#dabbi | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

gloomwitchwrites · 1 year ago

Text

Captain John Price x Female Reader Dark Romance

Chapter Specific Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): alcohol, club atmosphere & dynamics, suggestive themes, foul language, canon-typical violence

Word Count: 6k

A/N: Part One of Dangerous Pursuit (shoutout to @glitterypirateduck for sending this idea my way)

At your place of employment, a customer delivers a bloody blow. Captain John Price makes you an offer.

Chapter Two

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // dangerous pursuit masterlist

The booming bass of the music filters through the wall and greets you like a familiar companion. This is how your Friday nights always begin. And your Saturdays. Like clockwork, you can always rely on the pulsing, thudding beat to keep your rent paid.

It’s a necessary evil, because your day job just doesn’t fucking cut it. You were told as a child that if you just “worked hard” and “went to college” you’d have a good, happy, healthy life.

What a goddamn fucking lie.

Your student loans from grad school are shackles dragging you deeper into the muck of the earth. There are bills piling up on your kitchen counter, and you’re fairly certain your electric is about to be switched off in a few days. Not to mention all the unpaid medical bills. None of them are yours.

Even in death, your mother haunts you still. Your entire life is full of ghosts.

No one tells you that this is the reality of life. It is just one beatdown after another until you’re nothing but bloody pulp on the pavement baking in the sun.

In the moments upon waking, and the spaces right before you dream, your mind drifts to those places in your life that you wish were different. If this one thing didn’t happen, maybe you wouldn’t be staring at yourself in a dirty backroom mirror.

You always come in early to your weekend job.

Thirst is not all it appears to be. Out front, there is always a show. Sometimes it’s drag, and sometimes it’s burlesque. Other times—usually later in the night—there are dancers on poles wearing clothing that makes it seem like they’re in nothing at all. The main floor is where the public dwells. That is where they stay.

In the back—in private VIP rooms—is where the real money rolls in. Booking a private room starts at $10,000, and it’s worth every penny—at least to the customers who book them. It’s a mini-Thirst within Thirst. The walls are soundproof, the seating is spacious and comfortable, and certain illicit services are widely available. The public doesn’t have access to these services, and to even secure a room, a vetting process is required.

No one wants the Feds at the door.

You’re not one of the dancers or performers, and you certainly aren’t one of the workers who fornicate in the VIP lounges. That is not your job, and you purposefully keep it that way. The money you earn by simply making sure the liquor keeps flowing in the VIP lounges is the only thing preventing you from drowning.

It’s not like you haven’t considered it, but you’re not desperate enough to take the leap. The detachment is what appeals to you. You’re not interested in doing something that would put you into intimate proximity with the private clientele. Some of them make your skin crawl and the distance is your safety net.

The dirty mirror is doing nothing for you. Placing your belongings in your designated locker, you seek out one of the tall mirrors next to the various vanities. They’re technically for the performers, dancers, and companions, yet none of them care that you use it.

You twist and turn, checking every angle and curve. While your black cocktail dress is revealing, it’s mostly for appearances sake. You’re not on the menu, but you need to look like you are to a certain extent. The black dress is mostly to mark you as service staff, and while you’ve never had a direct problem, there have been customers in the VIP areas who know they’re not supposed to but blatantly ignore the rules anyway.

“You’re here. Thank God.” At the sound of Holly’s voice, you turn toward the blonde, dabbing off the excess red lipstick you just applied. She plops down in the chair next to you and sighs, her elbow resting against one of the many vanities. “Your regular is here.”

“Already?” you ask in surprise, and Holly grimaces. It’s a pained expression, one that says your regular is already on a rampage. “Is everything okay?” This time you speak slowly, knowing what her answer might be.

“Peachy,” she grins, but the smile is strained, and doesn’t reach her eyes.

You frown. “Tell him I’m here and I’ll be with him shortly. Maybe that’ll smooth over whatever it is he said to you.” This doesn’t seem to relax Holly at all. Her exhalation involves the heave of her shoulders as she slowly pushes herself to standing.

“On second thought,” you interject before Holly can leave. “Have one of the boys do it. Wait. No. Have security tell him.”

The relief that oozes off Holly is palpable. “I will,” she replies, her step lighter as she exits. The pounding bass smashes into your face the moment she opens the door to enter Thirst’s main floor.

Holly shouldn’t have to deal with assholes. She’s too sweet and gentle for that. The smallest emotion can send her right into tears.

And this regular of yours is particular about who serves him drinks, and which people are allowed in his VIP room. He always comes on Friday. He always books the same private lounge. He only ever wants the same girls to cater to him and his friends’ needs. And he only wants you to serve and make his drinks.

You only know him by his first name, Dimitri. His last name is completely unknown to you, and you don’t dare ask around or try to find out. Is it possible to learn that information? Yes. VIP clients are always vetted, but the owners of Thirst keep that information close.

Dimitri bleeds violence. Every action and word are laced with the threat of brutality. This man is attached to you, has been since your first day serving him. While Dimitri has never been cruel or touched you inappropriately, his gaze is a heated one, and never welcome.

He sounds American, but over the course of several months, you’ve noticed little nuances to the way he speaks. There is a slant to his vowels that leans toward a Russian accent, but you can’t be sure even if his name gives that impression.

But it’s also none of your business.

You tell yourself that every shift you work at Thirst. The things you see and hear stay. They don’t follow you out the door. They don’t follow you home.

Maybe that’s why Dimitri always asks for you. You’re consistent and you don’t ask questions. But you also know better. There is no reason for you to stick your face somewhere it isn’t wanted.

Smoothing out the front of your cocktail dress, you inhale deeply, attempting to soothe your nerves. Closing your eyes, you hone in on your heart, counting the beats until they don’t seem so loud in your head. When you open your eyes, you curve the corner of your lips upward, pasting on that customer service smile.

You just need to fake it for a few hours, and then you’ll be walking out of this place with a stack of cash in hand.

The thudding bass of the main room swells in volume when you open the door. You don’t even glance at the main stage to see if anyone is performing. Instead, you keep your gaze sweeping over the tables. Most of them are full, which is a good sign. Walking right by all of it, you aim for the bar, slipping behind it to snag a clean cocktail tray.

Chase, Bree, and Damon all man the bar, working with and around each other in a fluid dance that’s as natural as breathing. Chase notices you grabbing a tray and waves while topping off a beer.

With tray secured, you head for the VIP door. It’s not clearly marked, and that’s on purpose. It blends in with the dark, giving guests an extra layer of privacy. Greg, one of several security personnel working tonight, opens the door with a nod. When it shuts behind you, the thudding bass becomes a low hum.

Just like the VIP rooms, the main hallway that connects them all is also soundproofed. The lights overhead are evenly spaced, but are low, creating long shadows all the way to another door with a glowing red “EXIT” sign above it.

Dimitri always books the room down at the very end on the left, like he wants to by close to the emergency exit in case he needs to use it.

Approaching the correct door, you punch in the code to unlock it. Each door has its own code, and the code is reset with each new guest. The owners thought of everything, but it’s not surprising given some of the fuckery you’ve seen go down in these spaces.

You hear the whirl of the lock disengaging, and then you enter into a small server station. It’s a tiny space, extending out along the wall with a storage room at the end. It’s blocked off by a curtain that separates the two spaces. As of now, Dimitri has no idea you’ve entered the room.

You set the tray down and mentally prepare yourself. Deep down, you know Dimitri is a dangerous man, and you always tiptoe around him because of it. You never do anything that might upset him, and you always take careful measure of his demeanor.

The moaning greets your ears even before you push back the curtain.

The VIP room starts as flat flooring. As you walk across its shiny surface, it rises, requiring you to step up onto a large platform. There are three sofas in total, all angled around a flat table that comes up to your knees. Sitting on the sofas are Dimitri and his four guests. Of the four, you only recognize three. They’re the trio who always tag along.

Abram. Nikola. Lev.

You never asked them their names. You never cared on wanting to know. Dimitri is the paying customer. They simply cruise by, consuming the women and booze Dimitri supplies.

The fourth is a new face, and you immediately pick up on his nervousness. He’s older, perhaps in his late fifties, with a balding head, and slight belly. He’s not wearing a nice black suit like Dimitri and his crew. This man looks like a professor or even a stereotypical watchmaker.

He is completely out of place.

There are three women in the room as well. Olivia dances against a pole behind the sofas on a raised platform, Addie is on her knees between Lev’s spread legs, and Megan is perched in Dimitri’s lap. You deliberately keep your gaze on Dimitri’s face instead of Megan’s bouncing body.

Club music pumps from the speakers but it’s not overly loud. The lighting on the stage is red, and you never get used to it. Dimitri likes it like this. It reminds you of dark, congealing blood.

Dimitri’s gaze immediately draws to you the moment you walk up to the stage. He never breaks away once. His arms splay out over the back of the couch even as Megan writhes on him. He doesn’t touch her. Doesn’t even glance her way.

You have his full attention, and it’s awful. Degrading, like he wants you to watch Megan fuck him.

“Dimitri,” you say in greeting, keeping your tone cool and neutral.

“Sparrow,” he replies cooly, the corner of his mouth twitching as it turns upward.

Sparrow. The pet name Dimitri always uses with you is affectionate and yet sounds like a threat when it rolls off his tongue.

“Do I need to ask?”

“You know what I like,” he says slowly. It’s nearly a croon, like he’s attempting to seduce you.

Indeed, you do know what he likes. Dimitri is specific, and he always orders the exact same thing. He never waivers.

“We don’t need to do this dance every time, Dimitri.”

You’re playing into your role, but the words taste sour in your mouth. It makes you appear flirtatious and interested when you’re the exact opposite.

“But I enjoy our dance, Sparrow. Don’t you?”

No, Dimitri. I fucking hate it.

Your face hurts from smiling. “I’ll be back soon.”

Dimitri’s gaze is smoldering. “I look forward to your return.”

The entire walk to the curtain is like slowly melting ice. You feel Dimitri’s gaze latched on your back. It’s a wet horror of a sensation, like the slimy texture of a slug sliding up your spine.

When you stand on the other side of the curtain, you have to take a moment, inhaling sharply and exhaling slowly in repetitions until your heart ceases its insistent hammering. Dimitri always does this to you. It’s like he has completely control over you even when he doesn’t.

Calmness seeps in, and you step out into the quiet hall, heading for the main room. You’re not exactly peaceful, but you’re not shaking anymore which is better than nothing.

At the bar, you enter in the same order you do every Friday. It’s a waste of time for you to go to Dimitri and then back again. It’s a fucking power trip. He indulges himself, and you’re only option is to give in.

Once everything is in the system, you start pulling bottles. It’s a habit to prep these things in advance. It’s mostly to bring Dimitri what he wants quickly and then making yourself scare.

Behind the bar, Chase grabs several slightly chilled bottles of vodka. They’re top shelf and Russian-distilled, selections Dimitri made himself on the first night. He’s never strayed from it. There are also several bottles of champagne and tequila you pull, along with salt and lime for shots.

Chase deposits the vodka next to the champagne and says your name over the music. You glance up at him and immediately noticed his “I’m sorry I have to tell you this” smile.

“What it is?” you ask.

“Sara called out. Sick kid.”

“I’m guessing we need coverage?”

“Booth section in the back.”

You glance over and frown. They’re all full. Some already have drinks in front of them while others have nothing at all.

“VIP comes first,” you shrug, hating that you have to say it at all.

Chase waves away your words as if it doesn’t bother him. “No rush.” He winks. “I’ll keep an eye on the tables.”

The last items you collect are Dimitri’s cigarettes. Thirst provides a plethora of services, and one of those is freshly rolled cigarettes served tableside. There are cigars as well, but those are not done in house. In the back room where the wine is stored, you carefully weigh out and divide the tobacco and flavor additives, collect the correct sized rolling papers and two crystal ashtrays.

Once you have everything, Chase steps out from behind the bar and follows you back to Dimitri’s private room, carrying the things you can’t. Usually, you only bring yourself because it’s what Dimitri prefers, but if you have to cover for Sara, this entire affair needs to be done quickly so you can go to the floor.

Under the blood lights, you notice the way Chase awkwardly stares at the wall to avoid the pumping movement of Megan’s hand. She is no longer in Dimitri’s lap but next to him. While this is nothing new for you, it is Dimitri’s harsh gaze that gives you pause.

Chase seems oblivious to Dimitri’s fury. Those dark, cold eyes are like spikes on knuckles, meant to shred skin. Dimitri is a walking threat, and you need to get Chase out of here fast.

Clearing your throat to snag Dimitri’s attention, you roll his cigarettes quickly, presenting them to him with a soft sway of your hips. It’s a diversion, and Dimitri appears to seize it, placing a cigarette between his lips.

You strike a match and light it for him. When he inhales, Megan takes the liberty to remove it as he releases the smoke. The exhale is slow, but it’s clear that her action upsets him by the soft curl of his lip and the way his hand forms a fist.

“Thank you.”

“Do you need anything else from me before I return?” you ask, keeping your professional demeanor intact.

Dimitri inhales and then exhales a rolling cloud of smoke. “I always need you, Sparrow. But I can wait until you come back to me again.”

The fact that you keep it together at all is a miracle. Dimitri’s behavior tonight is…odd. And even Chase notices because the moment you’re out of the room, he comments on it.

“That guy is fucking weird. How do you do it?”

“I think about the money,” you reply flatly, because it’s the truth. The money is the only reason you put up with Dimitri’s bullshit.

As the two of you enter the main you, you take stock of Sara’s section along the wall. Booth seating is one step down from VIP. They are relatively private and can be closed up if the people in them so wish it, but they’re also incredibly comfortable and have the best views of the stage. People always think that front row is the best row, but it’s not. Not at Thirst.

You begin at the far end, checking in with each table, making sure that all the items they currently have are in the system while also taking additional orders. Just like VIP, booth seating requires a flat fee for the space, and then a minimum monetary order to keep the booth for the evening.

Everything is fine. Everything is great. Everything is usual.

Until it’s not.

The final table closest to the VIP door brings you to a dead halt.

It’s three men. No. Scratch that. Four? They all have drinks in front of them but there is a fourth drink—whiskey—with no companion. This trio are also severely underdressed. They’re not dirty or unkempt, but lean toward the casual side like they’re at their local dive bar.

The drinks in front of them aren’t nearly enough to cover the minimum. They will need to order more or you’ll have to ask them to leave. It’s one of your least favorite things to do.

“Evening, gentlemen.”

To your left, the one with a short mohawk grins. It’s disarming how handsome his smile is. He looks like trouble. “Evening,” he replies, the Scottish accent startling you for a brief second.

Next to him is a man with dark eyes and hair. He smiles too but it’s much softer. Cozy is the word you’d use to describe him, like he’d be the boyfriend who does things for you because he wants to and not because he has to.

The other man, the one to your right, is an older gentleman. He isn’t nearly old enough to be your father. He may have ten to twelve years on you at the max. Of the trio, he is the most relaxed, with one arm draped over the back of the booth cushion while he nurses a beer.

He’s wearing a black windbreaker and beanie. His facial hair is neatly trimmed, starting at the sides of his face only to stop near his lips, coming up over his top lip to form a mustache. There is a small spot beneath his bottom lip that isn’t touched. It’s…a statement, but you like it. It’s unique and suits him.

The other two are dressed similar to him but neither of them wears beanies. Their casualness throws you off, makes you question their intentions. The people who frequent Thirst do not show up in windbreakers, jeans, and boots.

The older gentleman turns to look up at you, and your heart momentarily flutters. His eyes are a lovely shade of blue that draw you in to their depths. You feel yourself falling, moving toward them, only realizing what you’re doing when he speaks.

“Evening,” he answers, and the roughness of his voice is like sugar on the tongue.

You want to fall into him, to hear him speak soft nothings into your ear. But that momentary desire is quickly squashed.

Instead, you keep a professional tone, presenting one of the menus. “Booth seating requires a minimum purchase amount. You have not met the requirement.” Using just the hand you hold the menu with, you open it up, revealing the lists within.

Those blue eyes slowly draw away from your face, glance down at the words on the paper, and then promptly return to you. “Can you make an exception?”

Fuck. His voice is lovely.

“I’m very sorry, but I cannot.” You shift on your feet, turning your body toward him without thinking about it. “But I am more than happy to help you make a few selections to get you there.”

The corners of his mouth pull back as he glances at his companions. “On me.”

“Would you like me to go over your options?”

“I didn’t catch your name,” he replies.

You give it, and apologize for not stating it earlier. That’s something you always do when you greet new guests. That’s common sense, but apparently all that went right out the door when you came to their table.

He says your name, and you immediately form a core memory. The sound of it rolling off his tongue is luscious. Sinful. There is no reason for him to say your name like that. And why do you like it so much?

“Along with our extensive selection of alcohol, we offer food, freshly rolled cigarettes, as well as the finest cigars.”

Mohawk whistles lowly. “Simon is gonna hate missing those smokes.” He nods and then looks up at you. “Get me a scotch.”

“Preference?” you ask.

“Nah. You pick it for me. Meet that minimum.” He winks. “Isn’t that right, John?”

John grins. “Careful, Soap.” He turns that smile on you and you feel your cheeks heat. “I’ll have the same. And a cigar. Pick for me.”

Soap snorts and then leans in to whisper something to the man next him. John’s gaze is still fixed on you as you start to walk away from the booth, but you notice a small flicker, a quick snap to the VIP door before looking back at you.

Odd.

You return with the two glasses of scotch and the cigar on a silver tray. You trim and prep the cigar in front of John, and then present it to him. “Would you like me to light it?”

“Is it extra?” he asks.

“I can certainly make it so.”

Along with other things.

“Do it,” he says, taking the cigar from the tray and placing the end between his lips.

Lifting the matches, you remove one and strike it sharply, the little flame igniting in the dark of the club. You hold it out and John leans in. The movement is like two lovers meeting in wanton anticipation.

He puffs on the end until the cigar glows red and smoke seeps out from around it. John leans back, and removes the cigar from his mouth, the smoke curling upward slowly.

“Thanks, love,”

“My pleasure,” you reply, and it takes all your control to make it sound like that one word—love—didn’t just turn you on.

His gaze flick upward and lock with yours. They’re heated, almost interested, but you must be mistaken. You’re the one acting like an idiot. This is all in your head.

You gently dismiss yourself and move away, preparing to go back to Dimitri’s VIP room. On the way back, your heart is thudding and your palms are sweaty.

What the actual fuck is wrong with you? This behavior is absurd. You’re like a goddamn teenager swooning over their crush. This is unlike you, and you want the feeling gone.

As you enter Dimitri’s private room, you head for the table, removing the empty bottles and glassware, taking them back to the small service area. When you return to empty the ashtrays, Dimitri’s demeaner is entirely different.

This man has always been terrifying but this is horrific. It is not a lurking darkness but a present threat. Dimitri’s gaze is fixated on the man who appeared so nervous earlier. All of the women look fearful and on edge, their bodies rigid with tension. Even Olvia who dances on the stage isn’t really working anymore. She stands behind the pole as if that thin metal will protect her.

You’re immediately alert. Vigilant.

“Say that again,” snarls Dimitri. The man mutters something and Dimitri’s lips curl back to show his teeth. “Louder!”

The man looks down at his feet, shaking. Dimitri sneers and then leans back against the couch, shaking his head. “Can’t even admit when he’s a snitch. How am I supposed to trust you then?”

“I didn’t. I promise. I—”

“Shut up!” screams Dimitri. He smashes a half-empty vodka bottle against the table. The glass shatters, and little shards of crystal go flying, chilled vodka splattering everywhere. Megan and Addie shriek, shooting out of their seats and congregating near you. On stage, Olivia looks stricken.

Her eyes are wide, and she cowers behind the pole. You try to coax her with your gaze, silently imploring her to come to you.

“You’re a liar, Legasov. A fucking liar!” Dimitri wields the broken bottle top like a weapon, slashing at the man’s face.

It strikes true, and even under the red lighting, you notice the arc of blood. That is when Olivia moves, nearly tripping off the stage as she runs to you, Addie, and Megan.

“Go,” you whisper at them, pushing at their arms toward the door. “Go.”

They start to move, and you with them.

“Stay here, Sparrow!”

Dimitri’s shout is a blow. You are facedown in the dirt and dragged back over gravel. Slowly, you turn on your heel, facing this demon.

He places his hand on the sofa next to him. “Sit.”

You shake your head.

“I wasn’t asking,” he says, and his voice is almost light, airy. Like he isn’t mad at all. And that is fucking terrifying.

On shaky legs, you go to him, sinking down on the sofa. Dimitri leans in with a gentle smile that is so at odds with his body language. The backs of his knuckles hover just shy of your cheek. “I have a question for you, Sparrow. I’m seeking some advice.”

“What sort of advice,” you murmur, swallowing. The salvia sticks in your throat.

“How should disloyalty be rewarded?” Dimitri points at the cowering man. His hands cradle his face, and blood pools between his fingers, dripping.

When you don’t answer, Dimitri’s head tips to the side, his lips pursed in thought. “What’s the saying you Americans love to use?” Dimitri’s wrist snaps back and forth like he’s knocking on a door. The broken vodka bottle moves with it. “About getting stitches.”

“Snitches get stitches?”

Dimitri laughs. “That’s the one! It sounds so cute when you say it, Sparrow.” His hand hovers just shy of your skin and you don’t dare move. You don’t want him to touch you or even to close the distance.

“But they don’t always get stitches, do they?”

That’s when you notice the gun on the table.

“Go, my Sparrow” murmurs Dimitri. “Don’t come back to this room unless someone fetches you.”

You bolt up so fast you almost knock your knees against the table. You don’t even glance at the cowering man as Lev reaches over and grabs the man by the throat. You don’t glance back even as he starts begging for his life.

As you stride up to the door, the fear starts to give. It starts to melt like ice in the sun. Deep down, you understand that Dimitri has made you an accomplice in this. You step back, let the door slam loudly, and then you turn on your heel, moving to the edge of the curtain, watching through the small break between the curtain and the wall.

The man in question is on his knees before Dimitri. Dimitri presses the barrel of the gun to the man’s head.

“Stitches aren’t nearly enough.”

But there is no loud shot. No slumping of the man’s body as the bullet exits the chamber.

Behind the man, Nikola steps from the shadows, holding a baseball bat. He swings it round and round in slow sweeps until he doesn’t.

Until he brings it up over his head only to bring it down in a powerful blow.

You hear the crunch.

See the head of the bat return to it’s peak. See it come right back down again.

You bear witness. Watching Dimitri and the others observe Nikola’s brutal beating.

You taste blood in your mouth, and you realize you’ve bitten the inside of your cheek.

When Nikola stops swinging the bat, that is when Dimitri steps forward, and uses the toe of his boot to kick the dead man’s shoulder.

“Clean up this mess.”

He steps off the raised platform and you bolt for a dark corner, sliding down until you make yourself small. You hear his heavy footsteps before you see him. Dimitri throws back the curtain and strides out the door without a backward glance.

The three men beyond the curtain talk in another language, but their voices are distant. Slowly, you unfurl, checking to see where they are in the room. They’re still on stage, surrounding the bloody mess on the floor.

Fingers shaking, you silently slip through the door, nearly sprinting to the main room.

When you emerge, you aim for the employee door, needing to isolate until you can calm yourself. Glancing up, John is looking right at you, face grim. Your gazes lock, and his eyes widen slightly as if he’s recognizing the terror on your face.

You promptly look away, bursting through the door, collapsing onto one of the stools. Your breathing becomes a beast, all hulking gasps and harsh tears. Everything comes roaring forward like a monsoon, and you are bending like the trees to its emotional battering.

The door opens and you whirl around, tears stinging your cheeks.

“Get out!” you bark through the tears, not really seeing who is standing in the open doorway. You blink rapidly, some of the tears giving, clearing your vision.

It’s John and a man in a fucking skull mask.

“Watch the door, Simon,” says John over his shoulder.

The masked man only nods, slipping out like a shadow, closing the door behind him. You’re instantly on alert. A frozen deer sensing danger.

“Are you with them?” you mange to say through a hiccup. You’ve shifted on the stool, poised to run out to the back parking lot if you need to.

John takes a step forward. “With who, love?”

You want to like it when he calls you love. Really, you do. But right now, all you can think of is Dimitri calling you sparrow.

“Get out. Get. Out.” He doesn’t budge. “This is an employee area and you—”

“—You’re shaking.” He strides forward with purposeful intent, his gaze focused on your hands. Instinct kicks in, and you draw back. John immediately stops and puts his hands up. “I won’t touch you. Promise.”

“What do you want?”

John places one hand on his chest, keeping the other up. “My name is Captain John Price. I work for the Special Air Service of the British Army. I’m here wanting—”

You shake your head. “Oh, fuck,” you mutter, rising from the stool, backing away from him. “Fuck—just…leave me alone. Whatever it is, I’m not involved.”

He’s on American soil, which likely means he and the people sitting at that booth are together. Is the federal government involved? They have to be. Why else would he be here.

John matches your steps. “I simply want information. That’s all. I’m not after you.”

“Respectfully, go away.” Whatever heated thoughts you had about John Price are quickly flushed from your head. Survival is the most important thing. Him being in this room with you puts a target on your back.

“Just talking. That’s it. Talk to me and I’ll go.”

“About what?”

“About the man in your VIP room.”

“Which one,” you snap. “There are several.”

“Dimitri Radovic.”

Of course, it is. You know it is. Why would it be anyone else?

“I don’t know what kind of information I can offer you,” you reply, extending your arms. “Dimitri and I don’t talk, and you need to leave.”

John’s eyebrows rise toward his hairline. “But you’re on a first name basis?”

“Fuck you,” you snap, anger replacing everything you’re feeling.

“Not until I get what I came for.” Is he flirting you with? Or is he simply trying to rile you up? John’s tone softens. “Did he do something to you? Is that why you look so frightened?”

You look at the ground, unable to form the words as a lump forms in your throat. “Get out,” you whisper.

“I’m not your enemy.”

When you glance up, John is right there. He is so close and yet you don’t feel threatened. “But you can’t help me. And I don’t want it.”

John reaches into his jacket and presents a small piece of paper. It’s not a business card. You unfold it, revealing a phone number.

“If you realize you need my help, call me.” He retracts his hand and your gaze locks with his. Those blue eyes drill into your soul, swallow you up until all you can think about is him. “Paid out by the way. Left you a generous tip. Have a good night, love.”

John walks backward, knocking on the door once he reaches it. The skull-masked man appears, and John exits through the opening.

With his leaving comes a wave. The force of it slams into you. You sink to the floor, cradling your face in your hands, the tears welling quickly. At some point, you manage to scrape yourself off the linoleum, dragging yourself to a mirror to fix your disheveled appearance.

The rest of the night is a dull drone of noise. You hardly hear anything or anyone, moving through the motions just to stay sane.

By the end of the night, you’re ready to collapse.

“Walk you to your car?” asks Chase, tossing a rag into the linen bin.

“Please,” you sigh, wanting the familiar. Chase is someone you’ve known for a while. You trust him.

“Everything okay? You seem off?” he asks.

You open your mouth, a vague reply forming on your lips, but when the two of you exit through the side door into employee parking, you come to a halt.

Chase nudges your arm with his elbow, noticing your abrupt shift. “What is it?”

“The van,” you answer. It’s black with tinted windows. There are no markings and no signs of a license plate.

Chase squints and shrugs. “What of it?”

It’s parked right next to your car. Chase starts walking in that direction, and while your feet don’t want to move, you force them anyway. You purposefully stay to Chase’s left, keeping him between you and the black van.

When you reach your car, Chase leans against the trunk as you fumble with your keys. “You know,” he says. “If you ever want to grab a drink—”

You glance up at him and your mouth falls open. “—Chase!”

The metal pipe comes down fast and Chase doesn’t see it coming. He drops like a stone and his assailant is on you, placing a sack over your head. You lash out but this person is so much stronger. When you hit something on their body, you hear a grunt before they strike you. You whimper, staggering slightly, as their large hand grips your upper arm.

They shove and pull. There is no light. There is only hard metal as you’re half-pushed half-thrown into the back of the van.

This is not John Price’s doing. This is someone else.

With the world dark around you, and the sound of the van roaring to life, all you can think about is John’s offer. If you had said yes to him, if you had talked to him, would you be in this van right now?

Or, would you be safe?

Chapter Two

taglist:

@glassgulls @km-ffluv @glitterypirateduck @tiredmetalenthusiast @spicyspicyliving @childofyuggoth @coffeecaketornado @aykxz98 @36namey @kayden666 @wrathofcats

366 notes · View notes