again. He snatched my arm again. This time, he yanked me closer, my body slamming against his. My heart began to strum erratically as his fingers dug into my flesh, leaving rings of bruises.
“Nuh uh. I have something else in mind for payment.”
“Then I suggest you rethink it, because I’m not that type of girl.”
“Is that why you’re dressed like a whore?” He raised a challenging brow. “Spare me the speech, Ashley. We both want each other, and it’s going to happen.”
I looked up, trying to shake him off. He tightened his grip on my arm. I opened my mouth to warn him I was going to scream, when out of nowhere, Chris was jerked backward and picked up by the collar of his Ghostbuster costume like a cub.
I took a step back, knocking over another person on the dance floor, letting out a surprised yelp.
Sam Brennan.
The Monster himself was here, a dark horse holding Chris in the air, with a bouncer on either side of him. The college guy flailed, helplessly clutching to the collar of his costume to prevent himself from choking.
He showed up.
“Get rid of him, but not before breaking a few bones,” Sam ordered dryly, dumping Chris on the floor in a pile of limbs and moans, like he was a bag of trash.
“Oh, man,” Chris whined as the two burly guys grabbed each of his arms, yanking him toward the stairway. “Sorry. I didn’t know she was a VIP. C’mon, Brennan. Please!”
“Shut up,” Sam quipped.
“Am I banned from the club?” Chris whined.
Sam frowned at him coldly. “By the time my men finish with you, you’ll be lucky not to piss blood for the rest of your life. Take him out.” He pointed at the door up the stairs, and the bouncers immediately followed his order.
Sam took a step toward me. I took another step back, my knees knocking together in a mixture of fear and desire.
I’d been caught red-handed at his club, dressed like a legendary hooker from the nineties. Lovely. He was definitely going to be serving me my own ass. Maybe even tell my brothers and father about this.
I squeezed my eyes shut, getting ready for a verbal beating.
“Follow me,” he rasped softly.
“I’m sorry! I …”
Wait, what?
Why wasn’t he tossing me out to the street right along with Chris?
I looked around, internally cursing Belle for bailing on me. She was crazy enough to get into a fistfight with Sam. And somehow win.
Sam pressed his hand on the small of my back, ushering me toward the bar then past two bodyguards blocking a narrow, dimly lit hallway. Every cell in my body prickled with alarm. We passed by four doors—two on each side of the corridor—all of them open. The card rooms. Underground betting venues Sam operated, masquerading as Badlands nightclub. Everyone knew Badlands was notorious, but only a select few were privy to the true reason it was famous.
Apparently, only the richest and most respected men in New England could secure a membership to Sam’s little gentleman club—and only if they were vouched for by one of his few trusted contacts.
I caught a glimpse of the rooms. Brown, oaky, and smoky, the men inside clutched cigars between their teeth, drinking expensive scotch, laughing and placing bets.
Silently, we went up the stairs toward a door that obviously led to his office. He opened the black wooden door and closed it behind us, leaning against his desk.
I looked around, blinking away the harshness coming from the fluorescent light, drinking in more details about his life. Nothing about the room screamed money or power. It looked like just any other office of a nightclub owner. Sam wasn’t a flashy man. Meaning, he looked the part when it came to being rich, but he wasn’t desperate to show off his wealth.
We were now together—alone—with no one to stop him when he’d grind my body up and turn me into meatballs for defying his words and showing up here.
My heart beat so fast I thought I was going to puke.
“Look, I—” I tried to explain my presence at the club, but he raised his hand to cut me off.
“What happened to you tonight is not a representation of my club or the people inside it. I know things can get rowdy in here, but sexual harassment is where we draw the line. I’d like to offer you a hundred-dollar voucher for your troubles, Miss … Roberts.” His eyes scanned me, though there was no desire or want in his expression.
I bit down on my lip to prevent my mouth from gaping in shock when I figured it out.
Sam didn’t recognize me.
He had no idea who I was.
How would he? With my bleach blonde wig, costume, full face of makeup, and sunglasses.
My heart lurched, urging me to take advantage of the situation. The opportunity was overwhelming. To have Sam without
really having Sam.
I knew Boston’s favorite monster was notorious for sleeping with every willing woman. Why not me?
Because it is immoral, corrupt, and unfair, a voice inside me chided, in a slight French accent, her accent. Not to mention, you deserve a man who would beg for you, not vice versa.
Yeah, she still haunted me. A decade after her death.
But Sam didn’t have any morals. Why not play by his rules?
“Who said I didn’t want the attention?” I tilted my chin up, adopting a smokier, raspier tone than my own.
Sam arched a thick, dark eyebrow, lazily perched on his desk, strong arms folded across his massive chest.
“Your body language did, for one thing. Some read books, I read people. You tried tugging your arm free, the international signal for get-the-fuck-away. I noticed you on the monitor.” He flicked his chin toward the screen on his desk, in which black and white footage of the club from every angle danced across multiple frames.
I let loose a blood-red smile.
“You’re right. He wasn’t my type. But that doesn’t mean I didn’t come here to get some action.”
“Is that so?” he asked, disinterested.
“Yes.” My voice barely shook when those words I found at the carnival on the restroom wall came to mind.
Lust lingers, love stays.
Lust is impatient, love waits.
Lust burns, love warms.
Lust destroys, but love? Love kills.
S.A.B.
Samuel Austin Brennan.
Was I an idiot to think it was him? That these words were once upon a time directed at me?
“Better get out there and try your luck, then.” His voice was like a freezing cold shower dousing my advances.
“Or maybe we could help each other.” I played with a tendril of bleached hair, careful not to tug too hard on the wig and blow my own cover.
Sam’s smile was wry and skeptic. “Who said I’m on the prowl?”
“Your blood type.”