Deny the Moon

by Melissa A. Graham

July 5th 2011 1:01 a.m.

  I stared down at my dangling feet, zoning out to a place far away from Frank and blood and promised threats. Liz was curled up in the small metal chair beside the gurney, her suede jacket laid over her like a blanket. She’d drifted off long ago. I told her to go home and get some sleep, but God love her, she was too stubborn to leave.

  The emergency room was cold, bright, and way too clean to even pretend to be comfortable. I would have been discharged long ago, my wound already cleaned and bandaged, but I had to make a statement to the police, and they were taking their sweet fucking time to get there. The idea of being in a building filled with death and sickness wasn't the only reason I felt uneasy.

  I did my best these days to steer clear of law enforcement. While I wasn't exactly a big name criminal, like Mr. Essex, I had been involved in some things that might lead me back to a very bad place. That paired with the lies Frank had threatened to give the police had my nerves shot.

  "Ms. Rayne?" A gentle, strangely familiar, voice inquired before the sound of the door closing brought my eyes up from my feet.

  "Yes?"

  "Sorry to keep you waiting. I'm here to take your statement about what happened tonight." He was cautious as he spoke to me. Not wanting to spook me, maybe? Too late. I was pretty spooked before he even got here.

  "I just want to go home," I said, the exhaustion dragging at my body and echoing in my voice.

  "I can understand that. Unfortunately, this is the second time a violent attack like this has occurred at your club in a very short time frame. We're still investigating the assault on Mr. Tate, and anything you might be able to tell us about your own incident might shed some light on our search."

  Finally looking at him, I considered him a moment before recognition dawned on me. Shit. It was the detective from Jackson's house. Still investigating the assault, he’d said. I guess that meant they still hadn't found that bastard. I would bet my ass he probably thought Frank was his guy for that one, too.

  "Did you know the assailant, Ms. Rayne?" His voice ripped me from my thoughts.

  "Huh?" Shit. If I said yes, that might open a door I couldn't close again. "No," I finally answered, perhaps a little too quickly. "I mean I've seen him around before but I don't, like, know him."

  "Has he been to the club before? A customer, maybe?"

  "No, I've never seen him in the club until tonight," I answered easily. There. Some truth amidst the deceit.

  "Right. So he wasn't the same man from before. The one Mr. Tate bounced from the club because of you?"

  "Whoa! Hold up. Because of me?"

  Like I could have known the guy couldn’t take rejection to the point where he’d shoot someone. The blatant victim-blaming completely floored me, yet I should have known better. Whether this guy’s misogyny stemmed from my being a woman or my being a stripper, I couldn’t say. Truth was, it didn’t fucking matter.

  "Are you seriously implying because I didn't let some drunken asshole play grab-ass with me that I should take responsibility for his actions? That it's my fault my friend was shot by some coward who can't handle rejection? I bet I was really just asking for it, right?"

  "My apologies, I didn't mean to offend you," he said, though the tone of his voice told me professionalism apologizing rather than any form of chivalry. "But isn't playing grab-ass sort of your job out there?"

  "Isn't catching criminals sort of your job? Tell me, Detective. Is it good old fashioned sexism, or do you just have a thing against strippers?"

  His eyes darkened, only for a fraction of a second, before he slipped into an unexpected smile. "As I said before, Ms. Rayne, if you answer my questions it might help us catch your friend’s attacker. Though, I’m surprised you're more worked up about your Mr. Tate’s attack than your own."

  I opened my mouth, shut it, and took in a deep breath. Counted to ten. Maybe twenty. "And I'm surprised you’re still just a lowly detective with all that charm," I said as sweetly as I could. I didn't know what I'd done to deserve this attitude. No matter his reasoning, he could go fuck himself.

  Liz stirred in the corner, drawing both of our attention. When I looked back over to Det. Sheppard, his face was back to that pleasant and polite blankness. Unreadable copface. Liz's eyes blinked opened and stared curiously at the detective until her neurons snapped back together and brought her back to the here and now.

  "So can you tell me what caused him to attack you? Was he making unwanted advances? Did it happen before or after the dance he paid for?"

  I absentmindedly ran the back of my fingers along the white bandage on my arm and replayed the events in my head. I was looking for anything I could tell him without throwing myself into a larger shit-storm. A large part of me wanted to tell him everything, but Frank had planted enough doubt in my head that I wasn’t sure I wouldn’t come out of it unscathed. Hell, if I was smart I would’ve told him it was the same guy he was looking for with Jackson’s case—completely throw him off my scent. Unfortunately, the detective had proven to me seconds before that I couldn’t trust him. He would never believe I was innocent in everything. If I couldn’t fully believe it, why should he?

  "I really don't know. I mean I went in to dance and next thing I know he's all over me, keeping me from leaving the room."

  "Did he sexually assault you? Try to get more than what he paid for?"

  "No. It wasn't like that." Even as I said it, my lips burned with the memory of his kiss.

  "So why did he keep you from leaving? Why not just watch you dance then leave?"

  Jeez, he was pushy.

  "I wish I knew. Maybe he's just a sick bastard that likes to hurt girls. Maybe he doesn't get enough attention from his wife and is taking it out on disposable women. I can't really say for sure. We really didn't delve into his psyche and memories of his dear old mommy and the screaming lambs."

  Again with that sidelong smile. I wanted to wipe it from his face, but assaulting an officer was probably not the smartest move.

  "Harley, he's just trying to find out why this guy attacked you." Liz's sweet, rational voice came from behind me.

  I glanced over my shoulder and saw the worry etched across her face. I hadn't told her much of what happened in there, either. The truth was if I wasn't going to share it with Liz, I wasn't going to spill to anyone. Not the full truth anyway. Her soft blue eyes soothed the snark and anger that was trying to climb out of me like a savage beast, and with a sigh, I glanced up to Detective Sheppard once more.

  "That's all I really know. This guy seems like a real psycho if you ask me. Serial killer type stuff. I mean who cuts the freaking alphabet into women's bodies? Makes you wonder if there’s an A through E out there somewhere." That sounded nice and clueless. God I wanted to go home.

  "Alright. Did he say anything to you that was strange or something that might point us in any direction as to who he is, or maybe his whereabouts?"

  "No, he spoke in sonnets and soliloquy as he dug the knife into my arm." Liz touched my shoulder lightly. Chastising or comforting, I really couldn't tell. Maybe both. Either way, I sighed and dropped my gaze to my hands like a scolded child. "Really, Detective Sheppard, that's all I know. He babbled something, but all I really could concentrate on was how fucking scared I was and how I thought he was going to kill me. So if you don't mind, I would really like to go home and get some sleep. "

  He stared at me a few moments, his face unreadable, but seemed to drop whatever was rolling around in his head. He tucked his pen and small notepad into his inside jacket pocket and nodded.

  "Well, I assume you still have my card from before. If there is anything else you would like to share with us, don't hesitate to call. Really, anything you know just might get this scum off the street." He opened the door and stepped halfway out of the room.

  Looking back, he glanced at me then looked past me to Liz who was still standing with a hand on my shoulder. "You ladies have a good evening. Be careful out there." And with that, he was gone.
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br />   His departure released a breath I hadn't known I was holding the entire time he questioned me. I relaxed more, and I think Liz noticed it, too. With a gentle squeeze on my shoulder, Liz wordlessly walked past me and gathered up our bags and jackets. I stared out of the room, thinking about what the detective had insinuated before.

  Was this all my fault? This and Jackson's incident? I hadn't really considered it before. If I hadn't been so abrasive with that guy maybe he would have eventually just left me alone. Then Jackson wouldn't have been stuck outside with an angry, armed drunk. I just couldn't forget the look of panic in his eyes when he really got a good look at me. His sudden determination for me to leave the club with him, like his entire world depended on me following him wherever it was he wanted me to go.

  And then I remembered something. The tiniest detail, but it was there.

  The three thin scars, about two inches in length, stacked on the side of his neck. I don’t know why it hadn’t clicked before. Maybe the heat of the moment had clouded my judgement, or maybe I was getting too relaxed, too comfortable in this new life I made.

  I had seen it so many times back when I ran with the Coyotes. A handful of the men in his pack, Frank included, all had the same brand on their necks. Some sort of club thing, I'd assumed, like wearing colors or patches. A man I had never seen before knew who I was. He was the reason Frank knew where to find me. The two incidents were connected and both were my fault. The scuffle in the club, Jackson being shot, Andre's broken nose... It really was all because of me.