eight Selena
eight
Selena
Driving up to the address sent for Shadows, I feel like I might have been the victim of a joke.
I’m in the warehouse district, which is an older part of Sunnyvale where nothing good ever happens.
The streets are dark and empty, an ominous feeling floating through the air.
The building itself is large, and I already see cars parked in the lot, but there is still something that makes me pause.
“Get it together, Selena,” I tell myself, as I force my way out of my car.
The walkway is lined with tiny spotlights that throw fractured shadows across the stone.
A man and a woman stand near the entrance, both looking powerful. I nervously hand over my ticket.
“Selena. Welcome,” the woman says, watching my face carefully.
The way she says it makes me feel both special and disposable.
She gestures for me to follow, and I do, through a tunnel of black glass and muted gold.
The club is nothing like I expected, and exactly as I should have guessed: it is both huge and claustrophobic, with every surface either reflective or absorptive.
The lights are so low it’s like being underwater, and the sound is a blend of music and hush, not quite a beat, more like the world’s slowest heartbeat.
Walking into Shadows feels like being transported into another world.
Music pulsates throughout the space as people move around in their masks and sexy attire.
A large bar is to my right, and it is already full of people sitting and talking.
There’s a flirtatious vibe in the air, and it’s intoxicating.
In the center of the space is a dance floor where people dance as if they are in a bedroom; it almost feels too private to watch.
I feel my cheeks heat as I watch a couple hold hands and walk into a room marked private.
Candlelit alcoves dot the space, adding to its sexy chicness.
These are the things I read about online. People exploring voyeurism with strangers and living out their fantasies in a way where they don’t have to feel shamed. It’s all so overwhelming and exciting at once.
I move toward the bar and type out a quick message on the Shadows' social media page.
I quickly tuck my phone back into my small purse. One of the big rules in Shadows is that you can’t have phones for privacy reasons. Fearful of getting caught, I remind myself not to slip up and use the device again.
I slide over to the bar as my eyes continue to scan the area.
I glance up, and that’s when my heart stops.
Sitting on a balcony overlooking the entire club are three men in bright neon masks.
Their faces are expressionless as they look down on their loyal subjects.
From everything I've read about them online, I feel like seeing them in person will be even more exciting and frightening.
My heart begins to race, and my pulse quickens.
These men are powerful and alluring, and I can see why everyone worships Shadows.
They are hunters, and the hunt never stops.
I wonder if I look like prey. Part of me hopes I do.
“Can I get you something?” the bartender asks. He, too, is wearing a mask, though his is simple and black to match his uniform. He wears a white button-up shirt and black pants.
“A margarita on the rocks,” I yelled to him.
It’s loud in here, and two women are flirting loudly next to where I’m standing.
The bartender walks away and quickly returns with my drink.
I pay and then turn to look back at the men I so desperately want to get a story from.
I can’t help but wonder which one of them reads the messages on the social media account.
As I look over the men, I notice one of them looking directly back at me.
I can’t see his face, but his head is tilted to the side, watching me.
A neon pink mask covers his face, but his dark hair sticks out from the top.
His dark shirt sleeves are rolled up, revealing tattoos covering his muscled arms. The tattooed man tips his head back, downs a shot, and for a second, I swear he looks straight at me.
I feel it in my jaw, in the hollow behind my knees.
I look away, but it’s too late. He’s clocked me, filed me, and the rest is just waiting to see which one of us moves first.
This is my chance. I’ve never been someone to outright flirt with a stranger.
However, tonight is about pushing myself to the limits to get the story I need.
I put the straw from my drink into my mouth and suck up the sweet, cold liquid.
The man continues to watch, and it only fuels my desire to act out more.
Licking the straw, I take another sip, playing with the straw as though I’m going down on a man.
It all feels so erotic and dangerous, and that feeling has captivated me.
The club’s pulse sinks into my bloodstream, a new rhythm stitched over my own.
I kill the rest of the drink, set the glass down, and tell myself to be cool, but my whole body is raw wire.
I move toward the dancefloor, ready to ask others questions while I see how long I can keep the man's attention. As I begin to dance, a man moves behind me and wraps his arm around my waist.
“Hey, you look really hot,” he breathes against my ear.
I wiggle into him, feeling his erection already growing against my back. “Thanks,” I replied. “Have you been here before?” I ask him.
“Once,” he yells into my ear, as I grind on him. “What about you?” he asks me.
I turn to face him, even though his green mask covers his entire face. He’s tall and broad, and his matching green shirt feels like silk against my fingers. “This is my first time. So, are the rumors true? How wild does this place get?” I ask as we continue to dance. He’s watching me carefully.
The tattooed man watches, too. I can feel him at the edge of my vision, measuring, maybe amused, maybe something else. I want to look back, to catch him in the act, but I’m afraid of what will happen if our eyes lock again.
He pulls me closer to him as another song begins to play.
More people are on the dancefloor now, and I feel sweat beginning to bead on my back.
“You know the rules, you don’t talk about what goes on at Shadows.
But…” he leans in, his lips mere inches from mine, “we can get as wild as you want. Want to head into one of the private rooms?”
My stomach drops, and I can feel my heart racing, but for a different reason this time. I only came to Shadows to get the story, not hook up with anyone. While it’s been a while since I’ve been with a man, I have to keep myself focused.
“Maybe in a little while,” I shamelessly flirted back, even though I had no idea of going with him.
He nods and chuckles. “Better catch me before I find someone else,” he growls.
Ok, major turn off.
I go to move out of his arms, but he squeezes me tighter. His fingers dig into my hips, and pain soars through me. “Hey, let me go,” I ordered.
“Don’t be a tease. You know you want it, or why else would you be here tonight?” he states, his voice now harsh.
I move again, but he only squeezes me tighter. I yelp in pain. “I’m not into you, now let me the fuck go,” I shout.
A few people stop dancing to look at us, but no one intervenes. Maybe they think we are playing some dark and twisted role-playing game. I’m not into this at all. Guys who don’t know how to take no for an answer definitely don’t turn me on.
“Listen, you bitch…”
Before the man can finish his insult, I see a hand grab his shoulder and violently shove him back. I stumble backward and almost lose my balance, but thankfully, I can right myself before I fall.
“Who the hell do you think you are?” someone yells.
Shouts ring out around me, and then everyone freezes in place. It’s like the world around me stopped moving. Standing in front of me is the man wearing the pink mask. He has his hands wrapped around the man's shoulders, shaking him and screaming in his face.
“Don’t you know better than to put your fucking hands on a woman? I should kill you for breaking one of our rules. We don’t tolerate violence of any kind,” the man in the pink mask continues to roar out.
Another man with a green mask runs over and pulls the man in the pink mask away.
“Warren, don’t do something stupid,” the man shouts.
Warren.
Is that his name?
The man in the pink mask, or Warren, I guess, stops and turns to look at the man who just yelled at him.
A third guy in a yellow mask appears with two large men who appear to be security. The security guards take the now-frightened man away, and everyone around me continues to stare at the three men who just appeared on the dance floor.
I’m stunned speechless by how Warren reacted. Was he trying to protect me? Or is that how they always react when someone breaks a rule?
“Thank you,” I stutter out, as Warren starts to walk past me.
He pauses mid-step and turns to face me. I want to reach out and remove his mask. To touch his face and see his eyes. I know that would be a dangerous thing to do, so I keep my hands at my sides.
“Maybe next time don’t tease assholes, and they won’t react like that,” he seethes, and then stomps toward the stairs. Everyone in his path jumps out of the way in fear.
My mouth falls open in shock. Did he really just say that to me? Anger coils around my heart, and I want to chase after him and demand an apology.
What type of sexist, macho thinking is that? I open my mouth, ready to say something—anything—but he just smirks, barely, and turns away, melting back into the crush of bodies.
I want to follow. I want to know everything.
Before I know what I’m doing, my legs start moving, and I’m running after the man.
I decided I can’t let it rest. Not now. Not when I’m this close, when I can still taste the static from his stare.
The air in here is thick with sweat, secrets, and perfume that costs more than rent, and I don’t care if I choke on it.
“Hey, stop!” I yell.
He doesn’t stop, but only quickens his pace. He’s halfway up the staircase when I reach the first step. A security guard stops me, grabbing me by the arm.
“You can’t go up there,” he orders.
Warren turns to face me, his hand gripping the railing of the stairs. “If you are smart, you will leave and never come back here,” he says to me in a low, menacing voice.
He’s trying to scare me, but I’m too amped up by my own anger and determination to care.
“Why don’t you tell me what really goes on in here? Do you all always blame women when something goes wrong?” I accuse.
Shaking his head, he lets out a hearty laugh that only fuels the raging fire inside of me.
I feel like a volcano on the brink of eruption, and everyone around me will burn from my wrath.
He doesn’t respond. He just keeps climbing the stairs.
I watch as he makes his way back to the balcony where the other two men sit.
As he sits down next to them, the other two turn and begin yelling at him.
I can’t hear what they are saying, but from the way their arms violently shake, I can tell they are pissed.
Good, I hope they chew him out.
Turning, I notice that my audience is now gone.
Everyone has moved back to whatever they were doing before the commotion began.
Flustered, I stand there at the bottom of the stairs, unsure of what to do next.
This isn’t at all how I thought my night was going to go. Disappointment courses through me.
Sighing, I realize that I’m not going to get to talk to him face-to-face.
Making my way across the dance floor, I stop when I get to the exit.
Tonight was a bust, but I’m not giving up.
If anything, I’m even more motivated to get the story I want, and I know just how to do it.
Shoving my way out the door, I exit into the cool night air.
Padding across the parking lot, I decide that I will wait until the club closes and confront Warren.
I get into my car and wait. Tonight, I will get what I want.