by Erica M Kim
“Bye, Lio.”
“See you soon, doll.” I turn around and walk away before I do something stupid. I don’t turn around to say bye, even though I know he’s still standing there. Instead, I get in my car and drive away as quickly as possible. Lio has no idea what he’s getting into, and neither do I.
12
I’m still trying to shake my attraction to Lio when the front of my driveway appears. After carefully parking my car, which by the way, pales in comparison to Lio’s gray beauty, I unlock the door to my humble abode, which I’m certain also pales in comparison to the mansion that Lio likely lives in.
Plunking onto the couch with a sigh, I decide to rest for a few minutes before I start preparing for tonight’s reconnaissance. As soon my body touches the couch, my eyes land on a photo of my childhood best friend on the fireplace mantel. Damien and I are hugging each other without a care in the world, huge grins on our faces. He’s wearing a red soccer jersey, and I’m wearing a yellow summer dress with flowers. The photo was taken after his team won a soccer championship, and he was awarded the team’s MVP just moments earlier. We must have been about thirteen years old. I stare longingly at the photo as I remember our friendship.
Growing up, my head was always stuffed inside a book. I spent more time living in the imaginary worlds of books than making friends in the real world. I was always an outcast, a loner. It was only a matter of time before other kids started to realize that I was an easy target to bully. Lucky for me, I was a fast runner, and I outran most of my tormenters.
One afternoon, when I was just ten years old, a group of older boys chased me into a deserted alley and called me names as they threw rocks at me. I held my ground until one rock hit me straight in the eye. I was huddled into a ball, covering my head, bracing for the worst.
Unexpectedly, I heard a voice yelling back at the boys. When I dared to steal a peek, I saw a smaller boy around my age ferociously attack the older boys. Two of the bullies bore black eyes as they ran away with their friends. When they were gone, my rescuer held out his grubby hands to me and lifted me off the ground.
“Stop crying; they’re gone. I’m Damien,” he whispered as he crouched down next to me. And from that day on, the two of us were inseparable. It turned out that Damien lived on my street, just a few doors down. We became best of friends, running amok in a realm of imaginary wars, building fortresses, constructing weapons, and making a mess. Damien was always my defender and protector. He brought me out of the reclusive shell I lived in. And I intrigued him with my wild imagination and unwavering loyalty. We were an unstoppable duo.
And then I began to turn into someone else during the full moons. Damien still accepted me, more or less. He knew that something was different about me and tried his best to stay clear of me during certain times.
One day when I was sixteen, Damien revealed that he had a crush on a girl that went to our school. I didn’t think much of it actually and wished him well in his pursuit. It wasn’t long after he started dating Crystal that he began to change. He started ignoring my calls. Then, not only were my calls ignored, but when I saw him at school, he acted like he didn’t know me when Crystal was around. It turned out that she was a nasty bitch who didn’t want her boyfriend to hang out with any other girls. And he abandoned me. For her. To say I was utterly crushed was an understatement.
On the day of the full moon, Crystal pushed me to the ground as I walked by, then spat on me. I looked at Damien who was trailing behind her, eyes pleading for help, and he just shrugged. Then I overheard Damien boasting to his soccer friends that his parents were out of town that night, and Crystal was spending the night for the first time. There was no way in hell that he was going to get on her bad side that day. My defender and protector was gone.
That night, when the shining moon pierced the dark sky, I found myself pacing outside Damien’s house. I limbered up to his window using the roof drain and saw him in the middle of a make out session with Crystal. Everything cut to black after that.
Often when I was younger and less controlled during the full moon, I would black out. It’s like my brain couldn’t process everything that was happening and decided to shut down. The next thing I remember is that I was standing in Damien’s room, the night sky fading into dawn, drenched in both his and Crystal’s sticky blood, iron tang filling the air. Their bodies were mutilated beyond recognition. A satiated feeling still lingered in me for a few minutes before reality started to settle in.
Panic washed over me, and horror gripped my soul as I took in the grisly scene. Shaking and hyperventilating, I left Damien’s house and washed off in a neighbor’s swimming pool before going home. One question played on repeat as I ran back home: what have I done?
I plunged into a deep, dark depression after that night. I don’t know if I ever fully emerged from it. I loathed myself for what I did. Despite how Damien acted, he didn’t deserve to die. And neither did Crystal. Scorn filled my heart as I wretchedly mourned. Why was I a monster? Why was I cursed? Damien, my very best and only friend, had become the first victim of the vicious demon that emerged from me during the full moon. And he wasn’t the only one I loved to fall victim to my monstrosity.
As I stare at the photo of Damien and me, tears start to fill my eyes. Such innocence and pure joy filled both of our faces. Memories of Damien flood into my mind. The way he would snort when he laughed too hard. How he always pretended to shoot a gun with his index finger and thumb when he knew he was right. And when we would hide in one of our fortresses eating ice cream under the stars. The memories suffocate my heart as each one crashes into another.
My vision starts to narrow as I start spiraling down a dark path, and so I push the emotions away. I beat them back down into the place where I keep them tightly sealed. If I open those reinforced gates, I would never be able to look at myself in the mirror again. It’s better not to feel anything.
Robotically I stand up and walk to the photo. Without a sound, I put the picture frame face down on the mantel to abate the rising tide of emotions. As I turn around, I resolutely decide to focus on my assignment. A better way to channel this darkness. A way to escape and numb the pain.
I march straight into my bedroom and rip open the closet door with a slam. If Crux is where I’m going to meet Vincent, I need to scope out the venue, see what sort of crowd goes there. I need to understand the lay of the land to make sure I have an escape route plan.
Staring at my closet, I’m at a complete loss for what I should wear while I do recon at Crux. There’s nothing in my closet that would fit in with the crowd at Crux. I have nothing to fucking wear!
I go through every single piece of clothing on the hangers, from left to right, back from right to left. Sinking to the floor, I put my head in my hands—nothing to wear. Once I’m on the floor, something catches my eye.
A black miniskirt covered with a thick layer of dust is sitting on the floor of my closet, lost and forgotten. I’ve only worn this skirt once before for another assignment. After brushing the dust off, it seems to be my only option. Luckily it still fits, though uncomfortably tight and short. A gold woven cropped tube top in the far-left side of my closet calls to me—another piece I haven’t worn for years. I put the outfit on and give a nod with approval. It’ll do.
In the bathroom, I layer on black eyeliner and gray eyeshadow. If there is one lesson I’ve learned in life, it’s that makeup does wonders. Despite not wearing much of it most days, I’ve learned how to apply it well enough through my tutor, YouTube.
Tonight, I need to fit in. Tonight, I need to feel sexy. Tonight, I need to portray a submissive who loves to receive pain. I repeat this mantra as I layer on a sultry, bold red lipstick. To top off the outfit, I put on my thigh-high leather boots. One final look in the mirror to make sure I look qualified. Yep. I look like a certifiable party girl.
After weaving through traffic for forty minutes, I arrive at the address Markus provided. There’s no sign for Crux, but I’m cer
tain I’ve found the right place just by the looks of the people surrounding the entrance. Both men and women stand around in an assortment of pleather, collars, and chaps. Some are already holding cuffs and whips. Not conspicuous at all, folks. This is definitely the right place.
A sign directs valet parking to the back of the club. Despite my uneasiness, I decide to leave my weapons in the car. It isn’t worth getting caught with my knives and getting unwanted attention. I’d have to use my wits to navigate through the unknown tonight.
I carefully get out of the car, trying not to flash the entire parking lot. The valet attendant gives me a slow, creeping once-over, and my fist curls into a ball ready to strike. I crick my neck and crunch my knuckles in an attempt to relax. Take a big breath, girl.
After waiting in line with the rest of the crowd for a few minutes, I finally reach the door. There’s no cover charge for women, and I glide through security without issue. The stamp that I receive on my right wrist is of a whip. Fitting, of course. The bouncer opens the heavy, metal door into the venue, and darkness swallows me. The place immediately reeks of alcohol and sweat, but I can’t see anything other than the red lights that ominously line the walls of the hallway. The bass of the house music thumps in my chest, creating a new beat for my heart to move to.
My senses adjust as I enter the main room. A girl is hanging from the ceiling in a cage, completely naked except for what looks like a tiny fabric patch that covers her in just one place below the navel. Leather straps are bound to her neck, waist, and ankles. She is twisting and writhing sensuously against the bars, and it’s mesmerizing. Staring up at her writhing movements, I am utterly hypnotized. Then a brutish man walks into my field of vision, holding a leash in hand. At the end of that leash is a submissive female with a thick leather collar. She doesn’t even dare lift her gaze to look around. I suddenly feel sick to my stomach, realizing the reality of being a submissive and quickly move on.
The venue has a stage as the main attraction, currently where two men are taking turns spanking each other with leather paddles. All around the stage, there are high, red velvet booths that each have curtains to offer privacy to the shyer participants of the fetish. That said, almost every booth has its curtains wide open, so anyone at the club could view the variations of pain that is being given and received.
In one booth, two females are using some metal contraption on a male, in a place that looks like it would hurt very badly—except his face shows otherwise. My jaws clench as I look away. In another booth, there are two men: one in handcuffs, while the other takes a short leather whip across him. On the one hand, I’m appalled that people feel comfortable to engage in this sort of activity in public; on the other hand, I’m completely spellbound. It’s nasty, but it’s also kind of hot. Maybe it’s hot because it’s nasty. Who knows?
Along the wall to the right of the stage, there is a much-needed bar. I make a beeline in that direction, hoping that a drink will settle my nerves.
“What would you like, sweetheart?” a man with dark hair molded into an impressive mohawk and black eyeliner yells over the deafening bass.
“A dirty martini, please. Very dirty,” I yell back over the noise. The bartender quickly turns around to tend to my drink. He hands a martini glass filled to the brim to me, and I accept with a smile.
After paying for the drink, I casually scout the venue for escape routes and nooks to hide in. My eyes hone in on places to hide weapons, I carefully count the number of cameras, and assess each of the employees and security guard in the venue. Some employees look like they could be on Vincent’s payroll, I make note to keep an extra eye on them.
Scouting the venue takes about half an hour, most of which I act like I’m waiting for someone to avoid looking suspicious. Once I have the lay of the land, I buy myself another martini before finding a seat at a table in front of the stage and hope that I won’t be bothered until I’m finished with my second drink. Less than two minutes pass before I’m approached by an attractive redheaded woman who looks no older than nineteen. She’s wearing a tight emerald-green dress that hugs whatever small curves her petite body gives way to. Behind her stands a tall, shirtless African American man with a whip in hand. I try not to look at him because he looks quite daunting and focus on the woman instead.
“Let me guess, first time here?” The lady asks with a friendly grin.
“How can you tell?”
“Well, I’m a regular, and I’ve never seen your pretty face here. Care to join Dominique and me? We promise to be gentle,” she says, flirtatiously batting her eyes. She’s a regular here? She looks like she goes to college.
I look away, pretending like I’m considering the offer, and I suddenly freeze. If my eyes aren’t lying to me, I swear I see Vincent Moreno. He’s sitting in a secluded booth between two blonde women, looking surprisingly bored.
“I’m flattered, but no, thank you,” I respond as I get up to get a closer look at Vincent. The young redhead pouts to my reply but moves out of the way. Her companion is less relenting, but I eventually push past him.
I haven’t decided yet whether or not I should approach Vincent because it’s definitely not part of the plan, but it was too late. Vincent’s eyes lock onto mine from across the room, like a missile locked on a target. Yep, that’s definitely him. In person, he is even more dashing, and now he is flashing a white smile at me. With a wave of a hand, he invites me to come and join him. Shit. This isn’t part of the plan. I briefly hesitate before gradually continuing. Time to meet the man of the hour.
13
While my feet slowly find their way toward Vincent, my brain races to formulate an impromptu plan. Markus’s warning about using a fictitious name surfaces, so I settle on giving him my real name, even though it makes me uncomfortable. I’ll need to play this game masterfully so that it leaves him with wanting more. My knuckles crack to release the building tension.
Vincent has two security guards outside of the booth and I’m momentarily worried I won’t be able to get through to him. There are several scantily clad women hovering around the booth trying to squeeze into the coveted table.
When I approach his table, he tells one of the blondes to leave, and she obeys but not before giving me a death glare. I return the glare with the brightest smile I could offer. The blonde looks confused before finally walking away. I drain the last of my martini for good measure. Vincent waves his hand toward the vacated seat and barks a command at the guards to move out of the way for me to cross.
As I enter the booth, Vincent’s eyes hungrily rove my body from my toes all the way to my face. I try not to blanch with disgust at feeling like a piece of meat. Calm down, Lunis. You’ve been in this type of situation before. Keep it chill.
“Who might you be? I am a frequent guest to this club, and I have never seen your beauty here before.” His voice has a deep timbre, accentuated by his Spanish descent. Up close, I see that Vincent has hazel eyes that nicely suit his olive skin. He has deep wrinkles around his eyes, but they only enhance his charm. He’s dressed in a steel-gray suit and a white dress shirt that fit him perfectly. He is an illusion of charisma and grandeur. No wonder the ladies are swarming his booth.
I make sure not to get too close as I take a seat.
“You’re right. It’s my first time here.” I keep my voice meek, just the way he would like it. I keep a shy smile on my face. The other blonde gives me what I can calculate as the second look of death tonight. She tries to slink her arm around Vincent, but he shrugs her attempt off, and she scowls in response.
“What can I call you by, my dear?”
“Lunis, and you?” I say softly to make sure that Vincent has to lean in closer to hear me. As he moves toward me, I get a good whiff of sandalwood and whiskey.
“Vincent Moreno. Can I offer you another drink?” He eyes my empty martini glass.
“Sure, I’ll have another dirty martini. Very dirty.” I reply, and for a just a second, I give Vincent my darkest look,
the look I usually reserve for right before the kill. My I’m-the-last-thing-you’re-ever-going-to-see look. He responds. His eyes fill with sheer lust and greed. Before he can act on it, I look coyly away. That should have done the trick.
“So, what brings you to Crux, my dear?” Vincent’s eyes are twinkling with interest.
“Curiosity.”
“To come here alone is quite brave of you.”
“I suppose so.” Little does he know I’m here on a hunt, and I like to hunt alone. “And what is it that brings you to Crux?” My tentative smile meets Vincent’s wicked grin.
“This is a favorite haunt of mine,” he purrs. “I come to Crux to both lose myself and find myself. To be surrounded by all of this,” he says as he waves his hand to the room full of moans, groping, and grinding. “I feel alive.”
I’m not sure how to respond to that, so I respond with another question. “What is it you do for a living, Mr. Moreno?”
“Vincent, please,” he says as he hands me a business card that he fishes out of the side pocket of his jacket. It reads Moreno Scrap Metal, Exporter of scrap metal goods. Yeah, and other goods too. “My company exports scrap metal to Mexico,” he continues.
“Scrap metal?” I look at him like I’m actually interested in this conversation. “How long have you been in the industry?”
“Fifteen years,” he says with a devilish smile. “And what is it that you do for a living?” Shit. I definitely don’t want to give away too much information about myself.
“I work with dogs,” I say vaguely and quickly change the subject. “Do you live in LA?”
“I do. I’ve lived here for almost thirty years, and I love it. You can get everything you want here. Any type of food, just a neighborhood away. I love the diversity,” Vincent says with conviction.
