Chapter Eight
Mikayla
The past two days, I’ve stayed within the confines of this motel room. My only reprieve from these four walls was my brief trip to the ice bucket. As much as I want to stay hidden and avoid any more chance encounters, I need to get out before cabin fever sets in.
It’s Saturday, in one of the biggest party cities in the world.
What do normal people—you know, who aren’t trained killers—do to have fun on a night like tonight?
The pamphlets at the motel detail the local favorites.
Surfing, restaurants, and guided tours, but none of them peak my interest, nor are they really nighttime activities.
A quick phone search shows some more time-appropriate options.
An arcade down the street, a karaoke bar a couple blocks over, ooh maybe a club?
Drinks, dancing, bathroom sex? Sounds like a good time to me!
I refuse to pay for cab fare. Especially when they’ve all, more than likely, inflated their rates for tonight, taking advantage of drunk, stumbling idiots who don’t notice.
Another Google search to see what's close by and my sights have been locked on Club LIV. According to my map, it’s right along the beachfront, which works out perfectly for me.
Alcohol and the ocean can always make for a good time if done right.
Planning to arrive around ten-thirty this evening, I now have a few hours to shower and get ready without the pressure of being rushed. It’s been a while since I’ve dressed to the nines, showing off every curve and swell of my body.
Exiting the bathroom with a towel wrapped around myself, I take a quick stock of the outfits hanging in the little closet.
I’ve amassed a nice collection of racy dresses and shirts after working for Colt for so many years.
Of course, they were all given to me for assignments.
Thrown my way as I was told to make myself look presentable, but at least I got to keep them.
I mean, it’s not like the brawny men of the Havoc Vipers would be caught dead walking around in my tight neon pink miniskirt…
The garment in question catches my eye and my hands run over the stretchy fabric. It’s definitely a statement piece but I think I wanna try for something more sensual and closer to my everyday look, rather than walking around looking like I wrapped myself in bubblegum.
A black strapless dress grabs my attention next, the hem sitting just low enough on my thighs to cover my ass cheeks.
The top dips low between my tits, a hard wire holding and lifting my girls until they’re sky high—exactly what I need.
Grabbing it and my red bottomed fuck-me-heels—you know, just in case I meet another kind stranger tonight—I’m off to get ready.
Sometimes I wonder if I should be looked at mentally.
Eighty percent of my time consists of thinking about sex in some way.
How to get laid, where to find a guy, what’s easy to fuck in…
I know it’s turned into some kind of addiction, but after being alone for so long, forced by another’s hand and unable to determine my own needs, can you blame me?
One-night-stands are my equivalent of taking back something that was stolen from me all those years ago. My right to choose.
Own it, live it, love it, regret nothing. That’s my new motto.
Curling my hair to give it a little bounce—and hopefully keep the errant strays from flying all over—I finish off with winged liner, some mascara, and a bold red lip. Looking like a badass and feeling like a warrior of Satan himself, I grab my keys and heels and make tracks for the beach.
The warmth of the sand between my toes, and the rhythmic coming and going of the waves soothes me, mind, body, and soul. A fantastic way to relax everything before jumping into a club full of writhing and wriggling bodies, grinding on each other and looking for a fix.
I’ve only ever been to one other club before tonight, and it was while I was on assignment, so there was no chance I would be able to enjoy the atmosphere. This is going to be my first real time and the rush of excitement nearly takes me out as it washes over my skin.
It’s nice to see there’s no line as I walk up to the front entrance.
My hands digging in my tiny purse to find my newly acquired I.D.
The lovely piece of plastic that states my name is: Scarlett Amy Thorson and that I was born in Boston in 1998.
The bouncer guarding the door looks me up and down languidly, not even bothering to hide his ogling, as he takes in everything from the tips of my toes to the crown of my head.
He smirks, gives me a wink, and then nods his head for me to head in. I return his one-eyed-blink as I pass, swaying my hips in an exaggerated manner as I walk towards the bar. At least I know that if I strike out inside, I could probably convince the big guy to take me home.
Two beers and three appletinis later, and I’m lost in an alcohol-induced haze, swinging my hips on the dance floor.
My body is moving on its own, the music seeping straight into my bones, as the bass vibrates through the air.
Dancing like this, by myself, with a good buzz, is almost cathartic.
It makes me feel like a bad ass woman. Which I mean, I kind of am.
How many people do you know that could take you out and make it look like your grandma did it?
A few different guys have come up to me asking for my number or trying to figure out if they have a chance, but I’ve shooed them all away.
I’m not opposed to finding a good fuck for tonight.
In fact, I’d be pretty surprised by myself if I didn’t take someone home.
A one night stand who I can kick to the curb in the morning and never see again, but for right now I’m content being alone.
The upbeat pop song ends sliding smoothly into a calm ballad, and I take that as my cue to head to the washroom then back to the bar.
I’m nowhere near as drunk as I like to be, and while pushing myself through the crowd, my mind becomes increasingly curious.
How many shots do you think it would take for me to get wasted?
My alcohol tolerance has been built up over the years.
The last time I tried, I managed eight before I was completely done for.
At the bar, the very attractive woman behind the counter, helping other customers, glances my way with a nod.
A silent signal she’ll be with me shortly.
My eyes are trained on her, appreciating the voluptuous curves to her body—because who doesn’t like tits—when a familiar feeling creeps up the back of my neck.
There are eyes on me, which is not uncommon in a place like this, but these are…
different. Intense, focused, like they’re drilling through my skin and boring into the very bones of my being.
Even under the influence, the sensation of being watched is strong.
I would know that feeling anywhere and it sets all of my internal alarms off.
Training kicks in, trying to figure out where the threat is coming from and who I’m up against. My heart speeds up, my breathing slows as I let my eyes wander through the crowd.
The patrons are unassuming, most dancing or making out in the dark corners of the building. None of them even look my way as they continue with their night of fun. It's not until I look to the balcony level, where the VIP booths are housed, that I spot him.
Eyes of ocean blue are staring straight at me with a furrowed brow. His jaw is clenched tight, the muscles in his arms straining as he grips the railing.
You have got to be fucking kidding me.
In a flash of movement, he darts towards the stairs, and I turn towards the door.
I’m not sober enough nor drunk enough to engage with him, and even if I was…
well, I just don’t want to. I need to get away, to disappear into the night before he can catch me.
Corner me. So, I do what any fully-fledged assassin hiding from her captors and friends would do… I run, again.
Okay so, I’m a coward.
I weave through the dance crowd with ease, making my way to the front door and forfeiting my evening of bliss in favor of escape.
Managing to extricate myself from the club and slither past the crowd waiting to get in, the cool night air caresses my skin like a welcomed embrace.
Relief floods my body and my heart begins to slow, knowing that I made it out.
Back into the open expanse of the city streets.
After slipping my number into the bouncer's back pocket, I head down the sidewalk, the moon lighting the path back to the motel. One and a half blocks away, for the second time this week, a name I never thought I would hear again crosses my ears.
“Bear! Wait, please!”
My body tenses at the old nickname, my spine going stiff, and my knuckles turning white against the strap of my purse.
In that moment, my carefully constructed walls, the same ones that allow me to murder and maim in cold blood—crack.
My breath is heaving, my heart palpitating as I look over my shoulder to the man I’ve loved since I was thirteen.
Who’s been my best friend since I could walk.
I allow myself to shed a single tear for the boy I see in the depths of his eyes.
The one confused and worried for the friend he remembers from a life no longer lived.
The one warring with the man here today, one wanting to reach out, the other unsure if what’s in front of him is real.
The vulnerability I’ve shown in this one minute, feels as though it’s stretching on for an eternity as raw emotions consume the both of us like fire and ice.
But with the life I live now, emotions need to be controlled. Feelings have consequences, and death doesn’t discriminate. They’re not a luxury I have any longer, and I won’t put them at risk. Not now, not ever.
Still staring into Zane’s eyes, I take a single deep breath and soften my gaze. It’s the best apology I can give him at this moment, as I know if I were to try and talk, my voice would betray me. He takes a single step towards me, and in the same moment, I spin on my heel and take off.
It’s not easy to run in heels. They’re frail, clumsy, and you're more than likely going to break your damn ankle during the process. It’s taken years of training to be as fast as I am on these death-spikes, and I use that seemingly useless skill to my advantage tonight.
My small stature and quick nature allows the distance to grow between Zane and I, and when I no longer see him right on my ass, I pause.
Leaning against the wall, I rip the high-heels from my feet and take off barefoot.
Gravel, errant sticks and garbage slash at my soles.
The stinging cuts leave a literal bloody trail in my wake, but I don’t stop.
For the next hour, I run. Changing my route, switching directions, and doubling back. Using alleyways to hide within the shadows, and busy streets to confuse the eye. I use every tactic I know of to throw Zane off my path and when I finally stop—I break.
My buzz is gone and my head is scrambled with emotions I’ve tried so hard to keep buried.
The tears flow freely, my makeup smearing against my cheeks as I make my way back to the motel.
I’ve got six out of the eleven days that I paid for left.
I’ll stay low, re-coup my strength and plan out my next city.
I wanted to stop, I wanted to fight back, and I’m okay with engaging Colt in a head on battle… Just, not when they’re in the crossfire.