Page 2 of Stoker's Serenity

I stared at the colorful embroidery on the back of the patch, a giant orange octopus dragging a ship under the waves. I’d seen it before, but on very rare occasions, out on the highway.

“There you go, hon. Good as new,” a blonde woman proclaimed, as she took a final swipe of a damp paper towel under my eye.

I thanked her, my voice shaking, and, unsteady on my feet, I stumbled back out into the noise. The cacophony of wailing guitars and screamed-out lyrics was overwhelming; the dim light, broken by strobes, confusing; the hot, oppressive atmosphere too much.

Thank God he came up to me and took his coat back from my trembling hands. I hadn’t thought to look at him before, through my anxiety and humiliation. I didn’t know who he was, but as he swung his coat around and put his arms through the heavy sleeves, I nearly swallowed my own tongue.

He was gorgeous.

Muscles lean, body cut, long black hair, and a face that belonged on a classic statue or painting of the devil himself, freshly fallen to earth.

Most people don’t realize that the devil isn’t as horrific as he is typically portrayed. No, he wasn’t all horns and cloven hoof. The fallen angel who reigned in Hell was quite the opposite, said to be so beautiful that it hurt to look upon him.

This man was like that, too. So beautiful to me it took my breath away, a sort of fractured ache taking up residence in the center of my chest, where my heart still quailed from my humiliation and recent trauma.

“The name’s Stoker,” he shouted over the noise, folding himself at the waist to put his lovely lips closer to my ear. “What’s yours?”

“Serenity,” I answered, swallowing hard. “My friends just call me Ren.”

“Sorry, I can’t hear you,” he half-shouted and I tried again, raising my voice.

“Serenity!” I called out.

“Nice to meet you, Serenity,” he shouted for my benefit. “Are you okay?”

I shook my head and blurted out, “I just want to go home!”

He frowned in empathy and put his hand on my shoulder giving it a quick squeeze, turning me towards the open doors and the deep Florida night just outside. “Come on, let’s get out of here. I’ll take you home myself if I have to.”

2

Stoker…

“I don’t know where she is, her boyfriend drove us here. We got separated in the crowd and, well, you know the rest…”

Her cheeks flamed under the supernova-harsh blue-white light of the floodlight at the front corner of the venue. The captain was in hardcore conversation with some of the bouncers, no doubt giving them a rip for not being more attentive. He had a talent for tearing your ass a new one without doing it in such a way that you got all butt-hurt over it. No doubt, knowing him, knowing our history with coming up against traffickers and sexual predators, he was talking them into looking the other way while the rest of the crew beat some fucking ass out in the parking lot. The little shoving match close to the pit was just a preview of coming attractions; those assholes inside just didn’t know it yet.

I turned back to little Serenity. She was a petite thing, almost doll-sized, practically drowning in the band tee Rory’d tossed my way. He was the guitarist for the band I was in. We’d been one of the opening acts earlier in the night.

Her skin was pale for Florida living, her eyes large and dark under long and equally dark hair that fell to her waist, just above the perfect curve of her ass, which was hidden by the dumpy black band tee, and yeah – I know – it was myband’s tee, but she was suited to something like a size small, something that would hug the swell of her breasts and caress the inward curve of her body before the flare of her hips.

She was beautiful, a perfect hourglass figure under the extra-large shirt.

I knew, because I’d been planning to talk to her before she’d been swept away by the surge and roll of bodies at the edge of the mosh pit.

Her voice was light and lyrical as it broke through the feminine spell she had unintentionally cast on me.Fool, you cast it on yourself, I chastised myself, but didn’t spare it another thought, tuning in to what she had to say.

“I need my keys and my purse… I can’t get into my apartment and all I have is my ID in these damn jeans.” She slid her hand into her back pocket and extracted the little laminated rectangle of cardboard, then put it back.

“Wouldn’t be a problem if they gave us some actual pockets,” she complained and scrabbled her fingertips against where, it appeared, front pockets existed in her jeans. But they were sewn shut, no pockets to be had. I never got that. Still, she was being hella cute and I cracked a smile and had to chuckle.

“I don’t get why they do that to girls,” I said, for lack of something smooth or clever to say instead.

She frowned. “Same reason they do anything. Money and greed,” she said simply. “No pockets means we have to buy their accessories, like wallets and purses. Fashion trends dictate we have to buy a purse and shoes for every outfit. It’s a racket.” She pressed her lips together and averted her gaze, her cheeks coloring bright pink all over again as she muttered, “Don’t get me started.”

I laughed a little and said, “I’m sure your friend is looking for you; she’ll find you out here soon enough. I can wait with you.”

“Thanks.” She hugged herself like she was cold, which was a joke in and of itself. It was like standing in somebody’s sauna out here. Mid-eighties and humid despite the deepening night. Summers in Florida were nothing to fuck with, especially this far inland. I was seriously missing the inner coastal region where Ft. Royal lay, practically on the bubble of the curve of the penn.

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