Page 6 of True Bastard
I sighed, the weight of the world settling on my shoulders. Jessup’s brutal assault was still a raw wound, and now this. It felt like life was determined to grind me into dust, one humiliating indignity at a time.
With a sigh that felt like it carried the weight of all my past mistakes, I picked up the costume. The cheap velvet felt scratchy against my skin, a grim reminder of the“glamor”that this job supposedly offered. As I shed my own clothes, I caught a glimpse of myself in the locker’s mirrored surface. The bruises on my ribs were blooming in shades of purple and yellow, a stark contrast to my pale skin that was usually hidden. My jaw ached, and there was a tenderness around my mouth that made me wince. The memory of Jessup’s triumphant smirk, his cruel words, and the violation of my body flashed through my mind, threatening to drown me in despair.
“Come on, girl, don’t be a drag,” Keely chirped, already halfway into her own sparkly ensemble. “Just get it over with. Think of the tips.”
I forced a weak smile, trying to push the grim thoughts away.
Tips. That was the only reason I endured this humiliation. The thought of the money I needed, the money I was saving to get out of this town, out of this life, was the only thing that kept me going. Clenching my jaw, I pulled on the kitten ears, thecheap elastic digging into my temples. Another night, another descent into the depraved underbelly of the Prancing Pussycat.
I pulled on the fluffy tail, a grim testament to the indignity of my situation. My reflection stared back at me from the scratched surface of the locker door—a pale, bruised woman in a ridiculous costume, a stark contrast to the confident stature of the biker I’d glimpsed earlier that week. The thought of him, the rider from a few days ago, so cool and in control, flashed through my mind, a fleeting moment of envy before the harsh reality of my own circumstances crashed back down.
I hated this town, hated this job, and most of all, hated the feeling of being trapped. But the money was essential, a beacon of hope in this suffocating darkness.
With a forced smile, I stepped out of the lounge, the jingling of the faux bell on my collar announcing my arrival to the pre-show chaos of the Prancing Pussycat. Keely gave me a mock salute, her own sequined ears perched jauntily on her head. The bar was already filling, the air thick with the scent of cheap cologne and desperation. I braced myself for the usual lecherous stares and crude remarks, each one a tiny chip at my already fractured spirit. But somewhere in the back of my mind, a flicker of defiance remained, a small, stubborn ember refusing to be extinguished.
The music pulsed, a relentless beat that mirrored the gnawing anxiety in my gut. I plastered on a smile, the kitten ears a ridiculous weight on my head, and forced myself onto the small stage. The leers of the men in the audience felt like physical blows, each glance a fresh assault. I moved through my routine, my body performing the motions while my mind was a thousand miles away, replaying the encounter with Jessup, the raw pain, the utter violation. Then, through the haze of my despair, I saw him.
The lonely rider.
There, sitting at the back of the club, almost swallowed by the shadows, was the biker I’d seen earlier this week. He wasn’t leering. His gaze was steady, dark, and unnervingly focused, not on the stage, but directly on me. A chill unrelated to the cheap velvet of my costume snaked down my spine.
His presence was a jarring anomaly in this den of depravity. While everyone else saw a scantily clad girl dancing for their amusement, he seemed to see something else. His eyes, cold and assessing, met mine across the crowded room, and in that fleeting moment, I felt a flicker of recognition, a shared understanding that transcended the seedy atmosphere. It was as if he saw the bruises hidden beneath the cheap fabric, the fractured spirit struggling to maintain a façade of normalcy. He didn’t smile, didn’t catcall; he just watched, his stillness a stark contrast to the raucous energy of the Prancing Pussycat.
Then, as quickly as he’d appeared in my line of sight, he turned, his dark silhouette melting back into the gloom. But the image of his gaze lingered, a strange beacon in the suffocating darkness. Was he just another patron with an unusual interest, or was there something more? The rumble of his bike, so familiar and yet so unsettling, had marked the beginning of a week that had spiraled into a nightmare. Now, his presence here, watching me in this humiliating costume, felt like another twist of the knife. Yet, beneath the fear and the disgust, a tiny, defiant ember of curiosity began to glow. Who was this man, and why did his silent observation feel more impactful than all the vulgar attention I’d received all night?
As another song started up, I morphed into another routine, watching as Cade walked over to where the stranger had taken a seat, placing a cold beer in front of him. Then Cade looked over his shoulder at me and frowned as the stranger took a long pull from his beer, his eyes glued to mine with a peculiar intensity in their depths. I felt a blush creep up my neck, a mortifyingreaction to his unblinking stare. Cade, ever the observant manager, scurried back to the bar, his movements as furtive as a rat escaping a trap. His haste to distance himself from the biker was palpable, a silent acknowledgment of the man’s intimidating presence. The biker, however, remained unmoving, his gaze a heavy weight that pinned me to the small, glitter-covered stage. He wasn’t like the others, a drunken lout clamoring for attention. There was a stillness to him, a coiled power that hinted at a dangerous grace.
As the set ended, and I practically ran off the stage, my heart still thrumming an erratic rhythm, I saw him rise from his seat. He moved with a fluid economy of motion, his dark silhouette cutting a sharp figure against the garish neon of the Prancing Pussycat. He didn’t approach the bar for another drink, nor did he linger to catch the eye of any of the other dancers. Instead, he headed directly for the exit, his footsteps surprisingly quiet on the sticky floor. I watched him go, a strange mixture of relief and disappointment churning within me. He was an enigma, a silent observer who had somehow managed to pierce through the haze of my humiliation, leaving behind a residue of unanswered questions and a prickle of unease.
Moments later, the familiar, resonant roar of his Triumph’s engine shattered the night. It was a sound that sent a shiver down my spine, a visceral reminder of the power I’d sensed earlier. I edged towards the window, drawn by an irresistible curiosity. He was pulling out of the parking lot, the moonlight catching the chrome of his bike, making it gleam like a predator’s tooth. As he accelerated, his head turned, just for a fleeting second, and his eyes met mine. Then he was gone, leaving behind only the lingering scent of gasoline and the echo of danger I really wanted to avoid.
“I knew you would be fucking trouble! Your kind always is,” Cade shouted as he stormed into the lounge. “You’re fired! Get the fuck out of here.”
“What for?” I gasped. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Do you know who the fuck that was?” Cade seethed as he shortened the distance between us. “That motherfucker is a goddamn Bastard, and now he’s got eyes on my fucking club!”
Cade was making no sense.
“He was here looking for the piece of shit who keeps messing up your fucking face. You know, the fucker who you refuse to file charges against!”
“I filed!” I shouted back. “Twice! The RCPD doesn’t give a shit about a low-class stripper. They won’t even patrol my street!” I spat, the words laced with bitter resignation. The truth was, filing charges felt like shouting into a void.
The system had failed me before, and I knew it would again.
Cade scoffed, his face a mask of disbelief. “Well, you’re lucky, because that biker? He solves problems. And judging by the look on his face, he was sizing up your particular brand of trouble.” He gestured vaguely toward the door, his implication clear. “So, you’re fired. Get out of here before you bring any more of that mess to my doorstep.”
“He was looking for Jessup,” I stated, my voice a raw rasp against the ringing in my ears. “Not me.”
Cade scoffed, a harsh, disbelieving sound. “You think he gives a fuck? You think anyone like that ever cares about anything beyond their own twisted agenda? That man, Kyllian, is the Devil himself in leather. And you, my naïve little kitten, just painted a target on your back. You think you can just flit around here, looking like that, and not attract the kind of attention that burns everything it touches?” He gestured wildly at my costume, his face contorted in a mixture of fear anddisgust. “You’re a goddamn liability now. Get out before I throw you out myself!”
His words hit me like a physical blow, the insult of being fired compounding the already crushing weight of the night.
I didn’t argue, didn’t plead.
What was the point? I knew he was right.
The biker, the one with the silent, unnerving gaze, had seen me, and in this town, seeing meant you were noticed. And being noticed by someone like him was a death sentence, a one-way ticket to a darkness I had been desperately trying to outrun.
