Ultraviolet

Chapter Two: Safe Haven

"Yelp is going to hear about this!" I shouted as I was pushed down the side of the club. I spotted my bags and called out, "Oh, grab my bags, would you?" I asked, chuckling at my own sarcasm.

This was classic. My sister was supposed to provide shelter and protection from the demons awaiting me in Sunshine, but here I was, being manhandled and forced through a back door and down into a basement.

My guide practically threw me onto a cold metal chair, his helper- the guy that had followed us and opened the doors- chucked my bags onto the dirt floor and quickly grabbed a rope and tied my hands together behind my back.

Both men, walked to the base of the stairs and stood guard, their demeanour identical to that of the bouncer.

"Boys," I addressed. "You come here often?"

Neither looked up and neither laughed. Tough crowd.

"Care to explain... well," I looked around at my position then back at the guards. "This?". I was ignored once again.

Suddenly the door slammed open and thick black boots stomped down the stairs dramatically. Slowly, black jeans came into view, then a black button up that clung to its wearer's fit body, outlining every crease, nook and cranny. The sleeves were rolled up his forearms, revealing thick black ink curling around into pictures I couldn't discern in the dingy light of the basement. His face was revealed, a sharp jawline cast shadows onto the tattoos that lined his neck. His red lips pulled into a tight frown as his dark brown eyes scanned the room.

"What the fucks this mess?" He growled at the other men.

"Quincy called a code red, reckons she might be dangerous."

"Quincy? That bouncers name was Quincy?" I cackled. I slammed my mouth shut when all three sent deadly glares at me.

The tattooed man walked up to me, looking down upon me with hateful eyes. Not for me, I sensed, but for life. This man had almost as many demons as I did.

His hand roughly grabbed my chin and pointed my face to meet his. "Dangerous." He scoffed. "I doubt she'd even be able to throw a punch."

I hated being underestimated. As the man took a step back, I pulled my hand out of the ties (it was poorly done, plus, I wasn't a stranger to being tied up) and swung my open palm against his cheek. Big mistake. As I did it, I knew it was a big mistake.

He, a smile etched into his face, kicked the back of my knee with just enough force to make me fall onto my back and knock the wind out of me. I blinked the black spots away and coughed.

"Why did Quincy think she was threat?" He asked the other guards, who had now grabbed either one of my arms and held me up.

"Said if she didn't see Jess she'd be dead in the morn." The man to my right answered in a thick Irish accent. "Reckon he'd be thinking-"

"Contract killer?" The tattooed boy asked, considering it for a moment. "Too young."

"You think I'm an assassin?" I laughed. "Are you insane? I just wanted to see Jessica Moore? Why are y'all so fucking dramatic?"

"She knows her last name. It's been changed for years." The man to my left said.

Tattoo boy nodded, turning to me with narrowed eyes. "How do you know Jessica?"

"Through her father." I answered.

A swift punch landed on my stomach courtesy of tattoo boy.

"God, why'd you do that?!" I groaned through the pain.

He cracked the knuckles in his neck, then fists, before opening his mouth again. "How do you know Jessica?"

"I already told you!" I screamed, tears streaming over my cheeks. "I knew her father."

I was punched again, this time in the jaw. Dizzying pain shot through my teeth and into my skull. I could cope with pain, I just didn't understand why I was being attacked.

"Her fathers been dead for 18 years, I don't believe you know him."

"His name was Jonathon Moore." I sighed painfully. "He was a district attorney. He died on November 5th, 2001 when a criminal he'd proven guilty broke into his house and shot him. His mother's name was Violet."

"How do you know all that?" A soft female voice asked from the staircase. I hadn't noticed her coming in, what with being physically assaulted. "Those case files were sealed."

She stepped into the middle of the room, and I couldn't help the happiness that burned through my body. She had burnt olive skin and unnaturally golden curly locks that framed her face like a lions mane. She was bold and unapologetic. Each curve on her body was accentuated and glorified in her dark jeans and black corset top. We had no similarities but that of our thin straight noses.

"Jessica!" I smiled, tears of joy brewing in my eyes. She just stared, awaiting an answer to her question. "I know about Jonathon because he was my father too." The boys looked between each other, while Jessica continued to stare. "I'm your sister."

"I don't have a sister." Jessica shook her head. "I would've... My mother would have told me."

"She probably didn't know." I reasoned. "Look, I can prove it. I have a letter he wrote to my mother and a photo of the two of them. If I can just go to my bag-"

"No." Growled tattoo boy. "For all we know you have a gun in there."

"Jessica, I mean this in the nicest way. What the fuck is this guy?"

Jessica laughed half-heartedly, though a smile refused to appear on her face as she did so. Tattoo boy walked over and grabbed my duffle bag, ripping it open and discarding the contents on the dirt ground.

"Dude!" I shouted. "Thats my whole life you're chucking on the ground."

"Found it." He muttered as he picked up the envelope.

What once was bright white paper was yellowed and torn from the sheer amount of times I'd opened and read the letter, my last connection to my father. Jessica took the envelope and opened it with shaking hands.

She read over the letter, then turned to the photo. A soft smile appeared on her lips as she looked at her father.

"So your mother was-"

"Stacy Wiley. You might've met her before he died."

I hoped for Jessica's sake she hadn't. My mother was never a pleasant person to be around.

Up until my 8th birthday, my mom was normal. Well, not normal. Definitely not normal. She always had a habit of saving chicken bones from the KFC wings and legs we ate for every meal and making wind chimes out of them. She also used to pull out her own hair compulsively because that particular strand was "itchy" and had an irrational fear of the number 11. My mom was never normal, but until my 8th birthday she was bearable.

It was then that she started to believe a demon was following her. She saw that demon in every rain cloud, any bird that made eye contact with her, every single red-headed man she crossed paths with - including Ronald McDonald. She prayed at 3 minutes past every hour for salvation, but not to God. She would pray to Satan whilst kicking her knee against the footboard of her bed to the beat of Africa by Toto.

"I did." Jessica nodded, memories visibly flooding back. "Is she still-"

"Mad as a fucking hatter?" I countered. Jessica guiltily nodded. "Wouldn't know, to be honest. Haven't seen her since I was 10."

She looked up to apologise, only then realising that I was still being manhandled.

"Lets go upstairs."