Gangster chick lit

I'm glad to get out by 2am. Closing the bar and collating tips typically takes till 4am, but I've been letting the manager handle it.

Barra makes a big deal of the body guard thing like he always does, walking ahead of me, clearing the way with his elbows, making the most of his huge frame.

Sal walks next to me, handling the call to the driver. He's dying to take me through last quarters sales, and I've been avoiding because I don't quite give a fuck. Don't think I'll be able to avoid it now, his jaw seems pretty set.

We step out past the red carpet of the club entrance, onto the gray filthy city side walk. I would have preferred the side entrance, but the dark alley gave Barra a conniption. I'm intent on avoiding the puke and broken beer bottles - people are disgusting - so I think it's Sal grabbing my arm. Barra's howling and Sal's spluttering behind me that make me look up, into the grey green eyes of the broad who's clutching my arm. 

"What the fuck" Barras already flung himself out from behind the car door he was holding, and grabs her arm, pushing me back but also locking us all into this three way tango. Sal gets his feet trampled behind me, swearing too.

"Pls. Pls help me" she rasps.

"For fucks sake Barra what the hell is a chick going to do to me..." I start saying, but Barra elbows me aside, without letting go of her arm.

He folds one of her stick like arms painfully behind her back - theatrics of that man I swear - and frisks her with the other. I'm about to smirk something out till Barra pulls out the halo tucked behind her jeans.

He holds it to her throat, and she stills completely. 

He tosses her bag to Sal, who wasn't expecting it so drops it. I can almost feel Barra's eye roll. As the purse drops to the floor, the contents spew out, a lipstick rolling past the carpet near my shoe. But sure enough, the telltale butt of a gun is poking out of the bag.

I grab Barras arm before he can go apeshit. It takes a minute of jostling, he's trying to body slam her into the ground, but he has a knife in his hand and he nearly slits my wrist as I stick my arm in there.

"What the fuck J" he's in neanderthal mode.

"Barra - she's just a chick. If she wanted to kill me she wouldn't be trying to talk" I manage to get that out in a reasonable tone as he's trying to put her in the ground. 

She's still standing - I don't think she's taken a breath since B grabbed her.

It takes a minute, but the panic resides and order is restored. Sal picks up the bag and the contents, holding the gun and halo securely in his binder. Barra clears his head, and is still holding the chick, but no longer trying to kill her. 

I'm about to get in the car so we can move on, but something in her eyes makes me stop.

"Well miss, you sure picked a shitty guy to proposition. What do you want" she's clearly been waiting, what, four hours since I went in. May as well find out.

-----------------

You fucking moron. This is me, on repeat, swearing at myself like the mother fucking moron I am. This fucking chick was a time bomb, and I should have just lobbed her to the street like the fucking grenade she was. 

Barra looked at me bug eyed in disbelief when I told them to get her in the car. Sal, resigned, giving me a look that said he'd discuss my poor choices later. Even C, staring, mouth agape, had to be reminded to get in the drivers seat and start fucking driving.

She's sitting between me and Sal. He's scrunched all the way to the corner, clearly regretting his committment to presenting the quarterly variances, trying not to let the chick's jeans touch him.

I side eye her, noticing the layers and layers of bruises. She's wearing a thin tank under her threadbare jacket, jeans, and open toed sandals, in the middle of fucking winter. I had stripped down to my tshirt and made C turn the heater on full blast, something that made him raise his brows because he knew I hate the heat.

I didn't quite know what the fuck to do with her, it's not like I'm running a halfway house for domestic abuse victims. I'm taking her back to my place, and will deal with her in the morning. At the point, we all need sleep.

You're just a fucking bar manager. Stay in your lane. You have no goddamn business meddling with those psychotic fuckers. Just give them their cut every fucking month, and fuck off. Why the absolute fuck would you get involved. Why. 

Barra tries to come with me, and I have to hold on to the car door from the outside to stop him from fucking getting out. One house guest is all I can handle, don't need his fat ass on my couch.

We go up the lift, and she hasn't made a sound. I'm guessing she didn't have much of a plan, other than escaping that murderous shit. She's probably running on fumes.

As we exit into my apartment, I'm flummoxed. Do I let her just run around the fucking place. What if she slits my throat in my fucking sleep? I'm not going to underestimate desperation of someone backed into a corner with nothing to lose. I suddenly regret letting Barra go home, I could have used another person to keep an eye on her. Yeah and who's going to keep an eye on him? He'd be a zombie tomorrow - worse, a PTSD ridden gun toting zombie. Didn't need that shit around. He needed to sleep, I'd have to manage.

Best to feed her first. She's a little unsure of what to do as well. She kicks off her shoes at the entrance, following my lead.

I flick on the master switch, and light floods the living room. I gesture at her to sit on the kitchen stool. I pull out some pasta, throw it in the microwave, then toss in a fork and hand it to her. 

She hasn't lifted her eyes from the counter, nor has she said a word. She silently takes the fork, and starts eating, somehow still not making a sound. I'm guessing she's had years of practice of fading out of sight so she's not noticed. Given the age and size of tits, I'm guessing she's a call girl. Caught the eye of the wrong guy, and then got embroiled in seeing too much shit, unable to get out. A frequent and old story. One that ends way too many times with death, from drugs, suicide, collateral damage, or murder. 

"You can take a shower, and then we'll talk in the morning, ok"

Her eyes - now silver - flick up at me, then quickly go back down. She's trying to gauge how mad I am. Despite myself, I feel a twist of pity, what a fucking shitty world. What asshole get his rocks off on hurting people for no reason other than their sick twisted pleasure.

--------

She comes out of the bathroom, her face less gaunt than a few hours ago. Nothing in the world hot food and a warm shower can't help, mum always used to say. She's wearing my sweatshirt, it flops down to her thighs, comically dwarfs her arms. Her hair is wet, but she's dried her hair and her cheeks are getting some pink back instead of being ash grey. 

-------

Heat

His tongue. It's inside me doing unspeakable things. 

Yes. YES. FINALLY.

After nearly a decade as dry as the sahara. Penance. Finally. YES.

His salt and pepper beard, soft, not scratchy. His hand at. Just. The. Right. Place.

There hasn't been time to talk. To explain ourselves. I haven't been interested. He was... older, but had lied on the apps. Typical. Had the right passport. And the Brit version of an Ivy league degree. And ambition, even if it was in an industry that was traditionally associated with stodgy old men. Like him actually.

He was acting like a teen in his voracious post divorce rebounding, hitting on everything vaguely female (and not, by accident). Yet a terrible boomer at the same time. And a little too proud of his conquests of girls nearly his daughter's age. Ew.

Post nut clarity apparently applies to women too. But in my defense, it seems I already knew it, but the volume had just been turned down waaayyy low because, well, mama was thirsty.

Does he even see me as anything other than a hole? God that voice in my head is annoying sometimes. Now that it's louder, I can't help but realize that it's making so much sense.

He's still enthusiastically hoovering my vagina, not having realized that I'm done, and had time to mentally pack my bags and leave.

I gently tap his head, "errmmmmm". 

Dear lord he's not letting up.

"Hey! Stop!" Oops, my parent voice leaked out.

He stops, and looks up from between my thighs, questioning, but happily clueless, and very very much still raring to go. Awkward.

"Errrr... I think I'm done" I gently scootch out before he can say anything, and start putting on my clothes. Uff asshole, had told him not to yank the lace, his ham fisted pawing at the hook has torn it a bit.

He's a little confused, still in a horny stupor, and I can see he hasn't understood.

By the time his brain catches up, I'm tucking my shirt into my pants. 

"Errr what. Wait" he's scrambling to sit up, and untangle himself from the sheets.

I'm putting my shoes on.

"Are you freaking out?"

"Nope!" Bag in hand, I do a quick check because damn I don't want to forget anything. Well maybe I am freaking out.

"Maybe I am"

His confusion clears a little bit, and it seems he's cottoning on to my mental state. 

"Ok wait. Let's talk about this" 

That fucking British accent. That's the one that got me into this trouble. No way in hell that's happening again.

"Sure! Sure! I'll call you. Actually you know, you message me once you're back in London. Have a safe flight!" Am i babbling? I'm babbling. 

"No I meant right now. Let's talk right now" he says gently, bed sheet thankfully covering nether regions, but leaving his torso mostly uncovered. Holy shit he's not fat, I'm not used to men his age without a paunch. I just manage to stop myself from asking him gym routine. Or the brand of protein supplement he's clearly using.

"NoooOoo I think that's a terrible idea, I think I'm going to go" I say as I scramble out the hotel room.

He tries to stand up, now concerned, but sees my face and pauses midfold, then sits back down.

I take that as permission to escape. I speed walk like the crazy person I am, out the door, down the hall, down the lift, past the wedding guests, and am gone gone gone gone. 

Have a horrible, horrible moment when the guard clicks closed the car door. Will they be able to smell sex on me. Of course not. I think.

I take my travel perfume and spray myself surreptitiously. And don't breathe properly till I'm back home, and have blocked and deleted his number. And blocked and deleted that damn app.

Never again.

Hot

I end my speech on time, but the organizers ask me to stay back for the acknowledgements at the end. I had told Nadia to tell them I'm on a deadline. I try to surpress my annoyance, and take deep breaths so my face doesn't reveal my inner monologue. 

Sure enough once I'm done with the closing messages and the throng of students I'm interacting with, the sun is setting in the cold winter light, and by the time I leave the campus, rush hour has started.

Fucking fuck fuckity fuck. Patience has never been my virtue. I'm gridlocked in a side lane. The tedious inching forward like nails on a blackboard. The developer must be going nuts, I told him I'd approve the last sprint an hour ago. Oh shit and the marketing team is waiting for my goahead on the final copy. Shit that means they'll have to sit late to roll out the campaign. I grab my phone to play a song, hopeful it will ease my brimming impatience. But sure enough, I open the lock screen and all the emails and messages pour through. Which is why I'm distracted, and incredibly confused when my car comes to a sudden shocking halt with a loud thud. Horns erupt around me, and I look up to see I've rear ended the guy in front of me.

Oh fucking fuck. 

I guiltily fling my phone down. My hands leave the steering wheel and are covering my gaping mouth. Oh shit this is bad. No it's good! No one's hurt. We were practically at a halt, how the hell the did car get that giant bump. Shit the repairs on this car will be fucking astronomical. Shit that poor guy I should offer to pay for his car's damage.

I'm staring in horror, mouth still agape as the man steps out of his vehicle. The motorbikes have hastily slithered away not wanting to get caught in a rush hour confrontation, giving him room to open his door. 

Oh fuck he's going to kill me. I should apologize and just offer to pay. I should keep my dad on speeddial in case he becomes abusive. How.mad does he look!?

I open my eyes and see the man unfold out of the car. Shit he's tall, he must be what over 6 feet. 

His attention is all on his back bumper, his shirt hitches up from the back revealing long lean muscles as he leans forward to check the damage. He unfolds, his jaw is clenched in incredible annoyance at what he finds, the stubble of his week old beard in dark contrast to his white tshirt. He turns, I'm met with the piercing green eyes of an extremely annoyed angry male, who finally sees me watching aghast through the windshed.

He stands for a few seconds, just looking, like he's measuring what to do. I can see his eyes go from his bumper, to mine, to me. He's just standing.

He looks pissed, but reasonable. I mentally prepping to step out and apologize and share contact details. But as I fumble for my car door, i glance over and he's still staring.

Errr ok. I hesitate a second, I was expecting him to storm over and give me an earful. I look over tentatively - what the hell is going on. 

He closes his eyes, takes a long suffering breath (ooohhh deep breathing just like  me!). His eyes open, and the green is calmer. Resigned. His shoulders drop, and before I can say or do anything he turns around and stalks back to his door.

What is he doing!? Should I get out? He turns one last time, and I have no idea why but I stop fumbling for my door, my eyes locked with this strange random handsome ass stranger.

My God he's good looking. 

He gets in the car. His brakelights turn on as he puts his car in gear, and then he inches forward the six feet the rest of the traffic has already moved ahead on.

Im left feeling strangely tingly, and I'm releived when he finally turns off the main road and I continue to limp on my way home.