Beyond the Shadows

Chapter 3: On The Hunt

I pace back and forth in front of my closet, thinking about my shadow's note. What if he attends the fight this evening? I have to choose my outfit carefully, the last thing I need is any unwanted attention...or perhaps that's exactly what I need? I turn and face the row of dresses and skirts from my London days, all worn when regretful decisions were made on drunken nights out. Maybe if he sees me go home with another man, he'll decide I'm not worth the chase anymore?

Making my decision, I reach up and grab the short, red dress from the hanger. Holding it up to the light, my mouth turns down in contempt. It's one of my more revealing outfits, so naturally Benson will be thrilled. Despite my previous display in the shower, exposing my body doesn't come naturally. My tastes have always been aligned with the more modest and sophisticated styles...unless I'm home working on my novel, then I closer resemble a local street urchin or crack-addict. Comfort is key when writing novels, I always say.

Stripping from my comfy joggers and baggy t-shirt, I slip the dress up my thighs, the soft chiffon material hugging my wide hips and waist. Fuck. I know I've put on a little chunk over the past year...but at this rate my breasts are in serious peril of spilling over the top and sides.

I check myself in the mirror. Years ago, this dress fit perfectly on my 28-year-old body. My thirty's had hit hard, effecting everything minus my sex drive and strange desire for a good spanking. I run my hands down the dress, smoothing out the lines across my stomach and under my breasts. The plunging V-neckline hints at a confidence I'd once had, the mid-section garnished with metal chains that catch the glimmer of the bedroom light. If this dress could speak, it would say something along the lines of, 'Whoops, I dropped my tit, can you help me find it?' — which is exactly the kind of attention I'm in need of tonight.

My shadow calls me a 'little lamb'...well tonight, I'm on the hunt for my mountain dog, someone to scare away the big bad wolf.

***

Fully intent on getting drunk tonight, I'd pre-booked an Uber, sticking with my usual driver — a 75-year-old widow who likes getting out and about for a bit of cash. My heart rate kicks up a few notches every time Gloria puts her foot down on the peddle, blindly overtaking on corners and driving her beat-up Volkswagen like the devil's on her ass. By the time she pulls up to Benson's warehouse, I've broken a nail from clutching the dashboard and my brow is coated in a beady line of sweat.

"Ten quid, my love," Goria says sweetly, entirely unaware of her passenger's near panic-attack. It's always the same, and yet for some reason she's always my first choice.

I smile back, and as usual I hand over an extra five. "You still okay to pick me up at midnight?" I ask.

She nods her head, handing me my clutch as I open the door. "Yes, yes, your pumpkin shall await."

I roll my eyes but chuckle. She's the sweetest, craziest little woman, and you can't help but love her. "See you then!" I close the door and turn, walking quickly through the melting snow towards the line of customers already forming outside Benson's warehouse club.

Quickly spotting my blonde hair, red dress, and black coat open and flapping in the breeze, the bouncer turns his head and sighs, quickly opening the front door to let me in. "Jesus, Riley. You'll catch your death wearing that!" he scolds.

I wave my hand, dismissing his comment as I race past, rubbing my arms to stop the shivers. Inside, Benson has set up tall heaters around the large open space, with blankets on each table surrounding the sandpit ring in the centre of the room. A barman waits patiently, his eyes moving from the phone in his hand to the door, constantly checking for the first arrivals.