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The Protector

Whitney

Take Your Halo: Tech N9ne

A s I sit at the 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.

I arch an eyebrow. "Needed to see me? You? Why?" I tease, but deep down I’m desperate to know.

There’s a flicker of something in his eyes—desire, maybe, or perhaps it’s just the allure of the night fueling my imagination. He leans closer, the scent of his cologne wrapping around me like a fog.

“You’re the best distraction I’ve found here. And,” he hesitates, almost as if the truth is a weight he has to carry, “I feel like you’re... different. Like there’s more to you than just this.”

He sweeps a hand towards the dark corners of the club, the shadows where secrets fester and dreams wither under neon lights. The compliment sends a rush of warmth through me, something bright and utterly foreign, evolving into a bittersweet reminder of what I’ve lost and possibly could still salvage.

“I guess this is as far from being a nurse as one can get,” I say softly, my smile faltering slightly. “But you’re right. I’ve spent too much of my life being someone else’s idea of who I should be.”

He nods, understanding sinking in. The way he looks at me makes me feel like I’m not just a woman on stage for his enjoyment, but a person with a past, a story he genuinely wants to hear.

“I can be here for you, you know,” he says, the intensity of his gaze pinning me in place. “If you want.”

The weight of my own choices presses down on me as I consider his offer. “You barely know me,” I challenge, draping my hair over my shoulder as a defense mechanism.

“I know enough,” he replies, unwavering. “You’re brave for still standing, even when the world is trying to knock you down. You’ve survived things that would fucking break most people.”

His declarations wash over me in waves. I find myself teetering on the edge of vulnerability, wondering if it’s worth the risk to allow someone inside again. My heart beats erratically, battling the instincts that have kept me wary.

But before I can respond, a fist slams against the bar, shattering the moment. The shout of a customer fills the air, a demand for attention drenched in drunken bravado. I flinch, my pulse racing, and I grip the edge of a nearby table, grounding myself. Red's eyes darken instantly, a fierce protective instinct evident as he turns towards the ruckus.

"Let me handle this," he growls, the playful air between us slipping into something dangerous.

“Wait—” I start, but the moment has passed, the cocoon we created torn apart by the harsh reality of the club.

I don’t want him fighting for me. I don’t want anyone fighting for me. It’s all too reminiscent of Dustin, too close for comfort. Before I can vocalize my thoughts, he pushes his way toward Johnny, confidence radiating like armor. I’m left standing here, consumed by fear and uncertainty, tempted to retreat back into my shell.

As Havoc and Crow rush over, the argument escalates, drawing a small crowd as the tension spikes. My stomach knots as I watch them, unwilling to let another man’s rage spiral out of control. The last time I felt this helpless, I was lying on a hospital bed, broken and terrified.

I force myself to move, making my way through the mess of bodies and flashing lights, my heart racing for a different reason this time. I reach the scene just as Red shoves Johnny back, asserting dominance but not cluing in that he’s treading into volatile territory.

“Enough!” My voice breaks through the noise, surprisingly firm, fueled by a rush of adrenaline as I step in between them. I grab Red's arm, pulling him back. “Just let it go. It’s not worth it.”

He looks down at me, surprise flashing across his face before he nods, backing off slightly. Johnny, still simmering with fury, takes a step forward, thinking he can intimidate us.

“Come on, Johnny. Let me walk you home,” I offer, my heart pounding fiercely, feeling the weight of every moment carrying the weight of my past.

Johnny hesitates, the adrenaline surging through him battling with the unexpected veracity of my tone.

“You'd walk me home, Raven?" He asks, almost as if he's in shock and obviously not remembering the numerous other times I've had to walk him home.

“Yeah, I would,” I reply, smiling, the conviction in my voice solidifying as I brace myself against the bar’s edge.

“You see the girl next to you?" Red sneers, facing Johnny with his body somewhat shielding mine. "We're here for her, not you. You’re ruining the fucking vibe. So why don’t you take your ass somewhere else? Nobody wants your bullshit tonight.”

There’s a beat of silence, the crowd around us still, as the atmosphere shifts. Johnny scoffs, weighing his options, and, finally, he huffs in annoyance before shoving past and storming out into the night. Relief floods through me, but it’s short-lived. As the adrenaline begins to fade, I turn back to see Red watching me, his dark, glass-like eyes unreadable.

“Wow,” he breathes, a hint of admiration sparkling in those very eyes. “You really offered to walk him home?”

“Yeah, well,” I reply weakly, running a hand through my hair to mask my rattle. “I've done it before. He usually calms down once we're outside and alone.”

As I face him, I’m hit with the realization that whatever this connection we share is, I can’t hide anymore. My past is a part of me, yes, but there’s strength in vulnerability too. I take a breath, steeling myself not only for the uncertainty of what comes next but also for the challenge of confronting my own fears.

“I appreciate you stepping in back there, Red. I... I don’t want to always feel like I’m in danger. Not here, not anymore.”

He steps closer, that charged energy still lingering in the air. “You’re in a different world now, Raven,” he says softly. “Things don’t just go away with a single token of bravery. You need to know how to handle yourself when trouble comes knocking,” his tone is almost a whisper, tempered with a mix of understanding and concern.

“I’m learning,” I reply, the truth wrapping around me like a protective layer.

It might not be the healthiest of environments, but I’m finding pieces of myself in this world of masks and shadows, fragments that had long since been buried beneath layers of trauma and survival.

“Good,” he nods. “Just remember, you’ve got people here who’ll back you up.”

Despite my inner turmoil, I find comfort in his words. It’s a reminder that even in this chaotic underbelly of society, amidst darkness and danger, I’m not alone. The more I scratch beneath the surface, I find a strange community that both worries and supports me. But there’s still an ache gnawing at the edges of my heart, a longing for something that feels genuine.

As the next song begins, the tempo shifts to something slower, more sultry. Boston’s already back on stage, swaying her body to the rhythm, and I feel the urge to join her, to lose myself in the music again. But I hesitate, glancing back at Red and seeing the way his presence melts the fear away from me.

“Come, let me give you a dance,” I say suddenly, surprising even myself as I hold out my hand.

His brow arches, momentarily surprised by my boldness. “You’re offering to give me a dance?”

“I'm feeling brave,” I tease, biting back a smile. “You know, I kind of owe you for having my back.” I gesture toward Boston, who’s eyeing us with a knowing grin.

After a moment of deliberation, he takes my hand, and together we make our way to the stage. The moment we step onto the platform, I kick intuition into high gear, moving instinctively to the rhythm. Red stays close to me, his body radiating warmth that seems to pull me in.

“Just sit down and relax,” I say as I begin to sway my hips, twirling gracefully around the pole as I wait for him to sit.

I can feel his eyes glued to me, a hunger sparking within the connection that ignites through the air. Something about dancing, about sharing this moment with him, makes adrenaline surge through me—it’s exhilarating.

He finally sits, and I straddle his lap, grinding while he matches my pace, mimicking my movements as I lead him through the dance. It feels better than I could have ever imagined, two bodies intertwined within a swirl of lights and shadows. The music surrounds us, carrying us to a place where the outside world and its troubles don’t exist.

Boston joins in, throwing us both a flirtatious wink as she dances nearby. I laugh, feeling lighter, even as I keep my gaze locked onto Red's electrifying presence. His hands are surprisingly smooth as he glides them up and down my sides as I wind my body, rocking feverishly against him, his confidence as intoxicating as the drinks being poured at the bar. Even wearing our masks, the connection we have is overwhelming, and Red feels like someone I've known all of my life.

I slide up and down his body, turning so my back is against his chest, suddenly noticing both Raze and Crow at the exit staring intensely at me, watching my every move with extreme fascination. I try to ignore it, but their eyes burn into my soul, throwing off my dancing as I turn around to face Red again, forcing a smile beneath my mask.

As I finish, Red stands and catches my hand again, spinning me toward him and pulling me close. The music fades as the energy around us shifts, a raw tension hanging in the air.

“I didn’t think you’d be this good at bringing a guy into your world,” he murmurs, a glint of mischief playing in his eyes.

“Who says I can’t be full of surprises?” I shoot back, playfully nudging him. “Just keep up.”

Red steps in closer, and for a heartbeat, the noise of the club disappears, leaving just the two of us in our own private universe. “You really shouldn’t sell yourself short. You’re a lot stronger than you realize.”

His words linger, stirring emotions I’ve kept buried for far too long. I ache to unravel my past and lay it out before him, to unveil the fractures and vulnerabilities, but fear grips me tightly. Instead, I take the opportunity to shift the conversation, desperate to deflect any deeper questions he might have.

“Tell me something,” I request, eyeing him curiously. “What’s behind your mask?”

From the look in his eyes, I can tell a smirk dances across his face as he considers my question, his vulnerability replaced by that familiar mischievousness.

“Deflecting, are we? Not bad. How about this: you share a secret, and I’ll share one too—a fair trade.”

It’s a game I can’t resist. My pulse quickens, fueled by a rush of thrill and courage. But what will I confess? Something that’ll bring me closer to him or something that keeps me guarded?

“Okay,” I say finally, locking my gaze with his, “Here’s one: I might’ve, just once, stolen a car from a 7-Eleven parking lot when I was nine.” I grin, the admission small but revealing a fragment of my spirit—innocent, maybe reckless, but undeniably me.

His laughter is warm, a stark contrast to the cool demeanor he often wears. “Adventurous, I like it. Alright, my turn.” He looks off into the distance for a moment before meeting my eyes again, the shimmer of earnestness in his voice sending the gravity of his words straight home. “My real name isn’t Red. It’s Cade. I go by Red because of the x's on my mask. It was a nickname from childhood.”

“Cade?” I repeat, letting the name roll off my tongue with newfound intimacy. “It suits you. It’s… softer.”

His expression shifts, surprise flashing in his eyes. “You’re the first to say that. Most people only see the mask and the toughness.”

“Maybe because most people don’t see the person behind it,” I reply, feeling an unexpected calm sweep over me. “But I see you, Cade.”

The sincerity of my words hangs between us like fragile glass. Keep it light, Whitney , my mind shouts at me; don’t go breaking any walls down when the foundation isn’t strong enough to withstand it. But vulnerability feels intoxicating here and now—a chance at connection that may lead to something beautiful amid the chaos.

“Alright, Raven,” he says, searching my eyes for something more. “What else is there behind the dancer? What’s next for you?”

It’s a question I want to dodge, but the desire to share pulls at me—an urge to pull him into my life outside these four walls, to trust him. Yet I can feel the tendrils of hesitation wrapping around my throat.

“Honestly? I’m still figuring it out,” I admit, the sincerity rushing out before I can stop it. “I’m tired of running from the past. I want to break free, but every time I think about moving on, fear keeps dragging me back down.”

“You’re stronger than you know,” he replies, the weight of his voice anchoring me. “But it’s okay not to have it all figured out yet. I don't know what you're running from, but I can tell you that you’re not alone in it.”

Maybe I don’t have to bear the burden of my past alone. Perhaps leaning into the unexpected honesty with Cade—and myself—is the bridge I need to begin healing.

“Thank you,” I whisper, the weight of the evening settling deeper.

I smile as I walk him toward the exit, the music drowning out my thumping heart as I think about the fact that a dance that started as a moment of distraction revealed layers yet to be untangled. As the lights dim in the club, signaling the night’s end, our bond lingers in the air, buzzing with endless possibilities.