No, she’s getting nothing from this. No arousal. No excitement.
Fucking boredom.
I pause in front of her, cocking an eyebrow, as she continues going through the motions. A small smile twists her blood-red lips. It does something to me, that smile. I don’t know how to explain it. People don’t get to me the way a look from this woman claws its way under my skin.
Nudging her chin, I tilt her head up further, watching her throat flex as she swallows, like I might be making her nervous. Good. Her lips are parted, her warm breath greeting me as I lean down toward her, tilting my head. My thumb slowly swipes along her bottom lip, smearing her lipstick, just a breath away from her mouth, when she whispers, oh-so-shakily, “Kissing is gonna cost you.”
I laugh under my breath and press my lips to hers—once, twice, three times—soft, barely a peck, but she bites my bottom lip the last time, sending a sharp stab of pain through it. I wince, licking my lip as I stand back up, a slight copper taste on my tongue. She drew blood.
She knows it, too.
There’s the spark.
It lights up her eyes.
Squeezing her chin, I lean down again, kissing her once more, rougher this time, before whispering, “You taste better now.”
She still hasn’t missed a beat.
The woman is good at what she does, that’s for damn sure.
Letting go, I retreat a few steps, my eyes scanning her, my gaze lingering on those tits. There’s more I’d like to stick around and do, but I know damn well Amello is watching my every move.
I’m going to have her, though.
No doubt about it. I’ve made up my mind.
Men like Amello get their panties in a twist when you steal from them. He called me a thief, so that’s what I’ll be. Like I said, if you don’t appreciate what you’ve got, someone like me will be more than happy to take it.
Scarlet’s cheeks flush, visible even through the thick layers of makeup, her eyes twinkling, every ounce of boredom gone in a blink.
Definitely not the only one getting a thrill out of this.
I stroll toward the doorway just as the song changes. It’s barely a second of silence before the music starts up again, but something happens in that moment, a shift in the air when someone off in the distance screams. My footsteps falter. Turning my head, glancing back, I watch Scarlet come to a stop. She springs to her feet, alarmed, snatching her top off of the floor and fumbling with it, desperately trying to put it back on, but there’s no time.
No time.
Chaos erupts. More screaming. Running. Voices shout over the music, incoherent words I don’t understand, but Scarlet seems to. Eyes wide, her body trembles as she mouths something, but her voice doesn’t seem to work right now.
Uh-oh.
The guy she’d been straddling sits straight up, realizing his lap dance is over, in a drunken stupor as his bloodshot eyes narrow at me.
“Who the fuck are you?” he asks, but I don’t have a chance to answer before a distinct rat-ta-tat-tat sound echoes through the club, the harrowing rattle of incessant gunfire.
AR-15, I’m guessing. My chest tightens. Son of a bitch. Is he being robbed? Again?
“Oh god,” Scarlet says, finally finding her voice. “No, no, no…”
There’s a tremor to those words. Terror coats every syllable. Never took her for the kind to buckle in the face of danger. She sure as fuck didn’t balk when it came to me. The commotion gets louder, people fleeing from the club, racing down the hall toward the back exit before doubling back, like that way is blocked.
Whoever it is has the place surrounded.
Sitting ducks.
Scarlet retreats deeper into the room. It’s only seconds. That’s it. Mere seconds of pandemonium. She jumps behind the bar to the far left of the room, cowering there, shielding herself from view. I take a few steps that way, not completely approaching, just coming close enough that I can see her.
No, it’s not a robbery, and it’s clear she senses it, too
It’s more like a massacre.
I know a thing or two about those.
I stand there, shoving my hands in my pockets, staring at the doorway as someone bursts in. A man dressed in all black, wearing a ski mask. Huh. The drunk from the lap dance freaks out, yelling, “Who the fuck are you?”
Unlike when he asked me, this guy is kind enough to respond. He answers right away with a bullet to the face, no hesitation.
Who the fuck are you?
BANG.
Scarlet doesn’t move at all, doesn’t make a sound, as the gunshot echoes through the room, a big, burly motherfucker pulling the trigger, dropping the scumbag with a single shot.
He turns to me next, pointing the gun, finger still on the trigger, but this time, he pauses. Eyes narrowing, he studies my face before shouting something out in a foreign language, a single word sticking out of the gibberish: Scar.
My hands clench into fists in my pockets as I force myself not to go for my gun. “I guess my reputation precedes me, huh?”
He looks like a bear, I think, the burly motherfucker, as he shoves the ski mask up, offering me a glimpse of his face. He doesn’t respond with words or a bullet, which I think is answer enough.
Someone else joins us, a bit shorter and smaller, otherwise similar in features. No ski mask, this one. No gun. He’s not even dressed in all black, instead wearing a dark gray suit. He carries himself differently, too, an air of confidence surrounding him, much of his skin covered in dark tattoos.
That would make him the leader.
That’s pretty easy to see.
It’s peculiar, though, almost surreal, a strange sense of déjà vu assaulting me. If I weren’t witness to this, I swear to fuck, I’d probably suspect myself, too. It feels too familiar, like watching a cheap reboot of a classic. Either this is a case of great minds thinking alike, or this guy has been studying my playbook.
The moment the newcomer yells, spouting off something foreign to his guys, Scarlet reacts. I see her tense from the corner of my good eye. She presses against the bar, trying to fade into the shadows, as she mouths something to herself, over and over and over, still not making a sound.
Look, it doesn’t take a genius to put four and six together and come up with ten, you get what I’m saying? Cowering woman. Foreign McFuckFace with his own little massacre squad. It’s like I’m in the midst of yet another Die Hard sequel.
Does that make me Bruce Willis? I don’t know.
But I am willing to bet that makes ol’ Bebop and Rocksteady here our dastardly villains. And doing that basic math in my head, I’m saying it all adds up to the Russians.
The men chatter back and forth as I observe them before someone says that damn word again. Scar.
He turns to me then—their leader, ol’ Bebop—and stares me down as he steps closer. “The notorious Scar. I have heard much about you.”
“Good things?”
“Horrific things. Murder. Mayhem.”
“So... good things,” I say again.
He laughs. “The best things.”
“Good to know,” I say. “I’m not sure I can say the same about you, though.”
“You have not heard of me?”
I was going for I hadn’t heard any good things, but we’ll go with that. “Afraid not.”
“Oh, but I am sure you have,” he says as he smiles. “You just do not know it was me they spoke of. Reputation is not important to me. I do not care what anyone thinks as long as I get what I want.”
“And what is it you want?”
“Depends on which day it is.” He laughs again. “Today, like most days, I am looking for a girl. Maybe you have seen her?”
“Maybe,” I say. “Does she have a name?”
“Morgan,” he says. “She is a very pretty girl. You would not forget her if you saw her. She has the sweetest smile.”
That she does.
“Doesn’t ring a bell,” I tell him.
“That is a shame,” he says as he glances around the room. He can’t see behind the bar from there, but if he comes any closer, Scarlet is fucked.
His gaze shifts that way, and he seems to consider it, before gunshots erupt in the hallway, a man shouting, “Vor!”