Page 2 of Bad Moon Rising
If she found out who did this to her, who forced amnesia on her, she’d kill him…or her. Could she kill a person? Crap, her head hurt again.
Catalog what you DO know.
She didn’t despise the black outfit, although she gave the form-fitting bustier’s plastic boning an angry tug where it dug into her ribcage. Whatever underwear she wore—felt like a thong—rode up her ass. No, she wasn’t going to pluck her butt in public. Apparently, she wasn’tthatkind of girl. But after she handled the task her texter had sent—getting this guy out of the subbasement and into SigNone’s main lounge, which would hopefully resurrect her memories—she’d find a restroom and give her underwear a solid realignment pull or remove it altogether.
She wrapped her arms around herself. Must be at least low thirties out here. Whoever designed her post-apocalyptic Goth getup forgot to include a stylish leather jacket.
Time to find this man, who hopefully had answers and the antidote. Her boots clicked on the concrete sidewalk at the fastest pace possible. Her stride couldn’t get much wider before the leather pants crimped her butt. The arches of her feet ached inside the boots as she neared the club.
The way her skin crawled at the thought of entering a club called SigNone made her suspect this wasn’t her normal scene. Maybe the name of the club was a clue. Probably not. The man she needed to find was in there. That was as deep as the name went.
No signs advertised the establishment. The only indication it existed was the low rumble of music and the two-wide line of thirty or so leather-clad people outside a battered metal door.
A pair of bearded, muscular men in black tactical gear manned the entry, each armed with a Taser. The one on the left, with six facial piercings, had a knife in his pants pocket. He balanced his weight on his right leg. Left must have an injury. She guessed his knee. Her brain peppered her with a full list of each bouncer’s strengths and weaknesses and ideal hit points.
Where had that come from?
The phone buzzed its next countdown alert against her chest where she’d stuffed it into her top. No time to wait in line. She had to skip to the front.
She strode to the bouncers and directly eyed both men. “Meine leute sind drinnen.” My people are inside. Clear German, without a hint of uncertainty.
I know German?
Both men gawked at her chest, which overflowed from the too-small top that pushed an obscene amount of white cleavage into view. No question she didn’t worship the sun or that she was stacked. They leered at her, fixated on her breasts, which made her want to deck both of them hard enough to break noses.
Do not punch either of them. Smile.
One bouncer smirked. The other opened the door and waved her through.
Focus on the positive, not the fact your boobs got you in.Language skills. Useful talent. What other languages could she speak? Nothing else popped into her head. English must be her first language since her thoughts came in it.
Deep bass tones pulsated between the brick walls inside the renovated factory-turned-club. The cavernous interior housed an enormous crush of bodies writhing to the massive sound system. Laser lights flashed colors in sync with the beat.
She pressed through people to the railing overlooking the primary dance floor. Once more, she peeked at the picture on the phone before clicking it off. In the strobe lights’ flashes, the dark screen of her phone showed her reflection: a woman with long, curly, dark hair and pale skin. She tugged a curl into her line of vision. Auburn. Natural color or dyed?
How could she not recognize herself or know if she dyed her hair? She pushed her brain to spill details.Come on. Remember.What hair products do I use?
The area behind her eyes throbbed again. She gripped the rail to catch herself when the world wobbled. A tumble over and onto the dance floor wasn’t the kind of attention she wanted.
The urge to push her brain to remember what it couldn’t was tough to stop. She forced a few deep breaths and ceased trying to see her past.
The world went blurry. Air thickened as if inhaling smoke.I remember everything since I woke up. That’s something.
The phone dinged and then buzzed twice.
New text from Unknown.
If he tries to kill you, Nova, flick open the lighter twice and give it to him.
What?
She examined the silver Zippo lighter embossed with a leafy pattern. The metal piece didn’t look like a get-out-of-jail-free card.
If she failed to find this man, she’d be a historical blank for the rest of her life, but when she found him, he might kill her?Great. This keeps getting worse.
Hold on…
My name is Nova.
