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What the fuck?
Who the fuck is he?
Mason stares at the picture, playing it cool, and then discreetly looks out the corner of his eye to me. I mildly shake my head and set my glass down, willing my heart to stop beating so hard and fast. “Never seen her,” Mason says, taking a towel and wiping his hands.
“You sure?”
“I’m sure.” Mason looks at him, face straight, serious.
“I heard she was seen around here,” he presses, scanning up and down the bar area. Looking for Pearl.
Mason’s jaw rolls. He’s getting worked up. I’m with him. “You heard wrong,” he says, his voice tight. He’s gonna lose his shit soon. I flatten my hand on the bar and lift and lower slowly, telling him to dial it down.
“Like I said, never seen her before,” Mason says calmly, hearing me. “The drink’s twelve bucks.” Translated: shut up and drink before I break your legs.
I watch as the guy picks up his glass and slowly tips it back, eyes on Mason, goading him. Dumb fuck. He drains the glass and calmly sets it back on the bar. Pushes it calmly toward Mason. Leisurely reaches for the photograph. Drags it at a snail’s pace across the wood, slipping it back into his pocket. It’s all so very passive-aggressive. And really fucking stupid.
He doesn’t pay for his drink but turns his back on Mason and has a long, thorough look around the club, not showing any interest in the dancers, before he turns back to the bar. “Don’t mind if I use your facilities before I leave, do you.” It’s not a question.
Mason looks at me out the corner of his eye again, and I nod down at my empty. “Sure thing,” he says. “Down the corridor across the back of the club.”
He doesn’t thank Mason, and still doesn’t pay, wandering slowly off, his beefy body rocking as he walks. I follow him with my eyes, eventually turning on my stool when I can’t twist my neck anymore.
“What the fuck was all that about?” Mason asks.
I ignore him, obviously, not letting my eyes leave the guy’s back. “Make sure no one uses the men’s.” I get up and follow the guy to the restrooms, my mind spinning, my blood boiling. The brazen fucker walks into my club and thinks a bit of passive-aggressiveness will go down well?
I push my way through the door, finding him—name to be determined—with his dick in his hand taking a leak. He looks across to me, eyes running up and down my body. He nods. I nod in return and unzip my fly as I wander to the urinals, discreetly checking the stalls for anyone else in here. No one.
I pull out my dick. Stare at the tiles before me as I piss. I feel him look down at my cock, so I slowly turn my attention his way, face straight. He quickly returns his stare forward, and I smile on the inside. The big scary fucker has a complex about his small dick?
I’ve just found the outlet I need right now, since fucking Allison last night wasn’t effective.
“You’re looking for someone,” I say flatly.
He glances at me, taking me in, up and down. “And you are?”
“Doesn’t matter who I am.” I finish and tuck myself away while this guy, whoever the fuck he is, keeps on pissing. “Who the fuck are you?”
He snorts, dismissing me, continuing his merry, long piss. Brave man.
“I asked you a question.”
He laughs. “Fuck you.”
I grab the back of his fat head and smash it into the tile wall, cracking a few, leaving a smudge of blood on the porcelain. He squeals like a fucking pig, falling back to his ass, still fucking pissing all over the place. “What the fuck?”
I kneel, fisting his jacket and yanking him close. “Who. Are. You?”
He dribbles and coughs, the blood coming from his forehead, his mouth, his nose. “Go fuck yourself.”
I shove him to his back and straddle his lump of a body, pulling back my fist and letting loose. Punch after punch, I feel some of the stress leave my body, powering my blows, not giving him a moment to blink in between each one. I smash into his face until he’s no longer yelling, his body limp, and clench his jacket in my fists and yank him up, getting my face up in his. “Fucking talk or every glass in this club will be sunken into your flesh.”
He coughs up some blood, the reflex bringing him back round. Then he spits a few teeth out. I shove him back to the ground and stand, looking down at his pants on a sneer, his limp dick hanging out of the zipper. I dip into his pocket and pull out a phone, waking up the screen. The dumb fuck tries to knock me out of the way, so I lift my boot and slam it into his groin, and he yells his agony. I pull my gun and aim it at his head, keeping him perfectly still on the ground.
“Passcode,” I say, crouching, pressing the end of my Heckler into his forehead.
His eyes widen. “Four, eight, three, six, two, nine.”
