Usually, I am not one to blow my own trumpet, but as I strolled along the beachfront toward the old, rustic bar ahead, the warm sunset dominating the dark sky, a truly breath-taking sight, with its vibrant colours reflecting off the rolling waves like shards of glitter, I knew, for lack of a better term, that I was the epitome of sartorial elegance.
It was clear for all to see that I had a sharp eye for fashion. Hair perfectly styled, sitting loosely in a messy yet sophisticated bun at the base of my neck, I left the cliff house tonight in a long-sleeved, knee-length grey dress cut from luxuriously expensive fabric, real pearls, carefully chosen to accessorise my outfit, adorned my neck, ears and wrists, a pair of black pointed kitten heels and a hard-shell clutch purse decorated with a spangle of clear jewels.
Even my makeup was on point.
Eyes accentuated by shimmery eye-shadow and mascara-brushed lashes, I glossed my lips matte nude and dusted my cheeks pale pink, then spritzed myself in the floral perfume Daniel had bought me one Christmas.
I had to be sure that my presence demanded the right dose of attention.
After all, I had a suspect to lure into my web of lies.
Let's pray, in the process of investigating Natasha Stewart's unsolved murder case, that I do not get myself ensnared in the preordained confinement of self-deception or trapped in extra-terrestrial life beyond the permanence of clueless earthlings and the burden of retrograde amnesia with the idiosyncratic water nymph and her transmundane approach to the human world.
If I rocked up to Royce Milton's place of work with a slobbish demeanour, looking bedraggled—messy, unkempt hair and wrinkled clothes that I wore to bed, which is basically the reality of how I operated these days, as I seldom made time for self-love or self-care—he would be reluctant to converse with me and much less likely to show me his vulnerable side.
Imagine Royce, the town's aspiring serial killer, in a compromised position, where an unsuspecting member of the public is capable of breaking through his impenetrable wall of combative hypervigilance for him to talk frankly and articulately about the nitty-gritty of his personal life. Or rather, to get him to trust me and expose the dirty little secrets he kept close to his chest.
The once bright sun gradually faded into the horizon, disappearing through the distinctive line between the magical sky and the peaceful ocean.
With a slight breeze in my hair, I gazed at the gorgeousness of the calm yet dark water bathed in soft, golden hues, wondering how the gentle waves lapping against the shore would feel against my toes if I impulsively embarked upon a late-night adventure near the coast of harmonious monumentality and natural picturesqueness.
Heaven knows I earned that, peace and tranquillity, alone time, with only my thoughts to contend with. Maybe then, when consolidated by the persuasive power of deep rumination, I will find myself in the sphere of uncertainties.
Until recently, I only knew life beyond the limits of the cliff house when my husband was present, and with him away at work for the first time in months, executing the day and the life of a successful stockbroker, I had to step out of my comfort zone, unaccompanied and unchaperoned, to face my fears head-on, starting with the woman silently crying out for my help.
Closing in on the rundown, two-story bar, with a dingy façade, on the beachfront, the thatched roof, fenced decking and metal chairs with matching tables akin to Double Deuce in the movie Road House, I first noticed the tree-to-tree neon lights, graffitied walls and rundown vehicles, then spotted a camaraderie of unapproachable men, togged up in ink, chains, denim and leather, lingering in the poorly maintained car park of innumerable potholes, uncontrollable weeds and unnecessary litter.
Encompassed by a plethora of glimmering metal and twinkling chrome, the off-road bikers, I shall call them, loitered alertly by the conspicuity of flashy motorcycles, showcased in all shapes, sizes, colours and models, whilst the other unfriendly looking individuals, seated side-by-side beneath the weathered canopy of an over-occupied beer garden, imbibed alcohol like it was going out of fashion.
This was a bad idea.
For all intents and purposes, I was ostracised by the locals prior to the accident, many of whom warned me never to show my face on this side of town unless I wanted said face to be splattered on the walls.
Making an appearance is not only brazen. It is downright idiotic. I might come out of this situation with missing teeth and possibly a broken nose. Either or both scenarios sounded painful and expensive to rectify.
Exhaust pipes rumbled to life with a mighty roar, the galere of leathered bikers preparing to hit the road in a systematic order.
Grey smoke hung in the air like an eerie fog, and I stood back, watching the ghastly sight to behold, as the raging adrenaline junkies, with a twist of the throttle followed by a deranged caterwaul, alternately revved out of the car park onto the main road with eagerness and velocity.
A handful of wolf-whistles came in my direction as the unlikely admirers raced past like immature daredevils, and I had to jump back, practically falling into an overgrown bush of wild roses, before two or more reckless motorcyclists, unfazed and unregretful, drove right through me, without a care in the world and put me back in the hospital.
Apparently, in this godforsaken area, the inconvenience of harmless pedestrians did not belong on the narrow path of total pedestrianisation because the venturesome motorists seemed to think they owned the damn road and the bloody pavement!
Untangling myself from the bed of squashed flowers, I staggered away from the thorny bushes, shaking dry, dead leaves out of my hair and brushing away the mulch of wood chippings from my knees.
Chivalry is well and truly dead.
Those men are incorrigible.
Irredeemable.
Despite the setback of the bikers' deliberate nonsensicalness, I bypassed the casually dressed men and the provocatively direct women commingled by the outdoor smokers' area with steadfast determination in my unshakable stride. Each disorganised table had an eyesore of a centrepiece: empty beer bottles, half-filled pint glasses and overflowing ashtrays.
The entryway is nearly close enough to touch. I reached out to grab the door handle when a mob of loud, vociferous females—in short, skin-tight dresses, knee-high boots, leather jackets, oversized statement earrings and creatively lacquered hairstyles—came out of nowhere and threw various looks of contempt and disapproval at me.
One by one, they shoved past me, a shoulder jab here and an elbow jab there, whilst muttering an unrepeatable slew of four and five-letter expletives under their breaths.
Subjected to contumely is not new to me; however, in spite of the inexcusable highhandedness that precipitated unmistakable embarrassment and unconcealed forebodingness, I did well to overlook the stream of vile insults, albeit red-cheeked and pathetically spineless.
You would think, by now, after months and months of unjustified hatred thrown at me, in all winds and weathers—as if I were some unapologetic pilfer unworthy of extol and deserving of stoning by amateur geologists who elected themselves for the unpaid yet satisfying job of hurling unpolished rocks at my head—that I would be experienced in belying acute fear in the throes of professional tormentors and schadenfreude situations.
Hugging myself nervously, I peered at the sturdy, incandescent welcome sign above the door with Mac's Bar coruscated on the plastic screen.
Fixating on the chaotic sequence of neon lights—an optical illusion of bright geometric shapes hellbent on sending my fragile brain into an obstreperous riot—I rubbed the top of my stomach, quashing the tidal wave of nausea that filled me with bathetic despair.
Coming here was an egregious mistake. I am not from this side of town. I stand out in the worst possible way.
And what in God's name possessed me to wear real pearls and dull textiles to the quintessential dive bar? It's as if I wanted to be a conspicuous airhead beckoning a well-overdue chastisement.
Moreover, I am not welcomed by the not-so-quiet and opinionated locals. If I collected a carat every time someone whispered to a friend or companion as they looked over and unsubtly pointed at me, I would be submerged in a bottomless lake of scintillating diamonds.
A drunken fool fell through the verdigris exit, the rust-covered hinges producing an ear-piercing shriek for the duration of the door's inharmonious oscillation.
He took a lackadaisical step to the side, tripped over his feet with the clumsiness of a poorly coordinated sod and quite literally toppled over a table, knocking over the impressively constructed pyramid of empty beer bottles.
Glass shattering into tiny pieces, the drunk rolled on the ground—a million and one complaints that nobody's ever died of spewing out of his mouth simultaneously with projectile vomit—and the rest of the half-cut social-seekers applauded him like he'd conquered the most extraordinary achievement.
Booming rock music and fumes of cigarette smoke spilt out of Mac's Bar, the rickety door swinging back and forth in the wind.
I heard a commotion inside, people shouting and objects breaking, but from the disadvantageous position, I only saw an iconic poster of Pamela Anderson, with her blue eyes, blonde hair, picture-perfect smile and legendary red swimsuit, held to the wall by strips of transparent adhesive tape.
Curling a strand of hair behind my ear, I drew in a breath of courage, shook off whatever reservations I had and welcomed myself into the spacious yet overcrowded room of what I hoped was harmless debauchery.
My first impression of the place was who in their right mind told the irresponsible owner that it was a good idea to nail a lopsided dartboard to the back of the door.
I might not be the sharpest tool in the box, but safety precautions should have been non-negotiable when organising competitive sports that posed a grave threat to someone's livelihood.
Life flashing before my eyes, I ducked in time for a dart to sail through the air and hit a bullseye on the old board, the horde of dart-throwers hollering and cheering as they celebrated the victory with a bottle of cheap champagne gyrating in the air and soaking nearby drunkards.
Although the near-death experience knocked the air out of my lungs and jostled my body onto the sticky floor as an automatic defence strategy, I managed to straighten my spine, slow and unhurried, just in case another dart whistled across the bar and pierced my skull, and stood in the juxtaposition of sanity and madness, wide-eyed and slack-jawed, like a fish out of water, gasping for a semblance of normality.
Why is the music so loud?
Where are the quiet and unoccupied tables?
Did the government not ban smoking in public places?
Surely, the bacchanalian scene in the corner, with two topless women, tongues competing at a game of tonsil tennis, whilst the male voyeur groped himself underneath the table, is an illegal activity?
At the very minimum, the potential orgy gave everyone else in the bar the wrong impression of three individuals whose reputations were unquestionably on the line. They may or may not be mortified by their flagrant disregard for social etiquette when they wake up in the morning and remember the display of unbridled promiscuousness caused by an overindulgence of strong alcohol.
"Move," a woman snapped from behind me, and I did as I was told. "Get out of my way, Prig!"
Tumbling into the wood-panelled wall bedecked with neon bar signs, worn-out posters and classic rock and roll memorabilia of famous musicians, I made room for her to pass without further confrontation.
"What?" Her face scrunched up. "Do I have a fucking welly on my head or something?"
Wishful thinking made a fool out of me.
The mouthy vixen modelling platinum blonde hair, facial piercings and one hell of a chip on her shoulder stepped into my direct line of vision and jabbed a black polished fingernail in my face.
"This is not a fucking museum, Prig." The pugnacious woman, with a feisty attitude and confrontational spirit, is committed to an argument, no matter the cause or the outcome. "Keep those ugly shoes moving or get the fuck out."
And then, with a flick of the hair and pop of the hip, she is gone, leaving me in a momentary state of dumbfounded speechlessness.
I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I trembled uncontrollably from head to toe, sweating profusely and struggling to catch my breath as I pondered whether to run for the hills or mosey along to the long-stretched wooden bar for a well-deserved drink.
My head will be on a chopping board tonight if I do not get my shit together.
I am a stranger in uncharted territory.
Even so, places yet to be explored could be used to my advantage...
For all they know, the majority of belligerent personalities, I have the character traits of a tough, uncompromising and intimidating woman. I might not take shit lying down like they so wickedly presumed. Hell, I can be a badass if I want to.
Optimism might be essential to achieve what most people perceive as unachievable, but the more I thought about fostering confidence and hopefulness, the more I realised that mission accomplishment is unreachable without Daniel. He is the knight in shining armour, the man of the hour and the fortress of immense strength and indomitable protectiveness.
Without my husband's unwavering protection, I am susceptible to the town's rejection and defenceless against public belittlement.
"You gonna stand there all night lookin' pretty?" Balancing on the ledge of a metal stool by the bar, an old, wizened man, with a silver, overgrown beard, tar-stained teeth and a bottle-green baseball cap, eyed me up and down. "Here you go." His mittened hand tapped the spare stool next to him. "I got plenty of space for a woman like you."
I gave him a Duchenne smile. "No, I am okay over here."
"Suit yourself," he muttered into a pint glass, chugging down more foam than cheap beer. "Rich people have problems."
It was on the tip of my tongue to defend myself, to tell the curmudgeon old man that I was not wealthy, nor did I have any predicaments to tackle, but the defence would be factually incorrect. I had more money than sense, incapable of spending it all in one lifetime, and currently, I have partial memory loss, which, if I were honest, is a huge bloody problem.
Ignoring the man's overt approval and lecherous gaze, I squeezed through the crowd of sweaty dancers on the raised platform opposite the jukebox and made a beeline for the other side of the bar, where it seemed to be a lot less hectic.
Danceable rock music and raucous laughter carrying through the smoke-filled air, I reached the other end of the jam-packed bar in one piece and slapped the clutch purse down on the wooden counter between two modern yet unmanned cash registers.
Counting on the server to come along and take my order soon—a shot of anything strong could do me a world of good—I listened to "Paint It, Black" by The Rolling Stones, the hard-driving rhythm of the music taking over my body and pulling my nerves into line.
Inhaling second-hand cigarette smoke made it difficult to breathe. I wafted at the fumes, scrutinising the dimly lit zone of the bar, where the seating area consisted of extensively used tables, upholstered leather booths, green-felted pool tables, one-armed bandits and wall-mounted wide-screen televisions for the sports aficionados.
A young barmaid in her early twenties, wearing a red leather dress that clung to her busty chest and wide hips like a second skin, failed to notice me with a debit card in my hand to pay for a drink and served the presumptuous gentleman to my right, who only materialised two seconds ago.
No worries. In a non-confrontational manner, I eagerly anticipated a glass of Château Cheval Blanc. I am sure it will be worth the wait.
Yet, having served the man who jumped the queue, the ignorant barmaid moved along to the next customer and prepared an entire tray of "Summer Time" cocktails.
Losing the will to live, I held onto the clutch purse a little tighter, feeling a slight vibration beneath my palm.
Panic set in as I delved through beauty cosmetics to find the phone.
Fortunately, it was a text message from Daniel, not a phone call. He would take the first flight home if he knew I snuck to the town's local dive bar to befriend Natasha Stewart's killer.
Daniel: I am going to bed soon. Shall we FaceTime beforehand? I have missed you like crazy, Oli.
My thumbs tapped away at the screen.
Me: Can we FaceTime in the morning? I have a terrible headache and have barely left the bedroom all day.
Daniel: Do you want me to send one of my sisters over with some painkillers? A couple of muscle relaxants will not kill you, Sweetcheeks.
Me: No, I am not letting one of your sisters trek all the way across town at this time of night to give me some pain relief. I have already swallowed two paracetamols. Besides, I will be fine after a well-rested sleep. You needn't worry yourself.
Daniel: Okay. As long as you are sure, I can put my head down and call you tomorrow.
Me: Absolutely! I love you.
Daniel: I love you more, Oli.
"Only selfish people get a drink at this place, especially when it's busy," came a sassy undertone to my left, and I looked up from the phone to see an incredibly tall and curvaceous beauty standing next to me. "You gotta take the bull by the horns and demand respect around here."
Stunned into silence, I watched as the pale-faced, raven-haired woman—donning the world's largest hooped earrings, denim jeans that fit her curves perfectly, a black, long-sleeved bodysuit, a pair of knee-high boots to compliment her model-like height and a neck of bold, intricate tattoos—placed her foot on the bar's foot rail, splayed her inked fingers onto the wooden countertop and elevated her body until her head stuck out amongst the crowd.
"Paulette!" she shouted, and the barmaid from earlier glanced over. "I'm gonna need two bottles of Corona."
As if I were not already discombobulated, the barmaid stopped serving someone, uncapped two chilled beer bottles and slid them onto the counter.
"Pay later, Connie." Paulette stuffed a wedge of lime into each bottle. "Who is your friend?"
"No one you need to worry about," Connie clipped out before I could introduce myself. "Here." Without looking at me, she forced a bottle into my hand. "Say thank you and drink up."
"Oh, thank you, but I am not a fan of beer," I stuttered, and Connie popped an eyebrow as she drained half of her beer like it was a competitive sport. Then, with a demure smile, I addressed Paulette. "May I have a small glass of Château Cheval Blanc?"
"A what?" A quizzical expression accompanied Paulette's unladylike snort. "Hey, Con." She tossed a thumb in my direction. "Where did you find the stray?"
My face heated. I broke eye contact with Paulette and focussed on the jukebox in the corner until I knew she had returned to other customers.
"You asked for that," Connie said dryly, and I shot her a look of disbelief. "Château Cheval Blanc." Her imitation of a Frenchwoman was remarkably seductive. "Mac's Bar is not for rich folk. Try The Grand Oasis Resort next time. You'll get a glass of red there."
The Grand Oasis Resort is a family-owned business that caters to middle-class vacationers and high-class locals. Daniel is over there every Sunday, without fail, to play golf with Oscar, Keith and Solomon.
The idyllic retreat is also the port-of-call for parties and events. A home from home, if you may. I have frequented the place many times over the years and got some good memories to prove it...
Bad memories, too.
An eerie sense of déjà vu slammed the brakes on mental musings. If not a feeling of an already experienced event, then a vivid evocation of the immense sadness I felt when Darwin Spencer (the owner of a leading luxury department store and a close friend to my husband) once berated me in the resort's majestic foyer about something that I struggled to recall in its entirety.
Despite Darwin's dishevelled appearance and red-rimmed eyes—the once immaculately tailored tuxedo torn at the seams of his crisp white shirt—he carried himself well throughout the night and even offered to buy me a drink when we bumped into each other at the fully-stocked bar.
Yet, much later, when I had excused myself from the elaborately decorated dinner table and headed for the ladies' room, as a result of immoderate wine consumption, he followed me to the empty, poorly lit foyer, came at me from behind, slapped a hand on my shoulder and used all of his strength to shove me against the wall like a barbaric troglodyte.
A heated argument ensued from the man's vitriolic attack on my integrity, where hyperbolic language with deep-seated animosity landed at my feet along with the germ-infested spit from his mouth.
Why did Mr Spencer lash out for no apparent reason?
If only I could remember.
"My husband has a membership for that place." I omitted that Daniel is a VIP member of The Grand Oasis Resort—as I did not wish to come across as boastful—and sipped at the beer bottle. The citrusy flavour intermingled with subtle tartness was like splash of bitterness in my mouth. "I would rather sneak a bottle in my bag than pay they prices they charge for wine."
Well, that's the biggest lie I have ever told. Never, not in my wildest dreams, have I gone to a social event alongside the town's head honchos with a sneaky bottle of alcohol in my possession, but Connie does not need to know that tidbit of information. I get the impression that she preferred wild and reckless over tame and cautious.
Is it pathetic that I wanted her to like me?
"I work there sometimes," Connie pointed out, and I did a double-take when her occupation registered with me. "What? You think I'm not good enough to serve entrées to a bunch of rich people?"
"What? No, I never said that." It's just I do not recognise Connie. If she worked at The Grand Oasis Resort, I'd have seen her from time to time. "Sorry, I should have said when did you start working there? I am not familiar with your face."
"A couple of months," she told me, and I belied relief. It's been a long time since I visited the retreat. Perhaps I'd have met her earlier if I had joined Daniel recently. "It's a freelance job. I only help out now and then. You know, for the extra cash."
I suppose that made sense.
"Message In A Bottle" by The Police belted out of the speakers overhead, but my focus settled on the entertainment section instead of the music because two infuriated men, both tall and muscular, got themselves into a violent fistfight.
The first man lost his footing and fell atop the pool table, which did not prevent the unpreventable. His opponent, without warning, hefted a pool cue in his meaty hands and flogged the victim of assault over the head.
My mouth dropped open. "Should we call someone to help?"
"Huh?" Connie's curious stare traced my gaze. "Oh." Her tense shoulders drooped. "No, it happens all the time. They'll kiss and make up over a bottle of rum later."
I found it utterly unfathomable that anyone could forgive and forget after that level of savagery. But what do I know? I am just a tiny fish in a massive pond.
My attention was drawn to a group of newly arrived males near the entrance of the bar. I mean, how could I not look?
Everyone else seemed to gawk at them, too, especially the women. They eye-balled ravenously, like they wanted to sink their teeth into all the was masculine and muscled.
One man, in particular, stood out like a sore thumb. A tall, athletically built, handsome gentleman with a head of thick, wavy brown hair and a chiselled face awash with mischief and mayhem, waltzed into the room like he owned the place, wearing a casual yet stylish wardrobe, his throat thick with a range of complex artwork.
Oozing confidence, he fist-bumped everyone in sight and talked to anyone with a set of ears.
Truthfully, I envied him. I wish I could walk into a room and receive acceptance with a simple smile.
Connie flicked me under the chin. "Do you want to mop up the drool? It's not very attractive."
"Sorry," I apologised, wiping the imaginary dribble on my chin. "I heard a commotion and expected more pool cues to fly." Or a dart. God, what is it with this bar's promise to lunge compromised weapons? "You can tell me to mind my own business, but I must ask: Who is that man over there?"
Connie stared intently at the individual in question. "You mean the guy in a black bomber jacket?"
My head bopped.
"Oh," she said with a disgruntled curl of the lips. "That's Drew Bishop. He's alright once you get to know him."
Bishop is Hannah Robinson's maiden name.
"Hey, I can call him over if you want. Introducing people is my area of expertise, and honey, you look like someone that could use some drool-worthy friends." Her piercing blue eyes dipped to my hand, where a diamond-encrusted platinum band circled my wedding finger, symbolising my love, devotion and fidelity to Daniel. "But I get the feeling Mr...Wait. You never told me your name."
"Olivia," I said, unable to steer my gaze from Hannah's brother, who was ordering a round of drinks at the bar. "Olivia Lewis."
"Mrs Olivia Lewis," Connie repeated, testing the name on her tongue. "I mean, I am not one to judge. I can still invite Drew over for a drink..." A mischievous twinkle in her eyes. "Or we can get shit-faced and dance on the tables at midnight."
"Me? Dance on tables?" Good grief, I could never. Imagine if Daniel found out. He'd be appalled. "No, I really should take my time. I am not much of a drinker these days..."
My entire body stiffened when Drew Bishop, the smooth operator with stealthy footsteps, presented himself before us.
"Hello!" Like an impulsive halfwit, I introduced myself to Mr I-Defend-My-Sister's-Friend-On-Social-Media-But-Refuse-To-Accept-Her-Friend-Request. "Olivia, I came here with Connie."
Oh, God. Another lie. I hardly knew the woman. I wished fervently for the floor to open up, swallow me whole, transport me through a magical portal and spit me back out on a private island. Only I could display nervous jitters when confronted by raw masculinity.
"Right..." Connie side-eyed me suspiciously as she contemplated how to preserve my integrity. "Olivia is a newcomer to Mac's Bar. I met her outside while smoking the good stuff. Which reminds me, I should probably smoke another."
"Seriously?" Drew gave Connie a scathing glare, and she flipped him off. "Don't throw deuces at me, Con. Weed and alcohol don't mix. When you act up, I'm the poor fucker left to carry you home, so take it easy, alright?"
"Sorry, Dad," Connie quipped, throwing the rest of her drink down her throat. "Are you okay, Olivia?" She slammed the empty bottle down on the counter. "Only I can feel the bolts of lighting, coming out of your eyes."
Unprepared is more apt. I never expected to bump into Hannah's brother tonight. "I am fine."
"You don't look fine." Drew eyes lowered to my fingers that were nervously peeling off the Corona bottle's label. "Come to think of it, I recognise you from somewhere. Ain't you that sidekick that my sister harps on about?"
"Sister?" Playing dumb is the best I can come up with. "I am lost. Who are you referring to?"
"Hannah," he drawled, a knowing glint in his eyes. "Yeah, I see it now." His ring-laden finger waved in my face. "You tried to add me on Insta recently, right?"
"I thought you didn't know him?" Connie asked, and if I could go back in time and never leave the cliff house, I would do it in a heartbeat. "You asked for his name."
It's time for honesty.
"One, I added you because I noticed you in the comment section of a photo I had posted..." Curiosity had gotten the better of me. "Two, I do not know him per se. I could barely see his profile picture the other day. It's a happenstance that he walked in tonight. For all I know, he could have been anyone."
Drew and Connie exchanged puzzled looks. She was the first to speak, though. "I'm not gonna pretend to understand what she just said."
He burst out laughing.
I died of mortification.
"I have amnesia." My admittance lulled the pair of them into silence. "My life is all over the place. Not even I can make heads or tails out of it."
Drew harrumphed, then distractedly gazed across the bar at something. "Amnesia, huh? How did that happen?" he asked with the disinterestedness of a sleeping dog. "Fell down a flight of stairs, did you?"
"More like I wrapped my car around the crash barrier and toppled into a ditch." Maybe another bottle of Corona is in-store. "And thus, I pay the price daily when I open my mouth and talk like a crazy person."
"You're not crazy." Connie tried to lighten the mood with a bright smile. "You're unique."
I am trying to decide whether to be pleased or offended by her backhanded compliment.
"What time do you finish?" Drew asked, and I had to look from side to side to see who he was talking to. "No, I got the beers in, ready."
For some strange reason, I felt a chill go down my spine, and the hairs on my neck stood up as a psychological response to the inexplicable danger that suddenly permeated the air.
Powered by nothing but inquisitiveness, I turned around and faced the bar whilst pretending to look through my clutch purse for money, slowly lifted my gaze and locked eyes with the rare presence of complete heterochromia.
Royce Milton.
And he is not what I expected.
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I will be back for typos. ❤️
Thoughts of the update?
—Olivia?
—Daniel?
—Paulette?
—Connie?
—Drew?
—Royce?
Any mentions that I missed?
What about theories?
Thank you for reading. ❤️
Please don't forget to vote. ⭐️