Chapter 4
LANTANA
I’d come to appreciate the solitude I’ve found working in the basement of Violent Delights. I can work in peace without having to answer to anybody but myself and the food traffic isn’t as bad. I enjoy putting on my headphones, blasting nineties grunge while I get lost in my creations.
I apologize if I sound a bit Bruce Banner-ish but the truth is that I love science, and every hypothesis and consequence that comes with it.
I had to admit, back in my teens I didn’t believe this could be possible.
When my mother made that last phone call, I thought that was it.
I was going into rehab and my life would be an array of people ordering me around the perfect little structures they’d built.
Because someone forbid anyone would break through those society-driven makeshift boxes they loved to hide in.
Then I met Stephanie Winters, or Duchess, as known by the select few whom she trusted.
She stepped in and changed everything. She was the National Chapter President of a badass female motorcycle club called the Royal Harlots and I thought she was so absolutely sick.
Sick, in a good way. I wanted to be her, be a part of what she’d created, and have the freedom to do anything I wanted.
My mother knew exactly what she was doing when she called her, and Duchess instinctively seemed to know what I needed as soon as she met me. She didn’t try to change me or correct me, didn’t even try to slow me down. Instead, she offered me something far more tempting than freedom.
She gave me a choice.
Finish school, earn the degrees, prove to her and my mother that I could become something more than what I was, and after, I would be free to build whatever life I wanted without limitation.
The other option was to go back and continue getting high.
Doing nothing with my life until I lost my life on some couch somewhere with a limp dick raping me.
Sounds bad, right? But that’s exactly how she put it.
Let’s just say it worked. I went back to school after a month of rehab and then I had to figure out how to bring up my grades to be able to graduate.
I didn’t get into some prestigious school, instead I opted for classes at the nearest City College.
I got my degree in just a few years, all while prospecting for the MC.
They made me route rides and go on missions.
It was a different type of freedom I’d never experienced before.
Freedom with structure and loyalty attached, but freedom nonetheless.
On the day I graduated, Duchess simply nodded in approval, and then she asked me if I wanted to be a part of something bigger.
I smiled at her as she brought over the jacket.
And just like that I went from Prospect to patched member, as the Harlots Road Captain.
It was a big job and I honestly had no idea why she gave it to me.
I had proven I could ride, but I suppose being a toxicologist equated to being smart enough to scout and route rides as well as take care of the girls.
A few months later she handed me the keys.
The hidden space resided beneath the city, sitting right under the Violent Delights building.
I turned it into an apothecary of sorts.
I sold herbal medicine, minerals, and essential oils to name a few items. My crystals were quite popular and expensive.
Recently I’d bought some hemp oils and those had gotten quite popular among the Violent Delights clientele.
But of course, those items were in the front of the store.
Those who wanted something a little more…
deadly, could order on the black market and those items would be sent out privately. With no tracking evidence.
I named the shop Nocturne Bloom, I thought that would be a nice touch.
The lighting is low enough to be called "ambience," but high enough to make the glass bottles of oils and elixirs glow with a heavy, honeyed warmth. It’s a space that invites you to reach out, to touch, to linger. It’s a space that hides everything.
The front is a complete lie. A beautiful, expensive, sandalwood-scented lie.
I designed it to be a sanctuary for the curious, a place where the air is thick with jasmine and the soft clink of amber glass makes people feel safe.
They come in looking for a scent to define them, or an oil that will heal them, never realizing the atmosphere is actually designed to wrap them in a comfort that keeps them from looking too closely at the corners of the room.
Beyond the warmth lies the true backdrop of the shop where I actually did my real work. The air here becomes sterile, and a bit cold. This is where my private chem lab lies. This is where the magic happens.
I don't just mix scents back there; I create things that can dismantle a body or mind, with such quiet, clinical precision that by the time they realize they’ve been broken, I’m already a memory.
I ran my hand along the counter, feeling the grain of the wood, the cold reality of the stone. I wouldn't be standing here if it weren't for my mother.
Most people see a child with an obsessive streak and try to shut it down.
They see a girl asking too many questions and try to silence her.
But my mother wasn't like most people. She didn't try to dim my light; she just wanted to show me what existed outside of it.
And because of this, is how Duchess knew what I was capable of.
My work became the Harlots' preferred leverage. Everything I made served as a function, whether it was to loosen a man’s tongue, to still his body long enough for one of the girls to reclaim control of a situation, or to remind him in the most intimate way possible that crossing the wrong line has consequences he cannot escape.
We didn't operate on impulse and I had to be extremely disciplined and professional. When you’re dealing with the kind of leverage I provide, you don’t have the luxury of being sloppy.
The truth serums were the most requested.
They didn't break a man through force. They simply hollowed him out until he started spilling secrets he didn't even know he was holding.
The paralytics were even cleaner. They turned a man into a statue, trapping him inside his own skin while the girls dismantled his confidence.
It was a subtle, exquisite kind of power, leaving a predator completely helpless without him ever knowing exactly how or why it happened.
The toxins capable of stopping a heart beat or liquefying a nervous system, those stayed on the back shelf.
Tucked away in a corner. Our death toll still remained low.
Not because we weren’t capable of crossing that line, but because we knew that if we did, then we may be seen and that was something Duchess was fully against. What we did, we did out of the eye of the news, the feds, and the millionaires who hires us.
So in order to remain hidden, we had to find other, livelier means of extracting information, first.
The brass chime cut through the silence.
A woman stepped over the threshold. A black dress hugged her athletic frame.
Her blonde hair caught the dim light, glowing against the dark fabric.
The Louis Vuitton heels, struck the floor with a sharp, rhythmic snap.
I noticed the slight metal that covered the pointed toe.
She did not wander as her eyes swept the room as if mapping every nook and cranny of it.
I was pretty sure she’d memorized every bottle on each shelf by the time she was done.
“Welcome to Nocturne Bloom,” I said. I kept my voice smooth, a practiced layer of warmth that offered nothing of substance. “Let me know if you need assistance.”
Her gaze locked onto mine. The contact lingered. A cold weight settled in my stomach.
“This place is impressive,” she said. Her voice was low, every syllable weighted with control.
“Thank you. Everything here has a healing quality to it, don’t hesitate to ask me any questions I’m here to help,” I replied. I stayed behind the counter, maintaining the boundary between us
She moved deeper into the space. Her fingers brushed the edges of the amber glass, but she never paused to inhale a scent. She wasn't browsing, it looked more to me like she was inspecting the shop.
“How do you craft your oils?” she asked. The question was casual, but her eyes remained fixed on me.
“It depends on what’s needed. For example, some essential oils have peppermint to cool pain, others lavender to relieve stress,” I replied, watching the way she carried herself. “Every extraction is a matter of exactness, tailored to a specific effect.”
“And you do that yourself?” She turned, her body angling toward me.
“I do.” I held her stare, refusing to show her any kind of intimidation.
A smile touched her lips, but it didn't reach her eyes. It was a hollow expression. She stepped closer to the counter, her movements fluid and calculated.
“Tell me something,” she said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial hum. “Do you ever create anything slightly more dangerous than what you have on display?”
I let the silence hang between us and waited to see if she would break it.
“Dangerous?” I repeated. I shifted my weight, my muscles tensing beneath my skin even as I kept my face calm.
She let out a short, dry laugh. It was a rehearsed sound.
“I suppose that depends on how one defines it,” she said. Her eyes searched mine, looking for a crack in the veneer. “I am talking about something with more influence. Something stronger than perfume. Something that dictates a person's will.”
Her finger traced the rim of a crystal bottle.
“Influence is a broad term,” I said. My voice was a flat line.
Her smile sharpened as her eyes met mine, and I held back a shiver. That sixth instinct comes in handy sometimes, and I had it coursing through every nerve in my body.
“Love potions,” she said. The words were a test. “Something to make people… more agreeable.”
The air in the shop turned frigid. She wasn't just asking mundane customer questions, she was asking about the Harlots' inventory. And it wasn’t to see if she could make a purchase, but to find out if we were selling anything…
illegal. I considered her a Fed, at first, but as she continued to roam the shop my gut told me this encounter was something else entirely.
“This is a boutique,” I said, resting my hands on the wood of the counter. “Our products are made to enhance the mind and spirit. We don’t deal in the removal of agency.”
She studied me for a long moment. Her eyes narrowed, peeling back my layers.
“Of course,” she said. There was no conviction in her tone, only a cold acknowledgment.
She turned and began a slow walk through the aisles. This time, her movements were deliberate as she checked the exit and measured the distance between the shelves. She was searching for something, calculating the area.
After a few more minutes, she headed for the door, her stride steady and unhurried.
“Thank you for your time,” she said.
“You’re welcome,” I replied.
She paused with her hand on the brass handle. She looked back at me, her gaze stripped of all pretenses.
“Beautiful place,” she said. “You should be proud. You’ve built something very unique.”
The door closed behind her, and the chime echoed, sounding hollow in the sudden emptiness.
I stayed behind the counter, my heart thudding a slow, heavy rhythm against my ribs. The shop felt different now, almost exposed.
She had asked the right questions in the right order, and she had looked at me like she already knew the truth.
She most definitely was not a customer and the realization settled deep in my bones.
I was not as hidden as I believed. Someone had let the secrets of the Harlots leak into the light, and I had a feeling this wouldn’t be the last time I saw this woman.