Silver Lining

Trigger Warning: Violence, gun use, drug use, and sexual content. Reader discretion is advised.

“42…43…44…45…” I counted as I heaved, sweat trickling down my neck, nerves tingling with soreness in my feet. I’d read somewhere in a cheap magazine that counting helped with focused breathing — whether it worked or not, I had no clue. Dust stung my eyes as I gripped the steering wheel tighter, forcing myself to forget everything behind me: the gunshots, the blood splattered across the floor, the six pounds of pressure on my arm from the shot I had fired.

The weight of betrayal I had just unleashed at my business partner and my supplier — my husband — still lingered. Remembering his eyes before I even pulled the trigger — dark, hollow, glinting with cruel amusement. His smile wasn’t human; it was a ripple of shadow, a thing that whispered in the corners of your mind long after he was gone.

Every step I took away from him carried the echo of that gaze, a reminder that some ghosts don’t leave — they just wait. He saw me as an equal, saw the inferno I hid — though too bad for him, he got too close and burned. The rearview mirror caught the ghost of my reflection as the chilling flashbacks consumed me.

I remember stumbling several times on the overpriced off white turned deep crimson rug but didn’t dare notice anything. I hurriedly packed the bourbon stained bills on the luxurious oak wooden table into my cargo bag. I’d picked that table in a different life, when I was still naive and spellbound — when he paraded me through lush balls and glittering A-list parties, and he shimmered mimicking a silver lining before the clouds broke. My heart pounded in rhythm with my chest; all I could focus on was making it to the next stop: Blue Magic.

“My little bolt, ain’t ya?” my mother used to say whenever she sent me on her “errands.” I’d come running back to our tattered home, grinning proudly with the tiny white powdered sachet clenched tight in my hand. But this wasn’t one of those times when I could turn around and fetch my mother a quick fix. All I could think of now were those autumn eyes.

Hell is other people, bird. Never forget that. My mother’s drunken mumble always echoed in my head whenever I moved to a new town. I never stayed anywhere too long — a habit I cherished, one that knew me intimately. Running was all I knew, a close companion. From a young age, I figured out I wasn’t really fixed. Never a fixed place, never a fixed name. With time, I started to believe that maybe that was the only fixed thing about me.

This time, I was Summer Smith — an identity card I managed to obtain in Delta, Devon County. A favor I had pulled before I left had earned me another mask. The night air buzzed as I approached in a tight burgundy dress the neon-lit haven that stood at the crossroads of sin and sanctuary: The Blue Magic. The line stretched like a centipede — men and women dazed, ready to sip whatever magic waited inside.

A placard by the entrance read: “$25 — Cash Only.”

The bodyguard’s eyes grazed me up and down, lustrous and knowing — a look I’d long learned to expect. He nodded me forward without a word.

Inside, it was cathedral and confessional all at once. The stage — the pole — rose like an altar at the room’s center, bathed in magenta light that glinted off sweat and sequins. Music blasted, velvet clung to the walls, dollar bills littered the floor, and mirrors reflected not just bodies but ambitions, fears, and reinventions. Every surface smelled faintly of perfume, alcohol, and effort — the scent of people trying to turn pain into survival.

The crowd shifted like a restless sea — shadows and hunger, desire and despair breathing together. I moved to a corner spot with dazzling golden-brown cushions, two men beside me kissing passionately, lost in the fantasy of Blue Magic. I sank into the seat and let my eyes wander through the crowd — that’s when I saw her.

Few moments had ever stopped time for me, and that was one of them. The lights softened, bending towards her like they’d been waiting all night for her skin to find them. She glided — slow, deliberate — every gesture measured like a prayer she’d said too many times to still believe in, but couldn’t stop anyway. She moved, and time knelt before her, an obedient subject.

Her body spoke in a language older than words — carved from rhythm and ache. The music wrapped around her thick as honey, and she maneuvered through it gracefully. Her ebony skin caught the magenta light; her movements sharp, then soft again — storm and calm entwined. Thick dark hair whipped from side to side, catching flashes of light.

There was a smile on her lips, the kind that fools you into thinking she’s at ease, but her eyes told another story — dancing for survival, not applause. You felt it in the way her back arched, the way her fingers traced invisible shapes in the air. Each spin felt like escape; each drop, a surrender.

When she landed, the sound of bills raining against the stage wasn’t just money — it was worship, mercy, noise meant to drown out silence. It was freedom.

For a moment — one trembling, breath-held moment — we locked eyes. Her autumn brown eyes met mine, and in that fragile instant, an understanding was forged.

“Give it up for Black Celeste, y’all!” boomed the DJ, cutting my trance short. The room shuddered with frenzy. Bodies moved like a tidal wave, drunk and chaotic, blocking my view. I glanced around, desperate to catch the divine vision I had laid my eyes upon.

“You not from around here, is ya?” came a silky voice in a Southern accent a few strides away, clad in a shimmering rhinestone bodysuit that left just enough to imagination. She sensually smiled and walked towards me, straddling me with grace that startled me — a shock I recovered from almost instantly.

“How can you tell?” I replied with a smirk as she turned her back towards me, pressing softly into my lap. Her body curved against me, warmth radiating through every inch. Thick strands of hair brushed my face, catching the stage light like black silk.

“Hon…some folks, you don’t gotta see ‘em long to know what kinda fire they carry. You? I seen it the moment you walked through that door.”

“Maybe flames recognize each other,” I said as she whirled to face me, leaning closer, eyes flickering with something I couldn’t read.

I reached for her waist, pulling her close, leaving no space between us. She grazed her hands around my neck, her long colorful nails tracing my skin, noticing the bruise there, her angelic visage twisted with curiosity and what seemed like a concerned query. Our eyes locked. I held her gaze. No words, just our essence and the universe bending around us.

Abruptly, a burly, intoxicated man appeared, lithe in his steps, gripping her arm with a ravenous smirk. Somewhere between the blur, my instincts snapped. I grabbed a Dom Pérignon bottle, glass met bone and the world exploded into chaos. Screams from dancers, clattering bottles, and the smell of sweat and perfume thickened the air.

She grabbed my hand, laughter spilling from her like sparks, and we bolted down the hallways, chaos fading behind us. The pounding music became a distant echo as adrenaline surged through my veins.

We skidded to a stop against a chipped, weathered wall and our lips collided in a frantic, desperate kiss. The world around us—noise, light, chaos—fell away, leaving only the frantic rhythm of shared breath

“You’re sure he’s gone, right? We can finally leave?” she whispered, pulling back from the tremulous kiss, her laughter trembling against my mouth, eyes burning with the same intensity I remembered from years ago.

“I put him down myself. I was always gonna come get you. Now cmon, I’m parked outside. Quick,” I said, exhaling, letting myself breathe for the first time in hours. I had everything I needed. I finally had my silver lining. I beat his game. No sooner had we pushed through the back door than the night broke — the familiar sound, splitting the silence wide open.

A click.

We froze. Around five black-clad men, ski masks over their faces, 12-gauge pump shotguns leveled at us. The same emblem that haunted my nights glared from their jackets — a mark I thought I’d buried with him. Our getaway car gone, the alley too quiet. A perfect execution.

“Son of a bitch,” I muttered under my breath. How long did he know? Six months? The whole year. The only thought was wondering how he knew — though there seemed no time to answer.

I felt her hand press into mine, a quiet reassurance, a lifeline. Those autumn eyes — fierce, unbroken — met mine, full of unspoken promise. I gripped it tighter, steeling myself.

“46…47…48…49…” I counted inwardly, heart hammering.

The bang cut through the air, and the world tipped into white.