Page 3 of Masked Mayhem

Understanding flows through me: I may never fully outrun my dark past, but I can dance in the light it has forged. And for the first time, I am indeed ready for whatever awaits beyond the shadows.

two

The Protector

Whitney

Take Your Halo: Tech N9ne

AsIsitatthe bar with Boston, taking a break from our first set, random thoughts plague my mind. Club Mayhem, is a far cry from the sterile environment of the hospital I used to work at. Here the women are practically naked, and everyone—even the customers—wears masks to conceal their identity. The air is thick with the smell of expensive perfume, marijuana, lust, and desperation—a potent cocktail that somehow masks—but doesn't erase—the lingering scent of fear.

Violence and danger lurk not too far away, mingling with the desire, creating a perfect combination I never knew I needed. The club is so much more than topless girls and shiny poles; it's a distraction from the tight-lipped secret society called "Masked Mayhem" that operates out of the basement, where danger lurks in every corner, every shadow, and behind every mask worn by its members. It's one big, blended family, and every member looks out for one another. It doesn't matter if you're a dancer or a fighter; family is family; we all protect each other. Inside Club Mayhem, the saying goes, You live by the mask, you die by the mask—there's no way out. And the longer I work here, the more I see how much they live up to their oath

The flashing lights and pulsating bass are a dizzying distraction, but the anonymity offers a strange comfort. Here, I can be someone else, someone who doesn't carry the weight of her past like a noose around her neck. Someone who doesn't flinch at every sudden noise, every fucking shadow. I hide behind a mask, both literally and figuratively, and it has become my new safe haven, so to speak.

Tonight, however, the usual numbness is absent. The music feels jarring, the bodies pressing against me invasive. I find myself retreating into myself, my carefully constructed facade crumbling. And to be quite honest, I don't know why I feel this way tonight. I have my good days and bad days, and tonight, it's apparently a bad one.

A customer, whose mask is off—which is a violation—a middle-aged man with a paunch and a condescending smile, tries to engage me in conversation as he runs his fingers down my back while in the middle of his already paid dance. His words are lost in the chaos, but his touch, a chilling brush against my arm, sends a jolt of icy fear through me. I flinch, my hand instinctively going to my ribs, a phantom pain reminding me of the brutal reality I'm trying so fucking hard to escape.

Suddenly, a large figure behind me blocks the colorful flashing lights, angrily snatches the customer's hand and bends it backward until it snaps, and the customer lets out a bloodcurdling scream, yanking his broken hand away from the man behind me. I turn around, slowly sliding off the older man's lap, looking up to see glowing blue x's staring back at me.

"You're not supposed to fucking touch the girls, Johnny. You know better; now get the fuck out of here," Havoc growls deeply, and even though his face is hidden beneath his mask, I can practically see the anger written all over his face just from his demeanor.

"I already paid for thirty minutes, Havoc. Raven over here still owes me fifteen minutes," he slurs, winking at me, suddenly ignoring the fact that his hand is broken, already swelling twice its size.

As he begins to protest and get loud, one of the bouncers walks over and stands behind Johnny, ready for a fight. I nervously flick my gaze between Havoc and Crow, grateful for the mask that covers the dreamy look evident on my face. That's the one thing I'm not sure how I feel about, the whole mask shit. The dancers, bouncers, bartenders, and all the customers are required to wear masks so that our identities are protected at all costs. The amount of illegal shit that happens behind the closed doors of Club Mayhem is unimaginable, so we need all the protection we can get. But I'm still curious as to what a few of them look like and who they are. They don't pressure me to take my mask off, so I'd never do it to them.

Crow snatches Johnny up out of his seat, yanking him by his shirt collar so their faces are up against each other's. "Stop fucking around, or I'll break your other hand."

I stand here, hyperventilating on the inside, as violent flashbacks attack my mind of all the nights I got my ass beat by Dustin. Not realizing I'm shaking, almost in seizure mode, Havoc wraps his bare arm around me, his muscles tightening around my back as he holds me tightly. We lock eyes as Crow fights back from Johnny's drunken punches, Havoc's way of distracting me from the fight.

"If you're scared, look into my eyes, Little Mischief," Havoc says in a much softer tone, one that practically makes me melt into his embrace as he locks his arms around me and gently pulls me away from the confrontation.

"Thanks, Havoc," I softly say, though loud enough to be heard over the music.

"That's what we're here for, Little Mischief; we're your protectors, so a thanks isn't necessary, but you're welcome." He chuckles, noticing Crow having difficulty removing Johnny.

"Go ahead," I laugh, sliding my hands down my sides and adjusting the straps of my thong that are all twisted from Johnny's grabby hands. "I need to get back on stage anyway."

"Go on then, Ma, you know how much I love watching you dance," Havoc says smoothly as I walk away, feeling his heated gaze on me the entire time.

I can't help the shiver that hits me. The familiarity of his voice and his touch does something strange to my body, but the good kind of strange. The kind of strange that you just want more and more of. It grips your insides and puts you in a literal fucking chokehold. When I hit the stage, Boston runs over and grabs my hand, pulling me up the side steps, genuinely excited.

"I've been waiting for you to join me up here," she exclaims as we both claim a pole and begin winding our bodies to the beat of an older Chris Brown song.

And as I grip the pole and lean back, my hair sweeping across the stage, I instantly lock eyes with Crow and Havoc as they stand near one of the exits, mesmerized by my dancing, and not once through the whole song do they look away.

The night drags on, an eternity of lap dances and empty conversations. The money I earn feels tainted, a cruel mockery of the life I once had, the life I so desperately long for. But this is what I deserve. This is my future, my fate. And even though this isn't what I envisioned myself doing in my mid-twenties, I'll be the first one to admit that I'm damn good at it.

As I strut through the sea of masked men, one in particular catches my eye. He's a regular, always wearing a black and red mask that glows, and he comes in every single night. But he's late, coming in when it's almost closing time, his body language seeming off as I carefully watch him navigate the club in an obvious search for me.

I flip my brown curls over my shoulder as I lean over the bar, pouring two glasses of scotch, his favorite drink. Clutching the glasses in both hands, I walk over to him, coming up behind him in the back of the club near the VIP hallway. I tap him on the shoulder, and he turns around as if he's ready to attack. But once he sees me, his body relaxes, all six feet of his muscular, tattooed frame towering over mine. I get lost in the red glowing x's where his eyes are, craving a glimpse into the real thing.

"I didn't think you were coming," I yell over the music, pushing his drink into his hand.

He takes the glass without a word, his gaze locked onto mine as though trying to decipher a riddle. The electric buzz of anticipation hangs between us, a charged moment that feels oddly intimate amidst the chaos surrounding us. I notice a subtle shift in his demeanor, a vulnerability that contrasts sharply with the hard exterior he usually projects.

"I almost didn’t," he admits, his voice a low rumble that barely reaches me over the pounding bass. "But I needed to see you." There’s a vulnerability in his words that intrigues me—a stark departure from the mask of indifference he usually wears.

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