He wanders over, eyeing me like I’m a rabid animal that might maul him if he comes near.
I’m used to the look. I’ve been getting it for years, ever since I was sixteen and my stepfather beat me half to death with a shovel. Part of my face never recovered, a scar covering the right half, slicing through my eye and running down my cheek. I’m blind on that side, the eye cloudy, a lighter shade of blue than I’d been born with.
So I’m used to it, you know. I’ve had twenty years to get used to it. To get used to the judgment, the harsh glances, the repulsion. Strangers gawk. Kids cower. Most are afraid to look me in the face, like I’m something out of their nightmares.
But while I might be used to it, that doesn’t mean I like it. Doesn’t mean I’m not tempted to gouge their fucking eyes out and ask them how it feels.
“What can I get for you?” the bartender asks.
“Rum,” I tell him.
“A shot?”
“A bottle.”
He hesitates, like maybe he’s thinking about not getting it for me, which would be a mistake. With the mood I’m in tonight, I’m liable to hop behind the bar and personally take it. He obliges, though, unknowingly saving his own ass some trouble, considering I’d be inclined to knock a few teeth out of his mouth if he made me serve myself.
Grabbing a half-empty bottle of rum from below the bar, he slides it in front of me before handing over a shot glass.
He walks away to tend to someone else.
I carefully pour myself a shot and toss it back.
I shudder. It burns. My insides are coated in flames as I swallow the liquor down. I can feel it thawing me out, smothering the coldness. It’s the cheap shit, so bottom shelf that it doesn’t even deserve a spot on the display along the mirrored wall behind the bar. It’s so vile, in fact, that it’s probably eating away at my insides as we speak.
“You’d be better off just drinking paint thinner,” a voice says. It’s playful and feminine with a tone that makes me think of home. Not that we talked like her in Florida, no, but her voice reminds me of warmth. It reminds me of sunshine. It reminds me of starry nights and cloudless days.
That’s way too sappy, I know.
Don’t tell anyone I said that shit.
My attention drifts to the source of it, diagonally across the corner of the bar, just a couple seats away, meeting a woman’s gaze.
She’s young—early twenties, I’d say—with wild brunette hair, the kind that looks like hands have been running through it, like someone wrapped it around their fist and held on for dear life as they fucked her senseless. Her face betrays that, though, with a set of wide brown eyes, innocent eyes, and a quirky smile, almost sheepish with the way only one side seems to curve. Blood red color shines from her lips, matching the skin-tight, long-sleeved red dress she wears. Either the girl is classy, like a modern day Marilyn Monroe, or she’s the type that’ll suck my cock in the alley if I buy her some liquor.
I’ve found there’s really no middle ground for a woman who wears that much red out on the town.
“You know what they say,” I tell her. “That which doesn’t kill me—”
“Only makes me stronger,” she says, finishing the sentence.
“I was going to say isn’t trying hard enough, but that works, too.”
Her smile grows, genuine amusement crossing her face as she looks at me... really looks at me.
She isn’t turning away. Huh.
Maybe this night isn’t completely fucked.
I eye her and the dingy pint glass she holds onto, half-filled with what I assume to be whatever’s on tap. She doesn’t look like a beer drinker. I would’ve taken her for a tequila girl, if anything. Margaritas. Body shots. Salt. The whole fucking pizzazz.
“So, what’s a woman like you doing drinking cheap beer at a dive bar all alone at this hour?”
She regards me for a moment before saying, “What makes you think I’m alone?”
I look to either side of her. The guy on her left, wedged between us, is so drunk he’s passed out in his seat. An empty stool sits to her right. It’s been empty since I walked in. If she isn’t alone, whoever she came with sure as hell isn’t concerned about her well-being. “Because a guy would have to be a fool to leave you sitting here by yourself, looking how you do, considering he’s liable to lose you.”
“You think so?”
“Oh, without a doubt. I’d steal you in a heartbeat.”
Color rises into her cheeks. She blushes, soft pink accentuated by the crimson on her lips as she tries to fight back a smile but loses... miserably. “Smooth. That line usually work for you?”
“Every single time,” I say, “but I wouldn’t call it a line. It’s true. If you don’t take good care of what you’ve got, someone will be more than happy to take it away.”
She lets out a light laugh, shaking her head as her gaze goes to her beer. “Tell me about it.”
Before I can take the conversation any further, the door to the bar opens and the guy from the dock steps in. Took him long enough. I was beginning to think he wasn’t going to come, that I’d been wrong about his balls, that his boss had already confiscated them.
As much fun as playing with the pretty brunette would be tonight, there’s still business to attend to. I know, I know… my cock is mourning, too.
Sliding off the stool, I snatch up the bottle of rum and the empty shot glass, nodding to the brunette before strolling the guy’s way. I grab a small two-seater table by the door, sitting down in a flimsy chair as I motion to the one across from me. “Sit.”
He listens. He’s obedient. He’d probably roll over and beg if I barked those commands, all in his quest to please his master. Who’s a good boy?
“So, uh, like I was saying,” he mumbles, picking back up right where we left off. “These card games are important to my boss. The people who play in them... they’re important, too. All this trouble that’s been happening is scaring the guys away, so my boss wants to make a deal with you.”
“He wants to make a deal with me,” I say, pouring myself another shot, splashing liquor out onto the table. “What kind of deal are we talking?”
“He’s willing to cut you a share of the profits.”
“How much?”
“Ten percent.”
I nearly choke on the rum as I swallow it down, coughing, the burn taking my breath away. Ten percent. The fucknut is offering me ten percent of practically nothing. Pennies. “Let me get this straight. Your boss got a little problem with thieves busting up his card games. So in exchange for ten percent of what he makes off of it, he wants me to, what? Provide protection? Security? This ain’t a fucking rent-a-cop service I’m running. What does he want from me?”
He pauses. “He wants you to stop robbing him.”
I stare at the guy. Hard. I stare at him until he starts fidgeting, and I wait for him to retract that statement, but he says nothing.
He’s not taking it back.
“You calling me a thief?”
“I’m not calling you anything. My boss is.”
“Like I said… your boss is a fucking fool.” I rip the plastic pouring spout out of the bottle of rum and toss it onto the table, giving up all sense of propriety. Not like people expect it, anyway. Who needs manners when you’ve got a face like mine? They expect the worst, and what can I say? I don’t like to disappoint. “I have no interest in his petty little games of Go Fish with the brats he does business with.”
“Yeah, I told him as much,” he says. “Told him it wasn’t your M.O.”
I take a swig straight from the bottle before pointing it at him. “What do you know about my M.O.?”
“I know it’s not about the money to you,” he says. “The money’s a plus, of course, but that’s not why you do it. For you, it’s about the power. It’s about the respect. You’re not going to waste the energy on something that isn’t worth attaching your name to.”
Huh. He’s got me there. I do happen to b
e a fan of grand gestures. Go big or go home. He might have more balls than I gave him credit for out on the dock, but it’s obvious, looking at him, listening to him, that his boss takes that for granted. Georgie sent him out here tonight knowing there was a good chance he wouldn’t survive to see sunrise. He’s expendable, a simple go-between, and despite the cliché, everyone knows I’m the type to shoot the messenger.
“Tell me something.” I take another swig of rum. “What did your boss give you for coming here? How’s he compensating you?”
He hesitates. “He’s not.”
“No?”
“It was an order… it’s my job. I’m here because that’s what I do.”
“You deliver messages?”
“Among other things.”
I can hear the hidden meaning in those words. The messages he’s used to delivering aren’t verbal. They aren’t warnings. They aren’t stupid little deals. He delivers messages in the form of a bullet to the eye, telling the world, ‘I see you, motherfuckers. I see you.’
He’s intuitive. He’s got to be, if he was able to read me. That’s a rare quality these days. Nobody trusts their gut anymore, but they ought to. Sometimes wires get crossed in the brain, things get all jumbled, everything gets confused, and your heart… you can’t trust that son of a bitch. It’ll be the first to betray you. It’ll make you feel like the world is a beautiful place. It’ll make you forget all the darkness. It’ll make you hope, and believe, and then it’ll destroy you, just when you start to think maybe it’s okay to not be so goddamn frigid.
But the gut? The gut knows. The gut remembers. You should always listen to it.
After taking one more swig of rum, I shove the bottle aside and lean across the table, closing some of the distance between us. He blanches as I do. Ballsy and perceptive, yes, but the guy is uneasy, nervous about how this is going to end, worried that I might kill him for the things he said.
I can’t say the thought hasn’t cross my mind.
But I’m going to give him a chance, maybe because I’m feeling generous, or more likely because I’m a conniving son of a bitch. Besides, I’m bored. Might be fun to poke the bear a bit.
“Here’s what’s going to happen,” I say. “You’re going to go back to your boss and deliver my counter offer, because this deal he’s offering just isn’t going to work for me.”
He stares down at where his hands rest on the table, clasped together like in prayer, and is quiet for a moment before he asks, “What’s your counter offer?”
Reaching into my coat pocket, I pull out my worn, leather wallet. I shift through the wad of cash, finding only hundreds, and toss one on the table to cover the cost of the rum before sliding my wallet back away.
“Tell your boss he can suck my cock,” I say, shoving my chair back to stand up. “If he does a good enough job, maybe I won’t blow his fucking brains out for calling me a thief.”
Tingles creep along my skin, the hair on my arms prickling from a rush of adrenaline. I should’ve never left my house, should’ve never bothered with this meeting, should’ve never given those schmucks the time of day.
It’s pushing three o’clock in the morning now, the sky pitch black when I make my way outside, the snow coming down harder. I just want to get home and forget I was ever stupid enough to go along with this shit. I curse under my breath when I step out into the air. The cold slaps me in the face, nearly taking my breath away, as I yank the hood of my coat back up over my head to try to block some of the assault.
Grabbing my cell phone, I dial Seven’s number as I pace a section of sidewalk in front of the bar, my gaze out along the quiet street.
It rings once. Twice. Three times.
The door to the bar swings open just as Seven picks up. He greets me, but before I have a chance to say anything in response, something rams into me from behind. I stumble, nearly losing my footing, skidding on ice as the phone drops from my hand.
Shit.
It hits the sidewalk with a thud, landing in a patch of snow. I snatch it back up, cursing as I wipe it off on my pant leg. Anger rushes through me as I turn around, about to make some unfortunate asshole’s night something to remember, when a flash of red greets me.
The doe-eyed woman from inside.
The moment I lay eyes on her, she starts stammering. “I, uh, I’m so sorry, I wasn’t looking when I walked out, I didn’t see you…”
Flustered, she wraps her black coat around her tighter. It’s thin, not nearly warm enough to fend off cold of this caliber. Her red dress falls well above the knee, the only thing covering her legs a pair of black pantyhose. She’s petite, shorter than I imagined, barely eye-level wearing heels.
Shivering, she takes an immediate step back, putting a bit more distance between us as she clutches her coat closed defensively, like it’s her armor.
“It’s fine,” I say. “No harm done.”
She pauses for just a beat after I say that before turning to head down the street, scurrying away, like I scared the daylights out of her just by existing. Figures. She had more guts inside the bar. Guess she might be a Marilyn, after all, instead of an alleyway cocksucker.
Pity.
Sighing, I bring my phone back to my ear. “You still there, Seven?”
“Yeah, boss.”
“I’m ready to leave now.”
I end the call and slip my phone back away, grateful the thing still works. My hand lingers in my coat pocket, something off. It takes a second for it to strike me: the pocket’s empty. No wallet.
My gaze darts to the sidewalk, and I search all around my feet, figuring I dropped it, too, like the phone, but there’s nothing.
Nothing but snow, and ice, and battered concrete.
You’ve gotta be kidding me.
I pat myself down, looking like even more of an idiot, but I know better. I’m not going to find it. It’s not here. My gaze shifts down the street at where the woman hurries away from me. She turns her head, as if she can sense my attention, looking back at where I’m standing.
And just like that, it clicks.
She knocked into me, catching me off guard, distracting me for the moment...
She fucking pick-pocketed me.
Me.
I’m so damn stunned I almost don’t react. My brain, it just can’t seem to make sense of it. It’s doesn’t compute. How the hell did she pickpocket me? Me. It’s impossible. Unbelievable.
Nobody’s balls are that big.
But yet, there she goes, looking back again, hurrying her steps even more the moment I start to move. My brain is still far from catching up, but gut instinct kicks in, forcing my muscles to work. I head for her, breaking into a sprint, slipping and sliding all over the goddamn place but managing to stay on my feet. She keeps glancing back as she starts to run, nearing the end of the block, that wild hair all over the place, whipping into her face.
She’s fast; I’ll give her that. Even in heels, she manages to navigate the ice with ease. That might impress me if I weren’t so goddamn angry.
Pins and needles jab my face, the coldness stinging. I run as fast as my legs can carry me, closing the distance, each stride sending her more into a panic. As soon as she hits the corner, she kicks off her heels, sending them flying, and runs through the slush out in the street in her bare feet.
Jesus Christ, the woman is crazy.
She’s fucking insane.
She has to be.
I dodge across the street, following, and catch up to her just as she rounds another corner. I’m close enough to snatch a hold of the back of her coat, fisting the material and yanking her to a stop so hard that she barely manages to stay upright. Before she can think to struggle, I swing her around and shove her back against a crumbling brick building, pinning her there, standing right up against her, so close her body heat surrounds me.
She gasps, eyes wide as she stares me dead in the face, like she just can’t believe this is happening.
Me, too, woman. I can’t b
elieve this shit, either.
“I’ll scream,” she says, her voice a breathless cloud between us. “I swear I will.”
“No, you won’t.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“Because if you wanted to scream, you would’ve just done it,” I say, patting down her flimsy coat, feeling for some pockets. “Now give it to me.”
She tries to block my hands. “Give you what?”
“You know what.”
“No, I don’t... I don’t know... ugh, what are you...? Get your hands off of me!” she growls, pushing me. “What do you want?”
“My wallet,” I say, grabbing her hands when she tries to push me again. I press her hard against the brick, brushing the tip of my nose to hers as I lean down, smelling a hint of beer on her breath, but it’s not as strong as the scent that clings to her skin. Vanilla. “I know you swiped it.”
“I didn’t—”
“Don’t play dumb with me,” I say, an edge of anger to my voice as it drops low. “It’s cold as fuck and I’m fresh out of patience, so this isn’t the time to play games. It’s in your best interest to just hand over the wallet before I drag you into an alley and strip-search you for it.”
Her eyes narrow. “You wouldn’t.”
“Just try me. I dare you.”
A second passes. Then another. And another. Her expression shifts, the shock melting away as those bright red lips let out an exasperated sigh. She yanks from my grasp and pushes away from the wall, her chest bumping against me so hard that it forces me to take a step back, giving her room to move. She reaches into her coat, into her dress, and whips my wallet out from somewhere along her bra, holding it up between us. “Fine, you caught me. Happy?”
“Fucking ecstatic.” I snatch it, also grabbing her hand, pulling her toward me. Her sleeve moves up her forearm, exposing a tattoo on her wrist. It’s simple, nothing more than a cursive red ‘S’. “What’s this, huh? Your own little Scarlet Letter? What’s it stand for? Sneaky thieving bitch?”
She rolls her eyes. “Funny. If you’re done manhandling me, asshole, I’ve got somewhere to be, so I’d appreciate it if you’d, you know...” She motions with her head toward my hand. “...let go.”