Remember when I said this story was going to take a turn? Heh...
The streets of Wildetown screamed with promise, and standing on one of its many corners, now dressed in a junkyard t-shirt and shorts, I felt all the humorous bite of the south.
The satin blue dress was scuffed in edges and dirtied in others, though the designer tag had swayed the second-hand store over on some unknown street– giving me thirty five bucks for what cost half of Charlie's monthly wage. A present from my mother, and now a window-display to lure people in.
I had swallowed my pride as the clerk hung it on a mannequin, giving me a discount on the other clothing items for such a pretty frock.
The t-shirt I had chosen held two palm trees and faded letters that once sang of some old band in the 80s– a paint splotch here, a rip in the seam there. It paired nicely with the heat, and a comfy pair of lowrise shorts– a better marriage to my sneakers than any prom attire could be.
I wasn't the only one that browsed, Eddie borrowing a few bucks to buy a black vest. Suitable for a southern summer, though an eyesore for the girls and their pretty corsets and smiles. The sight of him with his muddle of odd tattoos and chest hair turned even the head of a few men– to which he found even more amusing. Irish charm be damned.
We finished off the last of the peanut butter and bread, and got a few bottles of water from a petrol station – spotting an outdoor hose that would be perfect to keep us hydrated in this heat. A find from Eddie, who was used to fleeting around from pillar to post.
The downside to our day was the lack of shelter, and nowhere to park up to sleep comfortably – nearly every sign and camera set to catch anyone out with a ticket and fine. Nearly landing one within the first hour of settling, as Eddie had proposed a nap outside a strip mall.
Luckily, we had scampered away in time before the warden could rip out his notepad.
We scoured the streets for hours, eventually dialing up the heat as a cold chill took the city– a melty purple drowning the sky in twilight. The bell for happy hour chiming like a church bell.
There was nowhere comfortable, which meant we would need to take patrols to ensure both us and the truck would remain safe. My idea, and one Eddie begrudgingly agreed to, although he encouraged us to keep looking.
My patience and hope was all but drained until eleven o'clock swam by, and we suddenly discovered a semi-crowded car park, no meter or surveillance in sight. I inched hesitantly in the passenger seat, wordless though screaming inside– needing to sleep, needing to rest my head after driving aimlessly all day. Eddie shared the same desperation, parking the car with a now expert hand on the wheel and stick, pulling us into a vacant spot.
The dull thump of heavy bass music kissed the car windows, and we looked at each other hesitantly.
"We can't risk a ticket–"
"I know." He cut me off, his voice factual and dead. "It's the best shot we've got."
"I know." I echoed. "But we can't risk the ticket."
"Let me go look." He offered, though the sentence held no room for discussion.
Eddie cranked open the car door, letting in a slew of that thumpy-beat music that made my tired brain yawn and recoil– settling further into the leather seats. He left it ajar, disappearing off in a determined stroll that surprisingly made him fit in– passing the people who smoked and chatted outside the bar.
All was dark, excepted for that static fizz of the neon sign.
PARADICE written in a funky splash of misshapen letters, dangled as a cherry from the hand and mouth of a seductive cartoonish woman.
It certainly held promise.
I jumped as a giggle of feminine laughter fled past the window, carried by a group of dancers with fishnets and cherry lipstick– throwing their heads back in laughter.
A small, unknown part of me wanted Eddie to get back before they sunk their claws into him.
He returned not a moment later, as if hearing my silent plea, and patted the drivers chair to scoot me over.
"Open access from 10pm until 6am. We're good here."
I sighed, feeling all the muscles in my body relax.
Eddie didn't make any move to jump back inside, however, lingering half-in-half-out.
"Get in," I hissed, "you're letting out all the warmth."
"They have food inside, Isabella. Drinks, too."
"Thank you. I'm aware of what a bar entails."
"It's free." He added.
"You're not interested in the free food." I yawned lamely, settling against the window. "You're interested in the women licking their lips and crawling on their knees."
I close my eyes and pretend to be interested in sleeping, though his laugh makes me want to look at him– all cocksure and low. Not arguing with my statement, but agreeing.
With two smacks on the truck seat, he backtracks. "I'll see you later, then."
I open one eye, watching him close the door and skulk off– kicking myself for some unknown reason. Jealousy, maybe. I don't quite know yet.
The feeling is foreign, though thick like fresh paint– clinging to all the happy parts of me that want to shrug it off. I'm wedged into some bitter state, though thankful that it's not strong enough for me to resist sleep, curling into the truck door and its makeshift cloth curtain.
I'm awoken sometime between midnight and four o'clock – the loud thump of music louder than before, sounding hard enough to vibrate the truck, throwing me from sleep. My mouth is dry and hot, and I begrudgingly hit the radiator in protest, not realizing I'd left it on.
Eddie hadn't returned.
Unpeeling my sweaty cheek off the leather seat, I'm faced with the endless dark of a full car park– those vacant few spots now taken, offering little room to reverse even if we wanted to leave.
A claustrophobic and imprisoned notion.
A cheer bellows from the bar, and I flinch as a thousand hands clap and voices merge into applause, catching my attention. The faded sign for Paradice flickering, exposing a few small groups still huddled outside, cigarettes and glasses of fancy liquor in hand.
The party still going.
Irritated that Eddie had left me alone, and a little thirsty, I gathered my pride and hopped out of the truck; making sure to double lock the driver door as I did. The mechanics all rusty and awkward.
The air is bitter, and dressed in the shorts and t-shirt I found earlier, I'm acutely aware of the pimpled goosebumps that flesh up on my thighs and arms, reminding me just how exposed I really am.
Fantastic.
Another applause sounds through the bar, and now I'm closer, I recognise the faint echo of grunting and footfall, making me hesitant rather than interested. Images of hard orgies or aggressive dancing coming intrusively to mind.
I waver awkwardly in the cigarette smoke and noise, prompted only to enter as a body shoves past me, leaving the door ajar. The cheering crowd hollers again, and this time I see what they're encouraging.
Two fighting men are bashing at each other, surrounded by a sea of onlookers and wavering bills that signify hefty bets – a fifty here, a hundred there. All aimed for blood and glory, and maybe a few broken teeth on the floor.
To their right, a large bar overlooks them– the king of the palace, supplying enough alcohol to keep the fight hard and fast paced. To the left, a stage holds the corset-dancers I had seen earlier, with their ribbon lingerie and cherry of them is parading topless with a whip, pouring vodka shots into the mouths of hungry customers– all desperate for a drizzle of her attention.
I unknowingly catch it with my astonished stare, and get a wink in return– a few confused faces swirling to meet me at the door.
It takes every ounce of dignity inside to not flee, feeling as out of place as a bear at a picnic.
I'm grateful as a bell above tolls, and the fight concludes with a winner– one of the men holding up his hands and dancing with the chanting crowd; relishing in the money he had secured.
A voice– as strong and commanding as the bright lights– carried over every scream and holler.
"NEXT UP - The Silver Dragon returns!"
The audience clamors in conversation as more money is brought out and betting slips are shared – giving me the perfect opportunity to head out of eyeshot, indulging in more of the decor.
Paradice was an explosion of bright lights - aquamarines and fuschias burning over the open space, giving it a funky electronic vibe that married well with the scantily clad dancers and 80s underground music.
Blondie was playing Rapture – something I'd heard at the dances in Forks, with only a few revolving CDs keeping us entertained for the evening.
The bass was electrifying, the waiters slamming down scotches, whiskeys and fizzy looking cocktails that held more fruit than a traditional segment salad– stuffing twenties into their rockstar purple skirts and silver jackets, a mohawk here, a glisten of green eyeshadow there.
The more I wandered, the more I noticed the old-soul flare of strange furnishings, and the quirky essence of what must have been an eccentric owner's taste. Caught between an explosion of 1980s aqua-fever and the sandalwood of a southern ranch.
An interesting and unlikely hybrid.
I couldn't quite put my thumb on what made it so spectacular, though as one of the dancers on stage slipped off her lemon bralette and swung it like a lasso above her head, I realized– between the crudity of her bare breasts, and the uncaring attitude– what it was.
Wild.
Free.
Reckless.
Three tidbits of life I hadn't savored before, or dared to try.
Under the comfort of Honey and Charlie's suburban cloud, I'd barely experienced any range of true youth. Though here, it was plastered on the walls, the blood-puddled floors, the eyes of every intoxicated individual.
A small part of me was angered that I hadn't come earlier when Eddie asked.
But, wait– where was he?
I made my way to the bar, trying not to mix with the fighting forms that tried to get served; a few elbows coming my way. Two girls argued over the next drink being poured, and a waiter with a shaved blue cut became sheepish, trying to hear over the pouring cries for vodka lemonades, old fashions with a twist, or dark scotch.
Nervous, he looked to his colleague who was equally buried in money and sticky pale shots.
"I'm calling her down." He said.
"No!" The flustered one snapped. "She's in a meeting."
"I don't care. This is too much."
I seemed to be the only one listening– perhaps because I was sober rather than intuitive. Though as some secret look was shared between staff, and a phone call was made, I knew the outcome wasn't going to be good.
My instinct rang true, an impending click of heels and venomous gaze divvying up the crowd like a bucket of worms– a presence that usually meant one thing.
Power.
She descended from a back room that held a bolted door, taking the bar under command and tossing a towel over her shoulder– four drinks served before orders could even be barked. The blue haired kid sighed, whilst the other looked nauseous, dropping ice cubes and trying not to slip on their watery grave.
In five minutes, everyone was served and back in time for the fight, leaving just little o'l me at the forefront, damning the fact I hadn't bought ID.
Dressed in a studded leather vest, with a cleavage that argued every pair of knockers in the joint, I was greeted by none other than 'power' herself. An understatement, as she should have been called a beauty.
Her icy blonde hair was swept up into a sky high ponytail, with braids running up each side– tattooed on the right half of her body, the other hidden beneath the towel that was now dripping with vodka and cream from a slew of Springsteen' Daiquiris.
I froze, caught between an order of diet coke and a greeting– a bambi in the headlights to her icy stare.
"I…"
"D. Yes. I'm going to need ID."
"... just lemonade."
"Lemonade," a smirk graces her mouth, or maybe that's her way of being cruel, "the little girl wants lemonade."
"I-I can do it." The flustered boy mumbles.
She puts up a hand, shutting down his offer. "You want ice with this lemonade?"
I nod lamely.
Ice she pours, along with something from a barrel and a wedge of citrus on top.
I reach into my back pocket, where three crumpled dollars sit, though I pause. She's raised her hand again, though it's in my face this time.
"Keep it. We don't charge for non-alcohol here."
The frugal part of me is relieved, and I'm close to a 'thank you' when the lights dim, and a crackle of noise builds in the far corner of the room. Another fight brewing.
The Silver Dragon has joined the crowd.
"Better get a good seat." She allures, catching my attention again.
My eyes meet her cunning smile before I even turn my head fully, a little enamored.
"I'm actually looking for my friend."
"Oh?"
"He came in here earlier. Tallish… dark hair, tattoos."
She remained quiet, a brow quirked.
In interest, or because she thought I was stupid - I couldn't tell.
"Irish accent." I furthered.
Her head came down in a slow, gradual nod, and her eyes scanned past my shoulder toward the group of fighting men. A chorus of thumping, spitting and shouting now marrying into the electric walls and funky music.
"Fockin' take it like a man then, you little swine!" A familiar voice hissed.
I froze on the spot, not wanting to turn around.
"You already won, Irishman. Take your money and leave the man be!"
"I want to hear him fockin' beg for it, calling me all the dirty names he did."
The icy queen herself grinned, and I took a hesitant step forward– lowering my voice for just her to hear.
"On a scale of one to ten… how soon are you going to call the cops?"
The grin got wider.
"Isabella!" Eddie sounded from behind, lobbing a sweaty, muscled arm around my shoulders. I smelt his cologne instantly, tangled with a little blood and something else– liquor, maybe. Or the testosterone that bloomed after a victory.
My brown eyes found his face, and the swollen lump that had taken his lip– a bruise here, a fresh cut there. He grinned, all handsome and charm, easily the most handsome man here.
Behind him, a flock of the naked dancers lingered, all giggly and eager to get him merry on beer and sex.
"I thought you came for food." I whispered, trying not to sound spiteful.
He sniffed hard, tightening his arm on me. "Ah, I saw they were rallying up a little fight and couldn't help m'self. Won a fair chunk too, you know, destroying this Dragon guy, or whatever he was called. You could try and sound a little proud. Ah, I see you met Rosalie."
Resisting the urge to bite his head off, I was a breath away from swallowing the entire bar whole when a glimmer of red caught my eye– diverting my attention.
His black top was soiled in blood, the wound from his abdomen torn and fresh.
The blonde behind the bar– Rosalie– was quick to discover it, also.
"Shit." I heard her cuss, followed by a click of fingers. "Take over. Get this guy up to my room. Sharpish."
Eddie looked down, smiling and charming, and then suddenly very pale.
"Bella." He cautioned, though he didn't need to. I already had an arm around his side, taking a good majority of his weight.
"It's okay." I said. "Follow the nice lady and get patched up."
He rolled his eyes, more annoyed at himself than mortally wounded.
Two men came and escorted Eddie upstairs, and I lingered behind– questioning on whether to go or not.
Maybe if I hadn't, my days in Wildetown would have been normal… dull, even. Though what awaited was far more deadlier.
My feet carried me to the back room with Eddie, with Rosalie shortly behind.
My first mistake in Wildetown, and certainly not my last.