Falling for you

Chapter Two

ISABELLA

Ready or not, here I am in a long-sleeved, turtleneck, and skin-tight bodycon mini dress, combat boots, and an oversized vintage leather jacket at the entrance of a party I was “strangely” invited to. Underneath, I am wearing a matching black—delicately intricate—lace bralette and thong, which I’m pretty sure can be seen through the diaphanous material of my dress. For another one of mother’s lifetime tips popped into my head earlier as I was getting dressed to kill. ‘Always wear good underwear in case you have an accident and need to be rushed to the hospital’. I'm now more than glad I listened to her waffle, as the look of this place screams danger. Being a constant victim, chased around day and night like a skittish golden snitch, really teaches you to always be prepared, run fast, and hide in plain sight. But there’s no hiding tonight.

This is a bad—scratch that, blithering stupid—idea, yet I’m determined, and full of liquid courage, not to be intimidated any more.

I let the audacious lyrics of music legend Lauryn Hill that have been stirring in my head, since I mused those famous words, wash over me as I shut the taxi door.

♪♫♪ Ready or not, here I come, you can't hide. ♪♫♪

Tonight, the mighty shall fall.

Looking down at the text for my invite that Matthew and his entourage had sent me between giggles, I had the right address. Plus, inside seemed to be a party in full swing, so I shrugged it off and made my way to the gate.

There, a bald and massive guy with a scar under his left eye stands in a leather jacket. He’s imposing as a bouncer should be, with an incredulous smirk pasted on his thuggish but ruggedly handsome face.

“What do you want, sweet cheeks? This is private property.” Although his term of endearment was overtly s****l, but intended in a sweet manner, it manages to rub me the wrong way.

I blame that liquid courage.

“The pavement is public domain, you smooth-talking perineum.” I don't swear, being a good Catholic schoolgirl, however, I do know my way around human anatomy.

Thank you, mum and dad, for choosing medicine as your profession.

“What did you just call me, sweetheart?” Making himself look bigger.

Like he needs to…

“It's the hairless space between your scrotum and your asshole.” A husky southern American accent teases a few steps away.

“This fine-ass youn’thang has some brass balls on her.” Says the guy, walking up to the gate, holding out two beers, and cupping his manhood. The patch on his jacket says VP, followed by the name Roadster.

“Look, Roadster.” I make a point of arching one of my eyebrows and c*****g my head to check the name badge on his jacket, seeming unaffected by their proximity.

“I was about to tell your bouncer that I was invited.” Holding up the text on my phone with a Google Maps ping.

They both look at my phone, and the hairless-villainous-looking fella concludes.

“It must have slipped Ice’s mind, for last I heard he was still inside getting sucked off by Amber.”

Getting sucked off…. Yes, that sounds like Matthew or Jake, ever chauvinistic pigs.

“Not sure how anyone could forget about this yummy snack out here.” The raven-haired 6’8 hunk with piercing blue eyes shoves his hands in his pockets, and with a head motion tells the Batman antihero to buzz me in.

“I beg your pardon? I’m nobody's snack.” Flicking my hair behind my shoulder and pushing past them, while they both look at me as if I’ve stepped out of a time machine.

Why do people act so surprised towards well-spoken gentry?

“La-di-da… Bane, I reckon we got ourselves a PILF here.”

“A PILF?” I soften my determination in a moment of perplexity.

Call me old-fashioned, but I find slang more often than not quite lazy in its derogatoriness.

“A princess I like to fuck.” I nearly scuff at the irony of my point, but something else almost slips by.

“Wait, wait, wait, your name is actually Bane?” I try to stifle a laugh unsuccessfully, causing me to let out a loud, unladylike snort.

“Yeah, you want some?” He growls at me, he literally growls at me.

“No. I’m alright, big guy.” I pat the guy’s shoulder who’s still giving me a look, saying 'I eat people for breakfast', which is scary to say the least, and stop.

It would be a crime to let such comedy gold go scot-free. Pun definitely intended.

“I will be sure to give your regards to Batman and Robin inside, then.” I squeak before a chuckle betrays me, unable to contain it any longer as Roadster bursts out laughing with me.

“Alright princess, let’s get ya inside before Bane here goes ballistic.” He chortles.

“Hahaha! Stop, please. I might wet myself if you don’t. This is all just too precious.” Leaving Bane fuming by the gate, as we make our way to the dimly lit entrance.

“So, how do you know Ice? Have you two got somethan’ goin’ on?”

“No, no, no. I don't really know him all that well, but even if he was the last man on the face of the planet, it would still be a categorical no.” My eyes widen, shaking my head at the impossibility.

“If I’m perfectly honest, I think he probably just invited me to laugh at my inadequacy.” I look down at the ground as we walk up, and my stomach twists into a tight knot, wondering what on earth gave me the courage to show up.

Oh yeah, alcohol.

“That doesn't sound like the Jake I know.” He stops, and before I can react, he’s lifting my chin. I take in his sharp cheek bones and long black eyelashes that sweep across his golden skin, as he gazes into my eyes searching for confirmation.

“Well, it does to me.” I shake my head out of his grasp.

“He’s one cold so-and-so, if you ask me. Or does Ice not mean cold where you come from?” He smirks at my inability to use four-letter words, or maybe at my own frosty tone that refuses to yield tonight and continues to amuse him.

“Here we are, your Highness. I will see if he’s available, and getcha somethan’ to drink. Stay here, OK?” I nod, as he disappears inside.

I do need a drink.

My buzz is starting to wear off quite exponentially. The adrenaline of confronting Jake pumps with each step and quickened palpitations of my heart, thumping erratically against my ribcage, and threatening to march to its own tune up my throat.

Uh-oh… I’m sober.

I’m close to swearing internally now, as I realise I’m way out of my always-calculating-and-meticulously-planned depth. I have thrown caution to the wind in yet another self-destructive spiral, too used to the motions of being baited and bullied. I try to find reassurance in the brave steps I have taken until now. Surely, it’s only self-doubt and the periodic ritual of calling myself an inadequate loser not worth loving. A monster of the most pathetic kind.

Isabella, don’t. Push those feelings aside, and remember why you came here.

I’m tired of hiding behind my walls. And going to a party to numb all my wounds, before ripping off the Band-Aid, is exactly what I need.

Ugh, an Americanism. But then again, is it the worst thing I’m doing tonight?

A slight tinge of relief floods my senses as I hear a cacophony of other women’s laughter, cackling and having a good time. The sign at the clubhouse is poorly lit, but I can make out the words ‘The Devil’s Sons’. The name doesn't dissuade me, it's almost so apt for the low opinion of myself, it relaxes me. ‘Maybe someone will put me out of my misery tonight’ is the crazy thought that crosses my mind—always racing in constant fight or flight.

A few rustic wooden chairs dot the stark Western Appalachian-inspired veranda with sanded floorboards—typical of a wood cabin haberdashery, or in this case, an outlaw saloon. Out of all the dives I could have ended up in… I’m bemused at its bleak, but picturesque, charm that gives me the solace I didn’t know I craved, as I remember the path I never followed to the United States. I choose the chair closest to the wooden banister and settle my boots crossed over the edge, letting my mind wander as I wait for what’s to come.

“There ya go, princess.” He hands me an ice-cold Heineken, and I stare at the open bottle.

“Cheers.” I say with mild reluctance.

“Don’t worry, it ain’t laced.” He takes a seat and glances back at me about to take a swig of his own, reading my disturbing thoughts like an open book.

“That’s reassuring.” I say sarcastically, narrowing my eyes at him, as I get up and swap out our beers—without caring if he has sipped it or not. He shakes his head, and his chest and shoulders reverberate with silent amusement.

“Don’t worry, I won’t r**e you if you collapse on the floor. Don’t you feel better now?” I add mockingly.

He tilts his head back in a heart-warming bellow of laughter, which in turn makes me giggle too. I chug half my beer. Steadying my breath, I inhale deeply and down the last of my drink, barely leaving a sip, when I notice Roadster staring at me intently.

“Ice ain’t around, but I had to tell prez. Nobody comes here without him knowin’ about it. Clubhouse rules.”

“Do whatever you have to do, I guess. Umm... But what do you mean by president? No offence, but aren't you and Gotham’s billiard-ball-gatekeeper back there a bit on the older side for a frat house?” Another infectious Cheshire grin stretches across his face, and his icy blue eyes pierce through the darkness with a glint of mischief.

“Billiard ball gatekeeper.” He snickers under his breath.

“Careful princess, don't tempt me.”

“Or what? I’ll get the honour of meeting the president of the Justice League?” I gesture with ghostly and ghoulish jazz hands, stalking the air in my best impression of a Scooby-Doo baddy.

“Yeah, somethan’ like that.” He smirks into his bottle, before taking another sip.

“We all call him Judge. His word is final, and as club president he is the judge, jury, and executioner for all important matters.”

“Alright, drama queen. The name Judge seems a tad over the top, but if you say so....” I drawl, rolling my eyes in disbelief at my own mouthy self to the power of one thousand.

“The balls on you, kiddo. You must know him.” He chimes, amused.

“Again, no, but I like what he’s done with the place.” Nodding and gesturing around me.

“This is some serious commitment to Halloween. To get a whole mob to dress like scary bikers, heel to a credo straight out of Sons of Anarchy, lots of American accents flying about, nicknames on patches, and even… a sign. Kudos to you, and this so-called prez.” Raising my bottle for that last sip in a mock celebratory salute.

“This ain’t fake, princess.” His tone, damningly serious as the atmosphere thickens with an invisible smog, makes me choke on that last sip of beer.

“You’re joking, right?” He shakes his head dourly.

My ears ring in a fired panic, raging through the several firewalls I had set in place to prevent me from losing my cool. And as my breathing picks up and legs lower ready to bolt, I miss the creak of the swinging doors.

The echo of heavy boots thuds against my dread and commands my eyes to look up, yet the sight of him holds me tethered to the spot. I no longer wish to escape, for the world pales in comparison to the handsome shadow stalking the floorboards before me. And for the very first time, I’m stunned into silence.