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.
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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.
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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.
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