STRANGER
1494 Words
I lock the door of room twelve behind me and step out under the flickering neon sign of the motel, shivering for a second when the cold night air hits my bare shoulders. I walk down the cracked concrete sidewalk to the edge of the wet highway and raise my hand because I see the bright yellow headlights of a taxi approaching through the dark rain.
The cab pulls over to the curb and I slide into the back seat, ignoring the surprised look the driver gives me in the rearview mirror when he notices my tight crimson dress.
"Take me to the nearest bar right now," I tell the driver, making sure my voice sounds firm and steady so he does not ask me any annoying questions about why I am out so late.
"Are you sure about that, miss?" the driver asks, turning his head slightly to look at me. "The only place open around here at this hour is a rough dive bar down by the old industrial park, and it is not really the kind of place for a lady in a fancy dress."
"I do not care what kind of place it is," I reply, leaning back against the worn leather seat and crossing my arms over my chest. "Just take me there as fast as you can."
"You got it," he says, putting the car in drive and pulling back onto the wet highway.
I look out the window while we drive past the dark, empty storefronts of my hometown, listening to the rhythmic sound of the windshield wipers pushing the heavy rain away. I know I only have forty-two dollars left in my bank account because Mark stole everything else, but I refuse to sit in a depressing motel room and cry over a man who used me for three years. I want to feel something else tonight besides raw grief and bitter betrayal, so I smooth my hands over the tight fabric of my dress and allow myself to feel reckless for the very first time in my life.
Ten minutes later, the taxi slows down and pulls into a crowded gravel parking lot lit by harsh yellow floodlights that cast long shadows across the ground. I hand the driver a twenty-dollar bill from my small stack of cash and step out onto the wet pavement before he can even offer to hand me my change.
I look up at the large, windowless building in front of me and see a rusted metal sign hanging over the door that reads 'The Iron Pit' in faded red letters. A long line of custom motorcycles guards the front entrance, and the heavy metal music playing inside the building is so loud that it vibrates right through the soles of my high heels. This is not the kind of upscale, quiet cocktail lounge Mark always forced me to attend in the city, and the gritty, dangerous look of the place makes it the perfect spot for me to hide tonight.
I walk up to the heavy wooden door and pull it open, stepping into a dark, massive room filled with thick cigar smoke and the strong smell of spilled beer. The bar is packed with people, so I push my way past several towering men wearing heavy leather cuts, keeping my chin high so they do not see how nervous I really feel inside. A few of the men stop talking and turn their heads to look at my hips as I squeeze past them, but I do not shrink away or try to pull my dress down to cover myself because I promised myself I would stop hiding my body for other people.
I find an empty stool near the back corner of the room and sit down at the sticky wooden bar, placing my purse on my lap so it does not get ruined by the spilled drinks on the counter. A female bartender with dark tattoos running all the way down both of her arms walks over to me and wipes the wet wood with a damp white rag.
"What can I get for you, honey?" the bartender asks, raising a dark eyebrow at my fancy crimson dress and my smeared makeup.
"I need a shot of your cheapest tequila, and please leave the bottle right here," I say, pulling a ten-dollar bill from my purse and placing it flat on the bar.
"Rough night?" she asks with a small, knowing smile as she grabs a half-empty bottle of cheap liquor from the bottom shelf behind her.
"You have no idea," I reply, tracing the rim of the small glass she sets down in front of me.
She pours the clear liquid into the glass and walks away to serve another loud customer down the line, so I pick up the shot and down it in one quick, desperate swallow. The cheap alcohol burns my throat and makes my eyes water, but it successfully numbs the sharp agony sitting heavy in my chest.
I reach out and pour myself a second shot from the bottle before drinking it just as fast, letting the harsh warmth of the tequila spread through my veins and loosen the tight, anxious muscles in my shoulders. For three years, Mark monitored every single calorie I consumed and judged me with a cruel smirk whenever I wanted to order a sweet drink at dinner, so pouring a third shot for myself feels like a massive victory over his control.
A tall man in a plaid shirt steps up to the bar right next to me and leans his elbow on the sticky wood, looking me up and down with a lazy, arrogant grin.
"A pretty girl like you should not be drinking alone in a place like this," the man says, slurring his words a little bit as he reaches out to touch my bare shoulder. "Why don't you let me buy your next round so we can get to know each other?"
I turn my head and look him dead in the eye, feeling the alcohol boost my confidence and strip away my usual polite manners.
"Do not touch me, and do not talk to me," I tell him, keeping my voice cold and hard so he knows I am not playing a game. "I am not interested in your drinks or your company, so find someone else to bother."
The man blinks in surprise and drops his hand, muttering a quiet insult under his breath before turning around and walking back toward the pool tables in the corner.
I finish my third drink and stand up from the bar stool because the heavy bass of the music thumping through the floorboards makes me want to move and burn off the rest of my angry energy. I walk away from the bar and make my way toward the raised, dimly lit dance floor in the center of the room, dodging the waitresses carrying heavy trays of beer bottles.
A large crowd of people is already dancing together under the flashing red and blue lights, so I climb up the short wooden steps and push my way right into the middle of the warm bodies.
I let the heavy bass take control of my body for the first time in years, swaying my hips and lifting my arms over my head as I move to the loud, aggressive rhythm of the guitars. I do not care if I look foolish or if the people around me are staring, because I am just focused on the music and the freedom of moving without Mark criticizing my posture.
The tight crimson dress violently hugs my curves with every single step I take, and the cheap tequila makes me feel fearless as I toss my dark, wet hair over my shoulder. I close my eyes and let the loud music wash over my senses, feeling the suffocating weight of Mark and Owen finally slip away from my mind as the heavy bass drowns out the memory of their cruel laughter.
I sway my hips side to side and throw my head back, letting a real, genuine smile touch my lips for the first time since I woke up this morning. I feel beautiful and powerful in the dark room, and I realize I do not need a wealthy fiancé or an expensive penthouse to feel good about myself because I own my own body.
I grind my hips to the loud beat and keep my eyes closed to enjoy the feeling of the music vibrating through my chest, but the safe, powerful feeling does not last very long.
A sweaty, calloused hand suddenly grips my bare thigh painfully hard and pulls me backward with a massive amount of force.
I gasp in pure shock and my eyes snap open as the rough hand drags me right against the hard, unyielding chest of a massive stranger.
- Writer
