October 28th, 2018 by Patrick Starks
Smoke filled the air, sweat fell from everyone’s back, booty poppin’, in every direction, followed by music that was probably just as worst as the AMF, the Adios Mother Fucker I’d be drinking. No doubt about it, I was tipsy as hell, but don’t get it twisted, a girl could handle her liquor. The place was jam-packed, shoulder to shoulder. Who the hell was in town? Bruno Mars? I wish. But of course, it was Lové Patricié.
Everyone was dressed in black, from their heads, shoulders, knees, and toes. Obviously, I didn’t get the memo. You could say I stood out a little too much for someone who was supposed to be undercover. But it didn’t matter, the only thing I could think about, that I couldn’t believe, was the fact that I was there looking for Jonathan Pike’s murderers. If anything, I thought it be the other way around.
To the left of my peripheral, I could see that the two bouncers hadn’t lost sight of me. They looked like they’d come straight out of a Blade film, only neither of them resembled Wesley Snipes. More so, I’d prayed to my mother in the big blue sky that none of the goons around me were vampires. Or else, this story would probably need a Kate Beckinsale, and I just wasn’t that jack.
The DJ was now on a roll, for once. For every song she played, more people would slide their way from the bar and towards the dance floor. But the good news was that I’d finally finished and said adios to my AMF, without passing out like that time in downtown Tokyo. But that’s another story.
Without hesitation, I took the dance floor and grabbed the arm of the closest hubba bubba I could find. The man looked like the son of Odon himself, although, I ain’t talking about Loki. The man had to be at least six foot tall, if not taller. He wielded the perfect beard, along with delicious eyes that complemented his golden man bun. Ha, man bun.
But the bodybuilder physique really wasn’t my cup of tea or protein, to be frank, but anything was better than the rest of the T-Bird wannabe’s that smelled like old spice and my grandmothers closet. I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again, I absolutely hate that smell, old spice that being.
“You come around these parts quite often aye,” said the man softly grabbing my waist like a gentleman should.
My hazel eyes stared up at him seductively. I was like a helpless little anime girl. I wanted him right then and there, but I was smart enough to know that it was just the alcohol talking. Nevertheless, I just nodded.
“Where you from aye?” he asked. “I don’t mean to offend you, but you seem like you’re from California or Seattle, somewhere on the West Coast.”
Dodging the rapid questions, I pulled the man in closer, my breast against his chiseled chest. For a guy that looked like a total meat-head, he sure did have a shit ton of questions to ask, and good ones too. I knew when I was being interrogated. But for the moment, everything felt right, like a Cinderella story. My chin rested on his shoulder. It was a little sweaty but warm. My eyes were closed. But when I opened them that was when the games had begun.
There, at the end of the crowd, danced Jonathan Pikes killers. And as usual, seduction swarmed around them like buzzards. Everyone around wanted a piece of the apple, but little did any of them know that they were drooling over forbidden fruit.
“What’s wrong?” the man asked.
“Nothing at all,” I said. “Say, can we move a little closer to the middle.”
There wasn’t a response. I could tell by the way his man bun was falling apart already that the last thing he wanted to do was move closer to a pit of raw heat.
I thought fast. “Do you mind grabbing me a bottle of water?”
“Of course gorgeous,” he said, giving me a kiss on the cheek followed by a pinch of my other cheeks.
So much for him being a gentleman, I grunted.
But now it was down to business. I reached down to the inside my Michael Kors bag, and pulled out my Clinique Lipstick that the guys down at the station had cooked up for yours truly. They called it “TABA,” which was made to take a breath away by anyone that was willing to pucker up with me. My lips were blood red, with a pinch of gloss. It was just the bait I needed. Just the weapon I needed to bring them into the station.
I then looked over a few heads. Thor was still waiting in the long line of drunks that couldn’t take no for an answer. Some poor bastard driving off the intersection? Yeah, that was the last thing a Bartender wanted to hear after a long night of dealing with adult babies.
While I still had time, I walked over to the women to introduce myself, gliding across and through the crowd as if I was doing my little turn on the catwalk. I was too sexy, for them to resist. We all started dancing. Me in the middle and them all around. I’m sure this is what they call a sandwich, I said. The two women said nothing. Without a doubt, they were attractive women, but their silence easily dropped them from dimes to nickles in a heartbeat. It was just fucking weird.
Son of Odin, I mean, Thor, no, what the hell is his name? Ugh. Doesn’t matter. Whoever he was, he finally showed up with my water. In his eyes, he looked a little confused to what was going on, but in his mind, I could tell he was thinking that tonight he was going to have the time of his life—a menagè a quartè. Three gorgeous women, well, how could a single young man say no to that.
“Her ya go doll,” said the man, holding a bottle of Aquafina.
I remained locked onto his eyes as I grabbed it, but could see that at the bottom nothing but fizz rested. Last time I checked Aquafina sure as hell didn’t make sparkling water. Out of all the days, this was the last thing that I needed.
I played stupid. I struggled with the bottle of water.
“Ugh. I’m having a hard time opening this. Do you mind?” I asked
Again, the man looked confused. Of course, he was, he’d already opened the bottle. He then gave me one hell of a wicked smile, as he opened it with ease.
“Here ya go,” he said. “Better stay hydrated aye. It’s not good to have alcohol in your body with little food or water.”
“Bullshit,” I whispered, rolling my eyes towards the ladies room.
“N-nothing at all. I’m gonna run to the ladies room okay. A girls gotta tinkle.”
“No problem. I understand. AMF’s have been known to have that effect on people. I’ll be here waiting.”
The alcohol must’ve been getting to him. I knew for a fact I never told him what I’d been drinking that night, which made the standoff even more awkward. He must’ve been watching me from the time I walked in, or worst, him and the bartender were in some sick game together, and it wouldn’t be the first time I’d seen in it—Case Z14: Kokomo. Another story.
I looked around, and the two women were gone. I huffed, puffed, and swore all the way to the women’s restroom in disgust, frustration, like a little princess that didn’t get to wear their favorite dress. I’d lost my lead.
Fifteen minutes I waited before I could finally get a stall. Shit talking echoed the rooms, a few cat-fights as well, and the stall to my right, of course, would have a couple getting it on. This woman obviously had no standards, I silently laughed. Two minutes and twenty-two seconds exact—unlike I, sadly, alcohol couldn’t be the excuse for this poor souls performance. But from the way the girl moaned, I could tell she loved him, lucky for him I guess, although, her faking wasn’t even remotely good enough to get Ron Jeremy to kiss the back of her hand.
But finally, after all of that, there was silence—me, myself, and the toilet. On my phone birds soared the skies, plummeting into barriers filled with nothing but worker bees, I mean, pigs. The game was quite fitting for the mood that I was in, I, in fact, was an angry bird.
The doors to the bathroom then swung open, smacking against the wall. Two pairs of heels clicked and clacked on their way in. There wasn’t any talking, which was odd for the ladies room, but I couldn’t be a hypocrite, it was what I wanted. The stalls to my left and right then opened. I slouched over and took a gander.
“Jesus,” I said.
Whoever they were, these women were rolling. I’d only ever seen them in magazines but there they were—Christian Louboutin’s. They had to be at least a one thousand dollars a piece. A hand then reached over my stall holding a golden lock of hair that looked like a paintbrush that had been dipped in red. It dropped down to my lap. It still had chunks of skin from where the scalping had started. Poor Thor, I thought. Although, served him right for taking advantage of women. I’m just glad something was done about him before he preyed on someone else. Justice had been served, but now it was my turn to do the serving.
I flushed the toilet and stood up. The two stalls did the same. I put my purse down, kicked my stilettos off and then kicked open the stall door. Again, the two stalls did the same—it was like a game of red light, green light. I then threw the golden lock up against the wall from across us all, and following in its lead came the two culprits of its demise.
Dumbasses, I said.
From then on I knew exactly what time it was. From my lingerie, I pulled out my two Ruger SR9’s like the Hitman himself. I jumped out.
It was party time.
To be continued—so sorry 😉