Chapter 3
Serenity
The bus squeaked to a halt as I got up from my usual seat at the front. “Thanks, Gus.”
“You’re welcome. Night, Ms. Dawson.” Gus was a gentle water elemental and good reminder not all paranormals I met day to day had some evil intent lurking within them.
We both eyed two drunk shifters stumbling out of the dark alley between a pawn shop and liquor store about twenty feet in front of the bus. He grimaced. “Stay safe out there.”
“I’ll certainly try.” I reached for my keys in my purse so they’d be in hand when I got to my door.
“Hope you can leave this part of town real soon.”
“Me too. Night.” I stepped out onto the cracked sidewalk across from the place I’d been calling home since I’d started working at the club, and had been able to leave the shelter.
The motel’s gaudy neon red sign, which read ‘Superior Motel,’ was barely staying awake in the early morning hours. Two of the letters flickered on and off, ready to give up. I forced my tired feet to hurry along, not ready to give up myself until I got safely inside.
The motel was two dozen dingy rooms and an ice machine that occasionally spluttered out misshapen cubes—hardly ‘Superior.’ As I neared the building, I stepped around shards of glass scattered across the parking lot then rushed to my door, hoping to avoid the sleazy snake shifter who worked the front desk at night and any other creepy sorts, which this place seemed to attract like flies to dog droppings.
Oh, Carrot had opened the curtains again.
She peeked from behind a half-open brown fold and meowed through the glass.
As soon as I had the door shut and locked behind me, I flipped on the light and chuckled at her antics.
She leapt from the windowsill and landed right at my feet, then weaved between my legs, rubbing against my jeans as she purred.
I picked her up, cradled her to my chest and kissed her crown. “Well, hello there. Yes, I missed you too. Don’t worry, I didn’t forget your dinner.”
I kicked off my sneakers and left my socks on to walk across the filthy carpet. The long-term rental rooms were supposed to be cleaned weekly. What a joke.
Reaching into the cupboard above the small sink and microwave that served as my kitchen, I plucked a tin of cat food from Carrot’s shelf and emptied it onto her plate.
I should’ve been buying her the cheap dry stuff, but she liked the premium wet brand and I couldn’t deny her this small bit of pleasure.
Especially as she’d been a stray who’d I’d found lingering around a nearby dumpster, half-starved.
Treated like we were worthless, left on the street to fend for ourselves, we had a lot in common, me and little Carrot.
She began lapping at the food in that focused, crouching position cats did when feeding and I sighed and smiled as she nibbled. I never touched her when she was eating, but no doubt we’d have a nice snuggle later on the room’s tiny sofa.
It and everything else in here stank of stale tobacco. But I didn’t have the luxury of being able to care. I had a relatively safe place to myself with a little animal who loved me. And though I still had a lot to get sorted for the future, I had a lot to be thankful for.
A sudden strange feeling came over me, like I was being watched. As I turned toward the window, there was a blur of a black jacket as someone darted past the window.
I shivered. Black was vamps’ preferred color.
They’d let me go when I’d gotten older and my blood no longer appealed as much, but you never knew what those crazy bastards might do.
Surely they weren’t bothering to come back for me when they had dozens of other warm bodies, younger than me?
My throat tightened and I tried not to tear up at the thought of the other humans and half-breeds still kept prisoner.
Damn, I wished I knew where that feeding den was so I could tell the police.
I shivered again and tried to reassure myself whoever I saw was just another guest or resident.
But the glimpse of black jacket also reminded me of Hunter. He liked to wear black and wasn’t a vamp. I focused on thoughts of him, rather than the blood suckers. The image of his smiling face took away a lot of tension.
I found trusting paranormals extremely difficult, but Hunter was one of the rare exceptions. I knew he was a shifter, but I didn’t know what kind, and didn’t want to pry. He’d never mentioned anything about it either, so I’d taken the hint.
I’d applied my usual suspicion of paranormals to him for weeks—even refusing the extra cash he’d tried to give me my first month—but I’d learned he was one of the good guys.
He liked to act like a grouch, and sometimes, when he thought no one was looking, there was a bit of sadness in his eyes.
But he was kind to all his employees. He just never seemed to smile at the others as much as he did me.
The thought he might find me special sent another shiver through me, but this time it was of pleasure.
Sometimes I caught myself eyeing his athletic build, jet-black hair and handsome face.
And despite my past trauma at paranormal hands, I knew he was different, and I wanted to be a sexy, desirable woman who might capture his attention for the long haul.
I shook my head. I had a lot of other things to worry about than some fantasy about dating my boss.
Like how I was going to become sexy and desirable up on stage tomorrow.
Sighing, I threw open the scratched wooden door to the room’s tiny closet.
What the hell was I going to wear for my first dance?
A thin tank top I only wore around the motel room seemed a good start.
And I could cut off my tightest jeans and make them into skimpy shorts.
Another trip to the thrift store would probably score me a pair of boots and cowboy hat.
I’d do a cowgirl theme for my first dance and if I made it to the second, maybe the store would have a leotard so I could do a naughty ballerina routine.
I’d noticed the girls who made the largest tips often weren’t the ones with the flashiest outfits or the most skin revealed, but the ones who created a fantasy or engaged best with the audience.
As for the dancing, I’d had plenty of lessons in contemporary, jazz, ballet, hip-hop, you name it—before that had ended with my parents’ death in a car crash with a drunk driver when I was fourteen.
But still, a little practice seemed appropriate.
I flicked on the crappy little bedside radio alarm clock and turned the knob through the crackles until a catchy pop song came on.
I walked to the curtains, closed them up tight and began swaying to the song’s cheerful lyrics.
Feeling my body relax further, my feet picked up the rhythm and the music rolled through my hips and limbs like it had done all those years ago.
I’d never had music at the den, but I’d done bodyweight exercises and stretched plenty in the small room they’d kept me in.
It was one of the few things I’d been able to do other than read and reread whatever books they decided to throw in. So at least I was still limber.
I hadn’t lost anything all these years. I just had a few new scars and hangups. But I was still me. I could still dance.
As I weaved and bobbed through several pop songs, the dancing took me back to happier days. And I was going to give everyone one hell of a dance tomorrow night.
Maybe those tips could carry me to a happier future.