Chapter 9 Amara #2
She laughs, a short, bright sound. “My step-dad saw me and said I looked like a murder victim. I still have the photo somewhere. Want to see?”
I shake my head, smiling. “I believe you.”
Eve leans in, brushing color onto my eyelids. “You don’t have to be afraid of him, you know. Julian. He’s a bastard, but he’s not your father.”
The words make my hands go clammy. “What if I’m more afraid of myself?”
She pauses, considers this, then shrugs. “Even better. Most people spend their whole lives terrified of what’s inside them. If you already know, you’re ahead of the game.”
She starts on my hair, combing it out with quick, efficient strokes. “You ever been kissed by a girl?”
I startle. “No.”
Eve grins, not looking up from her work. “Would you want to?”
I think about it. “Maybe. I dunno.”
“That’s fine. Just wondering. Some of the girls at the club can be handsy.” She parts my hair, then winds sections around a curling iron. The heat is intense, but she’s careful not to burn me.
For a few minutes, we work in silence. The only sound is the hum of the iron and the soft shuffle of Eve’s feet as she moves around the chair.
She finishes, then stands back and surveys her work. “Almost done. Now the dress.”
She holds it up, and I feel my face go hot. “Are you sure?”
She doesn’t answer. Instead, she pats it and slips it over my head, tugging it into place with expert hands. The hem barely covers my ass. The neckline plunges. The sleeves cling to my arms, ending just above the wrist.
I catch my reflection in the full-length mirror by the closet. I don’t recognize myself.
My hair is a mass of loose, wild waves. My eyes are rimmed in black, smoky and huge. My lips are painted deep red, almost bleeding. The dress makes me look older, meaner, dangerous.
I touch my face and smile. For a moment, I almost believe I am beautiful.
Eve stands behind me, hands on my shoulders. “Holy shit. Jules is going to lose his mind.”
I freeze. “Julian’s not coming, is he?”
She shrugs, the hint of a smile tugging her mouth. “No idea. The Feral Boys have a way of showing up when you least want them to. But tonight is for you. Not for him. Or your father. Or anyone else.”
She turns me around, inspecting me like a jeweler with a diamond. “You are a fucking goddess. If you don’t feel pretty tonight, I dunno what the fuck else to do.”
I laugh, a little too loud. “I’ve never worn anything like this.”
Eve leans in, brushing a stray lock from my cheek. “Good. You look like you could eat the next guy who tries to hurt you.”
There’s something soft in her eyes. For a second, I wonder what it would be like to kiss her. Not to prove anything, just to see what it feels like.
She reads my mind and winks. “Next time.”
She tosses a leather jacket over my shoulders and grabs a pair of boots from the duffle. “We go hard or we don’t go at all.”
I zip up the jacket. The boots fit perfectly, lacing up my calves in a way that makes me feel like I could make for a beautiful stripper.
The thought makes me pause. Maybe I’ll try my hand tonight. Could be fun… if I don’t fall on my ass. The strength it takes to pole dance is insane and way too many people discount it.
“Ready?” she asks.
I take one last look at the girl in the mirror.
She’s still me. But she looks like someone who could say no. Or yes. Or fuck off.
She looks like someone who could make Julian Roth beg.
I nod. “Ready.”
Eve grins. “Let’s go shake our asses.”
We leave the room together, two shadows lengthening down the hallway, heads high, hearts armored in borrowed steel.
We slip out the side gate, cutting between two utility sheds and out through the overgrown field that marks the edge of campus. It’s darker than I expect, the moon low behind a bank of clouds, but I feel Eve’s hand on my wrist, steady and insistent, like she’s afraid I’ll run.
A truck idles just beyond the last lamp post, engine rumbling low.
It’s an old Chevy, black with silver trim, the kind of car that would look at home barreling down a country road.
Dahlia sits behind the wheel, fingers tapping the wheel in time to the bass pulsing from the radio.
The music is Italian, something fast and mournful.
In the passenger seat, Isolde is a silhouette against the window, her hair in a loose braid, her stomach swelling under the stretch of her dress. One hand is splayed over her bump, thumb tracing lazy circles across the fabric. She looks tired, but content.
Eve yanks the back door open and shoves me in first, then slides in beside me. Dahlia doesn’t look back, just raises two fingers in a lazy salute.
“Nice of you to join us, Marcus,” she says.
I buckle up.
Isolde glances over her shoulder, eyes soft. “First time off campus this semester?”
I nod, a little too fast. “Well, I went to dinner with Julian and his family. First time in a truck, that didn’t have a bodyguard in it. Courtesy of my overprotective brother.”
Dahlia laughs, a deep, throaty sound. “Fuck me. How sheltered are you?”
Eve kicks the seat in front of her. “Leave her alone, Lia. She’s here, that’s all that matters.”
“Yeah, yeah. You got the address?” Dahlia’s accent is thicker when she’s annoyed. Eve rattles off a street name I’ve never heard and Dahlia grunts, then throws the truck into drive.
We tear away from Westpoint like convicts on the lam, the engine roaring as we hit the main road.
Isolde cranks the window, letting the cold air whip through the cab. “You’re going to love this place, Amara. It’s disgusting and loud and nobody cares who your father is.”
I want to say that’s impossible, that someone always cares, but the words die when Eve leans in, lips brushing my ear.
“Relax,” she murmurs. “We’re safe. No one can touch us tonight.”
I close my eyes and try to believe her.
Eve tells stories the whole way: how she and Isolde once tried to break into the Westpoint archives at midnight, how Dahlia got arrested for shoplifting a bottle of perfume in Rome. The stories are wild, and they make me ache for something I’ve never had.
Friendship.
At one point, Isolde turns and asks, “You ever been in love, Amara?”
The question is so out of nowhere, I don’t know how to answer.
“I don’t think so,” I say, and it’s true.
Eve snorts. “Give it a week.”
Dahlia mutters, “More like a day, at this rate.”
We reach the club just before midnight. It’s tucked in the corner of a strip mall, no sign, just a line of people waiting in the alley, all of them in black or mesh or leather. The bouncer is enormous, his arms covered in sleeve tattoos, but he waves Dahlia through with a nod.
Inside, the club is pure chaos. The music is loud enough to vibrate my teeth. Bodies press together in the dark, lit by strobe flashes and a light show that turns everyone into skeletons and shadows. It smells like perfume, sweat and sickly sweet drinks. I taste it at the back of my throat.
We lose Isolde right away. She makes for the VIP seating, cradling her belly and sipping water like a queen. Dahlia vanishes into the smoke. Eve grabs my hand and drags me toward the dance floor.
It’s hotter here, the press of people so tight I have to fight for every breath.
The beat is relentless, a pounding that leaves no room for thought.
Eve dances like she’s made of lightning, every movement sharp, angular, beautiful.
She throws her head back, laughs at nothing, rolls her hips in time to the music.
I stand still for a minute, watching her. Watching everyone. Nobody cares that I’m new, or that I’m awkward, or that my dress is riding up and my hair is sticking to my face.
No one even looks at me.
It’s freedom and terror, rolled together and shot straight into my veins.
Eve sees my hesitation and turns, putting her hands on my hips. She leans in, her breath sweet and warm against my cheek.
“Let go,” she says. “No one’s watching.”
I try. At first it’s just swaying, side to side, copying her. But the music works on me, loosening my limbs, breaking up the stiffness in my spine. My head starts to float. My arms move without thinking. My heart kicks up in my chest.
Eve grins, pulls me closer. “See? Not so hard.”
We dance for what feels like hours. My skin grows slick with sweat, my legs ache, but I don’t stop. Every song is the same but different, every beat a new excuse to shed another layer of fear.
At one point, Eve spins me, then pulls me back so we’re chest to chest. Her lips part in a wicked smile.
“You’re a natural,” she shouts over the music.
“I don’t know what I’m doing!” I yell back, laughing.
Eve’s mouth grazes my jaw, as she murmurs that she’s going to grab a drink for us, and then she twirls away, vanishing into the crowd.
I dance alone, eyes closed, arms raised, for the first time in my life not thinking about what I look like or who’s watching.
I don’t notice the man watching me from the bar until the music shifts, the tempo slowing, the crowd thinning. I catch his gaze: tall, dark hair, not quite handsome but magnetic in a way that makes my stomach twist. He holds my stare for a long moment, then looks away.
I shiver, unsure if it’s excitement or dread.
I find Isolde at a corner table, surrounded by empty glasses and a few girls I don’t recognize. She waves me over, and I slide into the booth beside her.
“You having fun?” she asks.
I nod. “Is it always like this?”
She laughs, slow and low. “It’s never the same twice. That’s what I love about it. Came here with Bam and the girls quite a bit before I got so big. Nice just to be normal, you know?”
She glances at her phone, then at the door. “Dahlia went to call her father. Something about business.”
I sip her water. “How are you so calm?”
She smiles, stroking her belly. “You stop being afraid after a while. Especially when you realize that most of the things you’re scared of can’t hurt you unless you let them.”