Pharis rocked her hips to the rhythm. Thrumming bass vibrated the floor. Sirens pierced the beats in an oscillating wail. High above, pulsing lights were halos, illuminating nothing but a hovering fog and the sea of heads below.
She danced in a stranger's arms, his motion compelling her to follow every step, every sway. His face was shadow, but his heat, his scent—cologne, sweat and booze—it set her ablaze.
"Four AM, time to be wrapping this up!" The announcement brought dozens to a pause, Pharis included. "Your endurance be incredible, but DJ Clips thinks some of you be needing a room."
The song's crescendo dissolved into backbeats. Some ravers danced on, but the majority attacked the bar, abandoning the floor for one last drink. Pharis clung hip-to-hip with her mystery partner. The waist of her micro-mini had climbed her midriff; a shimmy and tug dropped it back in place.
"I guess the cops had something better to do tonight." He wasn't going anywhere either. His arms trembled—cute.
"Guess so. Come to a lot of these?" Pharis crooked an elbow over his shoulder.
The house lights kicked on, revealing drab warehouse walls, catwalks, a score of live sex-shows, and her mystery man. Pharis' breath caught in her throat. She smiled. Short hair, strong jaw, sexy lips—but the real allure was his eyes. They widened, then sparkled; unassuming confidence; she'd gotten lucky tonight.
"Not really, but I might now."
"Same here," Pharis said.
* * *
They walked together, hand in hand. Predawn filled the horizon with calm blue. Venus posed under the Moon, twinkling through the haze. Seabirds broke the silence with scattered caws.
"So, Calvin, how's a guy like you not own a car?" Pharis smirked, nodding to the gridlocked parking lot.
"You don't either, right?"
"Nah, I just steal my sister's."
"Then how'd you get here?" Calvin said. "I can't imagine a pretty girl walking through Bayside at night."
"You're right about that. My littlest big sister dropped me off."
"Why isn't she with you? Doesn't like the competition, or is the scene just too intense?"
"Too skanky," Pharis said, "or that's her opinion. I tell her it ain't about hooking-up, it's all about the music, the energy."
"I came for the girls." Calvin accepted her raised eyebrow with a wink. "What can I say, I hit the jackpot."
"You sure know how to smooth-talk a lady."
"Am I wrong?"
"No." Pharis pressed close with her shoulder. "I just hope you're as good as you dance—"
A silhouette interrupted their path. From around a warehouse corner, three others joined him. With a glance behind, Pharis saw two more appear from alley shadows. The exodus of cars headed the opposite way, leaving them with an empty street. Calvin extended an arm to her chest, backing her onto the road.
"Don't run," he said. "They'll split up and chase you down."
"W-What do they want?"
"Guess."
Pharis wasn't a street girl. If they wanted money, she was broke. If they wanted her—she didn't like the odds. Her fight-or-flight instinct rocked full on. Yet, while Calvin wasn't a seven-foot warrior, his quiet tone held her in check.
"What should I—?"
"Bad idea, boys," Calvin said, sliding a hand in his jacket. "I know you won't, but you should really turn right back around."
"Why's that?" The lead silhouette walked forward, his face lit by a streetlamp. The slender Latino matched Pharis in height, but his pockmarked face suggested a few years younger. "I don't care what your rep is, Cutter, you can't be thinking one on six."
"If you know who I am, why bother?" From out of his jacket, he gripped a short metal rod. With a snap of his wrist, it extended to a two-foot baton.
"For Miguel. You ain't gunna get away with that shit." The spokesman unfurled a bicycle chain; his buddies, box knives and a stun gun.
"At least let the girl go," Calvin said. "She's not involved."
"She's gunna be, after we're done." The look he shot turned her stomach.
The pair of thugs behind them kept their distance, flanking Pharis' slow retreat. She bit her lip, suppressing tears, nausea, and the rising urge to panic. Her luck with men certainly sucked. Her last boyfriend was an alcoholic, the one before, an adrenaline junky; and now the first guy she met was some kind of gangbanger.
Centered in the street, Calvin dropped his stance, twirling his baton at the wrist. Pharis held her breath as the skinny Latino spun his chain. With two steps and a shout, Calvin's baton slammed into the kid's hand—crack. The chain flew through the air in a lazy arc. By the time it landed, its owner was on his knees, clutching a gash on his ear.
The stun gun kid leapt forward, blue sparks leaving tracers with every wild swing. Calvin spun into the charge, driving the kid onward with a shove. Off-balance, the kid stumbled into his fallen buddy, knocking them both flat on the street.
The remaining duo threatened with box knives. They were taller, wider; one heaved a sigh, the other flashed a smirk. The kids' back up?
Calvin smashed the stunner with his heel, then punted its wielder's head. He squared off with the duo. "Rocko, George. It's been a while."
"I see ya've gotten better, runt." Rocko nodded to his partner.
"But, you still ain't fast enough for us." George snapped his fingers.
Pharis expected one of them to make a move, but upon hearing boot steps behind her, she twisted her head, a scream on her lips—too late. The crackle of another stunner was the last thing she heard. The Moon's pale glow faded to black.
* * *
A foul taste competed with a burn in her throat. Her shoulder twitched in spasms; tender, aching. Her head throbbed with every heartbeat.
Starting with her name, then the evening, Pharis' memories reformed in disjointed bubbles. Instinct and fear penetrated the fog. Her eyes snapped open.
She stared up at a reflection of herself lying on queen-sized bed. The mirrored ceiling extended in panels across the entire room. Red sheets covered her legs up to her waist. She'd been stripped of her halter-top, though her hair was draped over her breasts. A cold, puffy towel was bound at her shoulder with a belt. She fumbled a hand under the sheets—bare skin. She moaned, tears welling in her eyes.
"Easy now, Pharis, relax," Calvin said, sitting at a bedside chair. He was shirtless and held a blood-soaked towel against his forearm.
"W-Why…" Pharis couldn't talk, couldn't think.
"You'll feel better in a few minutes, I promise." He stood, leaning in. She twisted away, whimpering. "Just checking the burn. Please, relax."
Calvin unbuckled the belt and gently slid the hand-towel away, dropping a bag of half-melted ice on the nightstand. Smiling, he looked from her shoulder to her eyes. While her heart still raced, something about this didn't make sense. He still had his pants and boots on. She wasn't bound and didn't feel any discomfort down there.
"My clothes?" she said, her voice hoarse. He offered a glass of water, which she guzzled in one drink.
"Soaking in the tub. Stunners make a body do embarrassing things."
Pharis' cheeks flushed. She wasn't sure which was worse, unconscious and naked, or soaking her savior.
"Don't worry about it. I didn't do anything weird, even if I did get a free show." Calvin cheesed a grin.
"Asshole."
"See, you're feeling better already. A little fire's a good sign."
He wiped his arm with her hand-towel. It looked as if the bleeding had stopped; a shallow cut, not that she knew anything about medicine. He'd been right about her feeling better though. The nausea passed, as did the disorientation. Now she only had a sore shoulder. Her headache evaporated.
"How'd you do it?" Pharis pulled the sheets around her chest. "I mean, those guys looked tough."
"Nah, I took out the tough one's last week. Those were Baysides looking for payback—way out of their league. I'm sorry you got hurt; I didn't think they'd come at me so soon. They made a big mistake going after you."
"Damn straight, what with my puking and peeing."
"I'm just happy you didn't hit your head," Calvin said with a chuckle. "Those two half-bakes should've been helping Rocko and George. By the time I dropped Rocko, they were already getting rubber-legged. A lot of thugs can't walk the walk."
"What gang are you in?"
Maybe this was why she was a delinquent magnet. She was actually interested. It could've been the silky sheets, but Pharis felt much better, switching gears in a way her sisters called unnatural. A few painkillers and she'd be good to go. She wasn't sure whether to be proud of her resiliency, or unnerved.
"Gang? Oh, not me, I hate the bastards. Why do you think they're so pissed at me?"
"So, you start shit with all of Anchorage?"
Calvin paused, puffing his cheeks. "Pretty much. A girl like you should be able to enjoy herself anytime, anywhere. But I don't think even a harem of boys could keep you safe."
"Oh yeah, why's that?"
"You're way too hot. Remember, I've already seen you naked."
"Gah! Rub it in." Pharis blushed again, though now she had a smirk to go with it. "I'll collect on that, trust me. Tat for tit, so to speak."
"Good to hear, what's your plan?" Calvin sat beside her, taking her hand.
"I need a plan?" She guided his palm to her thigh.
Suddenly switching gears himself, he tightened a fist, though didn't take his hand away. "I don't normally do this."
Too cute.
"Then why the sex motel?" Pharis said. "How can a tough guy be the shy type?"
"Don't tease me, I saved your ass."
"Without you, I wouldn't have been in danger. Admit it. Rescue the girl and get some easy play."
"You call that easy?" Calvin untied his boots, kicking them to the floor. "Bayside doesn't have that many motels; this was the best I could do."
"Yeah right. Pants off, or I call the cops."
"Haven't heard that line befo—"
Pharis squashed the banter with their first kiss. Pain, whatever, endorphins had it covered. He straightened his legs, rolling to her side. She hadn't been kissed in weeks. His hands ran through her hair, down her chest to her hips. Every touch was an explosion of heat. In her mind, they'd both earned it.
* * *
Thump, thump.
Knocks on the doors woke Pharis with a start. Again she looked up at herself, raccoon-eyes, hair in tangles, totally sexy. Calvin was already at the door in boxers, unarmed, patting a hand on his face. He looked through the peephole. After a shoulder-slumping sigh, he clicked the deadbolt and cracked the door.
"I said noon, dumbass, not nine."
"You want the news now, or not?" A girl's voice.
"One sec." Calvin swiveled on his heel. Pharis glanced towards the bathroom, to her clothes, but settled on covering up as he waved her down. "You cool?"
Pharis nodded. He stepped back, allowing the girl to slip through. Calvin locked the door behind her. She wore a high school uniform, Jefferson Private by the colors and crest. Her cheeks flushed, especially when she locked eyes with Pharis.
"S-Sorry."
"Whatever, Bernie, what's the scoop?" Calvin said.
"Classes started an hour ago," Bernie stared at the floor, "not going today?"
"You're the one gunning for a scholarship, you were supposed to come during lunch."
She again glanced at Pharis—annoying. "If you'll excuse me." Pharis slid out from the sheets, abandoning modesty. Shoulders back, she tossed her hair and padded towards the bathroom. Bernie's hushed chatter followed her out.
Pharis ran a shower, rinsing last night's sweat, blood and sex from her skin. Trust a sleaze-motel for a double-sized tub, complete with jacuzzi and multiple heads. Her shoulder still felt stiff, not to mention her other aching muscles. She smiled, leaning against the cool tile. The morning had been one for the ages. As for Calvin, she wanted more, despite her better judgment. He'd gone from mystery man, gangbanger, savior, to lover, all in the last six hours.
The curtain slid open to a clink. Pharis yelped, slipping on soapy lacquer. Calvin caught her arm, lifting her to a kiss. He stepped in with her. "Sorry, hun."
"Mmm, you're forgiven." Pharis wrapped her arms around his waist. "Where's the mouse?"
"Bernice? I kicked her out."
"Good news, or bad news?"
"I'll tell you later." He pinned her to a wall, silencing her questions in another wave of fire.