Page 8 of Driving My Obsession

Ambrose

Rain taps against my bedroom window as I sit on the edge of the bed and stare into the darkness. I’m not scheduled to fight tonight. Usually I’ll go work the crowd and make some side cash when I’m not slotted for the ring, but my mind is on other things.

Like that girl from the club.

I’ve tried my best to think of anything other than her red hair and porcelain skin, but she invades my mind like a virus. Thoughts of her multiply at an alarming rate, overtaking rationality and making me feel sick. She’s the vessel that will hold all my rage. I can’t allow her to consume me. Without even trying, she takes bites of my sanity and spits them at my feet, chewed up and coated in saliva. I have to do something about this. These feelings need an outlet.

I grab my keys and jog through the rain until I reach my Jeep. The parking lot lights make the asphalt glisten like a black canvas with miniscule diamonds tossed across it. I pat my pocket when I sit behind the driver’s seat, ensuring I have what I need, and a smile spreads across my face when I feel the little objects rattling against each other. This won’t be as satisfying as choking the life out of her and running a blade across her skin until she comes to, but it’s close.

After a short drive, I pull into the club’s parking lot. When she comes out, I’ll use the rain as an excuse. I’ll say I just wanted to make sure she had a way home. Then I’ll slip my little gift into her pocket or her bag when she isn’t paying attention, and the mind fuck can begin.

I’ve decided it isn’t enough to just kill her. Like a cat with an injured mouse, I want to toy with my prey before I rip out its entrails.

The clock on my dashboard marches toward midnight, and I worry I’ve missed my opportunity. Maybe she isn’t working tonight. Maybe she’s already gone home. I don’t enjoy the idea of stepping foot in that filthy club again, but my curiosity wins out and propels my feet toward the door.

I enter the dimly lit strip club, struggling to draw a breath when a heavy cloud of alcohol and cigarette smoke descends on me. The haze obscures the patrons and gives the illusion of secrecy. Music pulses in my chest, heightening my senses as I walk through the maze of dark corridors to get to the main floor.

I scan the walls. The vibrant mixture of crimson paint and gold accents creates a seductive glow on everyone inside, including myself. The place reeks of allure and temptation. I hate it. The flashing lights and gaudy colors only veil the evil inside this place. It disguises the flaws of the whores who creep along the floor like cockroaches searching for a crumb. Mirrors line the walls, reflecting fragmented images at me. Naked women writhe and grind, their glittering outfits casting bright rays of light at me. It’s infinite. It’s sickening.

A diverse cast of characters fills the dirty seats in the main room, from clean-cut businessmen to dirty old men. Actually, they’re all dirty old men. Their hushed conversations and smothered laughter blend with the sultry melodies.

The bar along the back wall calls to me like a beacon of light. When the club environment chokes me, a stiff drink is my only source of oxygen. The prospect offers a momentary escape from the pain growing like a disease inside my body, but my sobriety nags at me. Instead of reaching for air, I search for a place to sit down and suffocate. Alcohol almost ended my fighting career, so now I force myself to stay sober.

I choose a seat near the entrance to the private rooms and the back of the building. An electric candle flickers in the center of the table, casting intimate light across my scarred face. I study the little device until I find its off switch, letting darkness wash over me when I snuff it out. I don’t want to be seen for multiple reasons.

The stage is mesmerizing, even for someone like me. It’s bathed in a spotlight that draws my eyes, and the crimson curtain separating the stage from the back area looks like a waterfall of velvet blood. I fixate on the woman swirling her hips in the middle of the main stage, but I don’t watch her the same way as the other men. Hatred fills my gaze, not lust. Each sway raises my blood pressure and increases my heart rate. Plenty of shit stiffens on me as she removes her top and reveals her breasts—my jaw as my teeth clench, my fists as they form tight balls in my lap—but not my dick. Never my dick.

The whore finishes her half-hearted performance and leaves the stage with her money tucked inside her flimsy underwear. Generic rock music fills the silence as she exits through the curtain and by the end of the song, I’m ready to leave. I haven’t seen my fire-haired target since I sat down, and I figure I’ve chosen the wrong night to begin my work.

Another song starts, and the curtain parts. Heads bob like buoys in the sea, all turning toward the woman stepping into the spotlight. She is a goddess among mortals. Oaklyn glides across the stage, her red hair cascading over her shoulders. My eyes lock on the sequined bra pushing her tits to her chin. I’d rather see them relaxed, but the bright, flashy fabric hugs her body and gleams with an ethereal light. She hardly looks real.

A cyclone of emotions tears apart my insides. The round muscles at the hinges of my jaw tighten until I’m certain they’ll explode. Instead of titillating me, her beauty ignites a burning rage I struggle to control. She’s tearing me apart.

This club is a theater of desire, where fantasies overtake reality. Where you leave your coat of morality at the front door and put it on when you leave, cloaking your naked desires once more. Though Oaklyn stands there in little more than her own skin, something about her doesn’t belong. Unlike the other women who work here, she doesn’t engage the crowd. I worried she might spot me, even after I shut off that stupid candle, but she doesn’t even see us out here. As she grips the pole and leans back, she’s lost to something else. We don’t exist.

I observe her from my dark corner. The natural seduction that comes from seeing a beautiful woman’s nearly naked form contrasts with the dark undercurrents born of my obsessive hatred. Within this intoxicating realm where sexy meets loathing, my obsession thrives, drawing me deeper into a game that blurs the line between sanity and madness.

A man near the stage leans forward and waves a handful of cash at her. With her eyes closed as she moves to the music, she doesn’t even notice him. She slides down the pole and removes her top to an onslaught of hungry hands. The men reach for her breasts and thighs, and I envision breaking each finger that nears her body. A low growl rumbles in my chest, but I force my ass to stay planted in this cheap chair. I close my eyes and take a breath. When I open them again, I see my mother on that stage instead of Oaklyn. My fists clench into tight balls and drive my nails into my palm. The pain clears my head, and I can see clearly again.

But the anger and need for revenge have been renewed.

I stop focusing on Oaklyn’s looks. Her beauty doesn’t negate the rest of the deplorable shit in this place. It can’t. I haven’t spent most of the last thirty-five years of my life hating this club and the whores within it for something beautiful to come and lighten up the darkness I’ve shrouded it in. It’s ugly and disgusting, and she can’t change that.

Oaklyn’s song ends. With a curl of my lip, I watch her grab the money from the floor. How degrading. Soon after she disappears into the back, another set of tits replaces her. No shortage of whores, I guess. This one is a haggard ghost, with dark, choppy hair that comes to an abrupt halt near her jawline. Black makeup circles her lids like it’s trying to escape her watery eyes. She looks like she could be anywhere between twenty and thirty-five. The lifestyle seems to age them in weird ways.

I drop my gaze when I hear someone come out from the back area. I don’t have to turn around to know it’s Oaklyn; I can tell from her scent alone. Defeat with a touch of vanilla. When I’m sure she’s walked past and won’t notice me, I turn to watch her walk away. She’s traded her heels for a pair of low tops. Interesting choice of footwear for a woman like her. A cami strap slips down her arm, and her shorts hug her ass. She drifts to the bar as if she has the weight of the club on her shoulders, then plops down on a leather stool. Her hand rises, and she flags down the bartender. I can’t hear what she orders, but I know it’s a Moscow Mule when the bartender delivers her drink in a copper mug.

Now that I know she’s occupied, I can put my plan into place. I slip out the door without her noticing me—hopefully withoutanyone noticing me—and look around the parking lot. I’ll head to my Jeep and drive back and forth in front of the building until she steps outside and needs a ride, then I’ll swoop in and leave her with a parting gift before she exits my car in front of her trailer. I get nearly to my vehicle when I hear a door open near the back of the building.

Curiosity gets the best of me and I turn around, spotting the dancers who were on stage before and after Oaklyn. The women walk with their arms hooked together. How chummy. As they climb into a car together, I wonder why these women never offer Oaklyn a ride home. Can they sense how different she is?

They back out of the parking lot, and my eyes swivel to the door near the back of the building. The door they conveniently left slightly ajar. With no one else in the parking lot to witness it, I walk toward a new plan.

The door creaks as I ease back the thick metal and peer inside. Seeing no movement, I take a step into the small room lined with mirrors, makeup, and lockers. My heart quickens as I imagine my mother back here, getting ready for her moment on the stage. Or getting railed by her manager. I wouldn’t be surprised if that was my shitty origin story.

My eyes land on the heels Oaklyn wore on stage. They’re tucked beside a desk, between the wall and what I assume is her area. I’m drawn to her property, entirely overcome by an intense desire to get my hands on her stuff.

My hand runs over the tabletop. A brush teeters on the edge, and I lift it and examine the red strands of hair woven through the bristles. A palette of green eyeshadow gleams up at me. Instead of coating her lids in darkness like all the other whores, she chooses a color that accentuates her eyes. I fucking hate how different she is.

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