Patreon LogoYour support makes Blue Moon possible (Patreon)

Perfect Stranger (SevenxBathos)

Nick gave him a sideways look; for a moment, it almost sounded like Mikey was trying to assure himself that things were going to be just fine that evening - besides, Nick was already confident of that because the steel on his ankle was rapidly warming to his skin, a solid reminder just within his grasp.

Not, of course, that he would need it. When push came to shove, he preferred to use his hands anyways.

Just, sometimes knives were fun.

Nick put his eyes back on the road and suddenly he recognized where they were heading, which was cause for him to shift his eyes directly back to his friend and give him an accusing look,

"Now I just know, with how things have gone this past week," Nick said, "That you can't possibly be heading in the direction of Soft Tails."
 
"That's exactly where we're headed," Michael said, and this was the easy part. This was the part where Nick pointed out how Michael was being an idiot and Michael nodded and didn't even bother trying to look like he was listening.

Of course, that was generally Michael's default expression, come to think of it. Nick was just an exception. When Nick was around, Michael didn't feel particularly persuasive or charismatic. Also, he mumbled a lot and got sensitive about stupid stuff, like shoes of all things.

Not tonight.

"Boys night, Nick," Michael said firmly. "One night. One night of good old fashioned bachelorhood before you dive back into the pit of Chanel No. 5 and chiffon."

If there was a bitter note in Michael's voice, it was only for Nick's sake. Nick needed to cut loose more, that was all.

"It's too late to back out, anyway," he went on and pulled the truck into the concrete parking lot. It was illuminated by a single light pole, around which insects gathered and buzzed.

Most nights, a person could find Michael at Soft Tails. He wasn't one of those guys whose only female companionship bounced like a puppy at the sight of folding money. He worked there, taking covers at the door and checking I.D.s. It wasn't exactly fulfilling work, but it was one of the few jobs around he could find that didn't conflict with his resolute lack of ambition.

The neon sign out front featured the silhouette of a woman, suggestively switching from hands-and-knees to prone again and again. Naturally, there were no windows.

Michael cut the engine and looked over at Nick. "So? You gonna man up or what?"
 
Nick groaned aloud at Michael's confirmation, eyes falling shut; he barely resisted the urge to drop his face into his hands and instead put his head back, tilting his chin towards the roof of the truck as though he was silently saying his prayers,

"Boy's night." Nick repeated wearily, because it just figured that after the week they'd had, Michael would decide that a place filled with booze and half-naked women would be just the solution; he cracked one eye open to fix it on Michael again, "And I'll have you know Bianca boycotted Chanel because they tested on animals. She wore Meadowsweet."

He drew in a breath as they came to a stop outside of Soft Tails, a place that Nick had seen the outside of many times before while stopping to visit Michael, but had neglected to set foot in; Nick wasn't a fan of strip clubs. Or casinos, for that matter. There was just something about the neon lights and the overwhelming scent of alcohol and sex that did terrible things to his brain - not to mention the testosterone that tended to permeate places like Soft Tails.

Begrudgingly, Nick got out of the car and walked to the entryway of the club like a man in the gallows; it was unlikely that the joint had ever seen a single man so utterly unenthused about going inside.

"Fine. Alright." Nick said, nudging a stone away with the toe of his shoe, "But I'm just having a drink, possibly two, and then I'm leaving. I'm not getting wasted. And I'm sitting at the bar, far from the stage."
 
"Yeah," Michael muttered under his breath. "That girl's a real inspiration."

And then he immediately felt guilty for it. But only a little. She was still the bitch who two-timed and dumped his best friend, but after their encounter in Chance's office, it was hard to ignore the fact that she was kind of all right. Sometimes.

Okay, once. Still.

"Please," Michael said, this time clear out loud. "Any self respecting appreciator of exotic dance knows the number one rule of the venue is that you let the girls come to you."

He offered a nod to the door guy, who tipped his chin up in response, and pulled the door open. He waved Nicholas ahead of him with a theatrical bow.

"Oh, by the way, I ran into her today," Michael said over the music as they cut a straight line to the bar. The place was dimly lit, just as it ought to be. There was only one stage, but three separate, brightly lit catwalks with poles extending from the center and into the ceiling. There were only two girls on stage at that moment, a sexy teacher and a saucy cowgirl. More girls were scattered amongst the patrons, working the small crowd.

The bar extended along the front wall of the establishment, but was long enough to boast two full setups. Michael planted himself in front of the female bartender and offered her a broad, dimpled smile.

"Gloria," Michael said, because he know how women liked to hear their own names repeated back to them. "Cap'n and Coke for me, and whatever this guy here wants." He pointed to Nick. "Take good care of 'im, all right?"

Gloria was older than most of the dancers. She may have been beautiful once but now she was just an older woman who wasn't so hard on the eyes. She had laugh lines and dark hair and a wide, smirking mouth. She directed that smirk at Nick.

"What'll it be, friend of Michael?"
 
"Right, I keep forgetting that these places have rules of etiquette," Nick said dryly, heading into the club as he was waved in; the smell of cheap liquor was the first thing to hit him, followed up by the scent of something terribly human - it was sweat, and possibly other bodily fluids. Nick shoved his hands into his pockets and didn't even take a moment to look around, didn't even eye the young, shapely things that were writhing on the stage, scantily clad.

Though, when Michael spoke again, Nick's head snapped to the side so fast that his neck actually cracked,

"Ran into her?" Nick repeated, eyebrows climbing, "What, Bianca?"

For a moment, Nick looked unsettled, honey-hued eyes darting from Michael, to the floor, then back up again,

"Did she say anything?" he asked, slipping into a seat at the bar; he stared at the line of liquor bottles on the back wall, and then shook his head, "Not that she would. No. She probably didn't. Nevermind. I don't need to know."

He forced his attention back to the present and fixed his eyes onto the brunette in front of him; she was pretty in the way that old paintings were pretty - some bits had begun to fade or show lines in spots where there had been vibrancy, but the original charm remained.

"A vodka martini, please, Gloria." Nick said, without hesitation.

-

Burke stared into the dark streets; he wasn't sure how many hours had passed, but he wasn't going to question his luck, or even ask why he had been let go - he just knew that the sticky heat of the LA night was a relief in comparison to the freezer he had been in and that he needed a fucking drink.

-

Crowman frowned at a stop light; he had seen where Mr. Jones had gone. It wasn't that he disapproved of the location - as far as Crowman was concerned, every skin club was the same and there was nothing particularly interesting about any of them - but it just seemed like such standard fare.

He mentally chastised himself; he wasn't sure what he was expecting anyways.

The light turned green and he crept out of the intersection - which was empty anyways, especially in that area - but had to suddenly hit the brakes when a ragged figure darted out in front of the car and past it. Crowman blinked owlishly after it, rolling down his window to stare at the man who was hobbling away into the darkness, and the only feature the Commissioner managed to make out was red hair.
 
Michael struggled against the urge to open his mouth, to say, 'Yeah, actually, she confirmed that you've been celibate for, like, ever and this leaves me questioning the status of your V-card.'

In the end, he won. He didn't say that, didn't say another word about it because Nick said he didn't need to know and Michael wasn't about laying on more hurt than necessary. But it was also part of the Code that he mentioned he saw Bianca in the first place; it gave Nick an easy excuse to 'talk about it', totally casual.

Clearly, Nick didn't feel like sharing. Michael was happy to proceed accordingly.

"Amber workin' tonight?"

Gloria nodded.

"You let her know we'd appreciate her company, would ya?"

Gloria smirked and motioned one of the other girls over to pass along the message. Michael smiled like he'd just done some excessively bad-ass thing and was feeling a little bit like Batman.

"You're gettin' a dance," Michael said, and he spun on his stool so he could face the rest of the people. He propped one arm up wide on the bar like it was the back of his own sofa, and the other sloshed his drink around in his glass. His eyes were trained on Amber.

She was just stepping out onto the floor and she was dressed in tiny black shorts and a shimmery white top that left almost nothing to the imagination. Michael felt the urge to get under it, anyway. Her hair, an out-of-the-box mixture of red and brown, was piled high on her head with a few curling locks falling down around her face.

"Solid nine," Michael said under his breath when she started in their direction atop dangerous black heels, nodding his head to Nick could follow his line of sight. "Whaddaya say?"
 
Nick peered down into his stemmed cocktail glass and watched the oil from the vermouth swirl around on a clear vodka surface; he fingered the lemon slice that floated around,

"Everyone is getting a dance," Nick said distractedly, finally looking up from the drink and over at Michael, "It's a strip club, Mikey."

There was a hesitation, and he followed Michael's line of vision to the stage just in time to catch sight of Amber, who was halfway down the catwalk and strutting in a way that shifted her hips enthusiastically side to side. Nick's eyes immediately flicked back to Michael; he lifted his martini and drained half of it in one go.

"Michael," Nick said, watching his friend stare at the redhead, then leaning an arm onto the bar top and moving forward just a little, lowering his voice, "Michael. She's very pretty but she had better not be heading over here."
 
Michael grinned. "She so is," he said, like it the most awesome thing to happen since Internet porn.

Then he turned away from Nick and wiped the smile off his face, because they were in the presence of a lady. More or less.

"Hey, dollface," he said when Amber came to a halt in front of them. She put one slender hand on her hip. The other rested limp at her side, and she cocked her stance so her curves were accentuated.

Michael could totally see her nipples through the gauzy top. If Nick didn't think this was awesome, he was an incurable square.

"Michael," Amber greeted. Her voice was low and husky, but Michael remembered fondly just how to get a high pitched squeal out of her.

In Nick's element, Michael was a mumbling, bumbling clod. He never knew just what to say to people who talked straight-faced about another human being's breeding, like they were cattle. Okay, so they weren't all like that, but Michael had never trusted himself to attempt to distinguish between the two. Nick was a fluke in that way.

And a lot of other ways, but he was steadfastly not thinking about that.

Bars, though--and real bars, not themed cocktail lounges all lit up in blue or purple or whatever was trendy for the minute--were Michael's element. Here he oozed charm and a confidence he seldom displayed while rubbing elbows with business tycoons and their socialite girlfriends and wives. Here, Michael was Michael.

He smiled and practically twinkled at Amber. "This is my friend." He almost tacked Nick's name onto the end of the introduction, but thought better of it at the last second. He slapped a hand down on Nick's shoulder. "And he needs you more than I do."

Blink and you'd miss the brief narrowing of Amber's eyes before she smoothly redirected her smile to Nick and canted her head to the side. "Yeah? I'll bet he does okay." She gave him a once over. She settled her hand on Nick's leg, brushed her fingertips across his knee. "You want a dance?"
 
If Nicholas had leaned back in his seat any further, he may well have gone through the bar itself; he felt Amber's hand settle on his knee and he shot a dark look in Michael's direction, a sharp contrast to his friend's self-satisfied smile. This, of course, was Michael's element - waist-deep in alcohol and the smell of human, he felt right at home. Nicholas Godwit did not.

Though if there was one thing that he was truly familiar with, it was women - and as brief as it was, he certainly didn't miss the tell-tale narrowing of Amber's eyes. No, there was no mistaking that look, he had seen it on Bianca's face far too many times before, usually when he had done something monumentally stupid without even being aware of it, though he had eventually become familiar enough that he knew when to leave the room, lest he get a ming vase aimed at his head.

Nick's eyes flicked from Michael, to Amber, and back again. He instantly knew that his best friend was regularly fucking a stripper, that it meant nothing to him, and that she had thought they Really Had Something.

"I think," Nick said hastily, sticking an index finger up into the air, the words spilling from him articulately, charmingly, "That I would be an inappropriate candidate for appreciating your particular services tonight, as lovely as you are. As it turns out, I've recently undergone a painful break up with my fiancee and Michael seems to believe this would be part of some sort of manly healing process."

Then several things happened all at once.

Nick's eyes shifted slowly across the room and a tall, spindly figure came into his line of vision - if the scarecrow-like build hadn't been obvious enough, the lamplight eyes gave away the Comissioner's position at the far end of the bar.

"However, the slight man over at the far end of the bar? I happen to know he could use getting close to a gorgeous woman." Nick added, and then shot Michael another hard look - however, his eyes didn't stay on his friend very long, because someone else walked in through the door. Briefly, Nick's eyes went unfocused as he stared, uncertain of what he was seeing - but no, his eyes weren't deceiving him.

Grant Burke had just walked in.

Fuck.
 
Michael frowned. In none of the (admittedly few) scenarios he'd run through in his mind did Nick actually refuse the dance. This was Amber, after all. She was hot. She was the kind of hot that didn't make sense in a shit-hole dive like Soft Tails. She could be making better, easier money at a classier joint, but she didn't. Michael had always chalked it up to daddy issues and left it alone because one of the happy side effects of her dysfunctional childhood was that Amber was willing to have sex with him. There was really no point in rocking the boat.

But Nick had turned her down. The V-card theory was looking more and more plausible. This thought had Michael squirming uncomfortably in his seat.

"Dude, what the Hell are you--"

He twisted his head around and stopped short. He caught sight of the 'slight man.' It was Commissioner Crowman. Amber looked over, too. Her expression was less shocked, but just as perturbed as Michael's.

Michael spoke up first. "What are the fucking chances? I saw him earlier today. He's the one who signed my truck back to me. Never really struck me as the skin joint type, though. Wound kinda tight if you ask me."

"So," Amber said, turning back to Michael. "You don't want a dance." She looked at Nick. "And you don't want a dance. But that guy does. Am I getting this right?"

Michael pursed his lips together. Honestly, it could be fun. "Yup," he said, after a moment's hesitation. In his long career as a bro, Michael had learned that sometimes you just rolled with the punches. "Go show him a good time. I'll cover the cost."

Amber stared for a long moment at Michael. He gazed back serenely, though there was a slight tremor in his lip. Amber didn't miss it, but she didn't comment, either. She shrugged, dragged her hand from Nick's knee, and sauntered off in the direction of Commissioner Crowman.

Michael waited until she was safely out of earshot and then turned to Nick. "Dude, what the fuck? Amber is a piece. Couldn't you have sent, say, the second hottest dancer over to the Commissioner?"

- - - - -

Amber was careful not to let it show in her precisely painted features, but she was fuming. When she'd heard Michael had asked for her, she figured it would be business as usual. They'd flirt over a drink or two until he got bored enough or bold enough to make a solid move and they'd relocate to her place. It was their thing. And who the fuck was this Nick guy?

And why did Michael roll over like a puppy when Nick sent her away? He'd obviously wanted her to stay. Men. She could play them like finely tuned instruments, but she'd still never quite understand them.

She approached the man at the end of the bar, hips swaying and shoulders squared back to accentuate her breasts. She didn't know why she was putting so much effort into it. The thin, wiry man didn't exactly look like the kind to play hard to get.

Maybe it had something to do with the fact that she knew Michael was watching.

"Hello, there," she said, and moved to put her arm around the thin man's waist. "I'm Amber. What's your name?"
 
"Do you miss her?"

Bianca looked up from the white gold braids of her bracelet and peered across the room; Dr Finch stared back at her through thick spectacles, a short stocky man who remained utterly unpreturbed by even her coldest look.

"I'm sorry? Do I miss who?" Bianca asked sharply, and Finch shimmied back in his chair and propped his chin up on his hand as though he was settling in for the long haul,

"You know who I'm referring to, Bianca. You avoid this subject every time."

Bianca uncrossed her pin-thin legs, shifted, crossed them again, and then finally stood, crossing her arms over her chest.

"No." she said finally, staring at the far wall, chin tilted upwards, "I don't. And I don't see why I should anyways."

"Because she was your mother."

"Yes. Well." Bianca said, "She made her choice; she had everything she could ever want and it still wasn't enough for her."

"You were sixteen when it happened, weren't you?"

"Something like that."

"You don't remember?" Finch asked, peering over his glasses, and Bianca finally looked at him, expression flaring to anger for an instant before it settled again.

"I remember." Bianca responded, "I remember every detail, Dr. Finch. I remember the way she looked, that her lips were blue. I remember father walking into the room and panicking. I even remember that we even used our own company to bury her. Fantastic advertising anyways."

Finch chewed on the cap of his pen,

"If your mother were here today, Bianca, what would you say to her?"

Bianca's mouth pulled into a thin line; after a painfully long silence, she pulled out a thin cigarette and lit it - Finch didn't protest the way he normally would, not this time. He watched her take a long draw on it and she coolly blew out a plume of smoke,

"I'd tell her to go hang herself again."

---

Csardas stood with his hands on his broad waist, thick eyebrows furrowed down to the bridge of his nose as he stared at the empty, over-turned chair, the shattered glass, and the freezing puddles of beer. For a long time, he simply watched the spot as though the missing occupant would suddenly reappear.

He ran his hand through his thinning grey hair,

"Not good." he said finally.

Hrodulf hobbled up beside him, thin and hunched and still taking shaky draws on his weird little brown cigarillo,

"Hwhot?" Hrodulf said.

"We are missing a guest." Csardas said, gesturing to the chair; Hrodulf squinted his watery eyes at the chair, then looked back at Csardas,

"I let heem up." Hrodulf said, and then turned to walk away, tossing a hand in the air dismissively as he shuffle-stepped out the door, "He look cold. Stupid boy sitting in freezer."

Csardas dropped his face into his hands.

---

Stupid bitches never knew when to shut the fuck up.

It was nice to hear it at first, but he got fucking sick of their begging after a little while, and sometimes he cut them just a little deeper because they needed to learn - but they never fucking learned. Sometimes he took his time just so they would have a better lesson.

All the bits and pieces of this blonde looked exactly like the bits and pieces of the rest of them. Bitches were all the same, spending all that money to look plastic and perfect, taking all that time for full lips and a perfectly upturned nose and the fake nails that he liked to peel off of them just so he could get to the real ones underneath with pliers.

He'd gotten impatient with this one. He'd just taken off her fingertips instead.

"Why are you doing this! Stop! Oh god, please stop!"

The camera light blinked at them.

"Smile for the fucking camera, whore." he said, and prised her legs open.

---

The inside of Soft Tails reminded Crowman of the brothels he had gone through during his earlier years as a cop, taking down pimps. Of course, the dynamics were different, but the smell was identical - it was the scent of humans, large numbers of them all sweating and rutting.

It made Crowman want to douse himself in bleach.

He ignored the feeling and slipped into a table at the far left, a spindly, wild-haired creature with legs that were far too long for the low-set tables, forcing him to sit side-saddle on the seat; from across the room, he could easily see Michael Jones.

Another glance and he recognized the man with him as the one who had bailed him out the night he had been arrested - in fact, now that he thought about it, the man beside Michael was also the one whose picture had been on the inside of the passport.

Crowman searched the file folders of his mind until the correct one opened:

Anatoliy. Viktor Anatoliy. Distinctly Russian, which the passport itself had openly stated. Dual citizenship? It would explain his presence in the United States when his passport showed him as a Russian citizen.

The Commissioner pulled himself out of his reverie just in time to see a particularly robust stripper swaying in his direction; behind her, still seated at the bar, Mr. Jones was watching. Without realizing it, Crowman had risen to his feet, but then a slim, soft arm went around his waist and the human contact caused his lamplight eyes to suddenly snap over in her direction.

He stared at her owlishly, the rest of his features frozen in perpetual stoicism,

"Crowman." he replied, the standard and automatic response that he applied to every day of his life; his eyes went back to the bar, enormous and glistening green things that blazed a trail directly into Michael's forehead, telepathically informing him he was going to regret this.

---

On some level, Nick was aware of Michael's none-too-subtle ribbing but he was unresponsive as his eyes were focused on Burke, watching the redhead stagger around the room.

Knowing creatures like Grant Burke, Soft Tails was probably a regular spot for him. The inside of the place was dark and filled with alcohol and women, so it was probably comfortable for the drug dealer, it felt safe - so it was only natural that Burke had come in there while injured, cold, and shaken, seeking sanctuary.

But he also knew Burke would step outside soon for a nerve-soothing joint. Sooner or later, he would leave his safety behind.

Something nasty and familiar unfurled itself at the base of Nick's spine and he had to straighten his back and briefly shrug his shoulders in his suit jacket to shake the feeling.

"I think I did her a favour by sending her away." Nick remarked absently, his voice distant as he rose to his feet, tossing back the rest of his drink - Burke was heading for the side door, digging in his pockets for a lighter, staring down as he walked.

Nick began to slink away from the bar, head cocked slightly to the side, his footsteps crossing eachother, silent and swift steps while the cop was distracted. Crowman was too focused on Michael anyways, too fixated to notice that his instincts were pointing him in the wrong direction.

But there was no sense worrying over the spindly arm of the law, not while there were other things that needed to be taken care of.

Burke nudged the door open with a foot and stepped halfway out, then he froze. Nick did the same, standing in place watching the back of Nick's head, honey-coloured eyes boring a hole into ginger hair, daring him to turn around.

Slowly, lighter still in hand and with one foot out the door, Burke peered back over his shoulder.

A wide, blazing white smile looked back at him; a pair of gorgeous, hideous eyes flashed in the lowlights.

Burke didn't think; he broke into the sort of run that was fuelled entirely by instinct and adrenaline, a frightened rabbit that was just supplied the terrifying image of itself in jaws that would never let go.

Nick slipped out the door; he counted to three.

He broke into a sprint.
 
"Well, Crowman," Amber purred, and slowly moved her free hand to circle the man's wrist lightly. It was thin, almost as thin as her own, and connected to a long-fingered hand. She wondered idly if he was a musician. "Your friend over there has asked me to show you a good time."

She could tell by the look on Crowman's face that he wasn't happy about this news. He was staring hard down the bar and she glanced over her shoulder at Michael and Nick. Nick wasn't paying any attention, but Michael held up his drink in a long distance toast. He was grinning like an idiot, and goddammit if Amber didn't find it absolutely adorable.

She looked back at Crowman. "Don't worry, honey. It's no charge to you." She tugged his wrist, drawing him away from the bar and toward a more comfortable setting. She could dance for him in public, if he liked that. There was plenty of low, soft seating in the shadows lining the walls of the main hall. There were also rooms that rented by the hour in the back. Some girls used them for darker purposes, but Amber wasn't actually a whore, despite appearances.

"You wanna do this here or would you like a little privacy?"

- - - - -

The look Crowman gave Michael was classic. It wasn't that Michael hated the man; Crowman gave him back his truck, after all. But he had a ten-mile-wide ornery streak that could not be denied and Michael was just eating this up.

"Okay," he admitted to Nick with a self-satisfied smile. "That was actually pretty aweso--"

Nick was no longer at his side.

"What the ..." Michael scanned the bar, eyes going first in the direction of the restrooms. No Nick there. He looked harder. A tall, well-dressed businessman in a dive bar couldn't be that hard to spot, not even in the dim lighting.

He caught sight of Nick slipping out the side exit.

"Son of a bitch," Michael snapped under his breath. He hurried to his feet and fished out his wallet, tossed a wrinkled twenty on the bar and headed after his friend. He pushed through the crowd and to the door, and was speaking before he was even fully through it.

"Okay, dude, we seriously need to have a talk. You ever heard of the birds and the--Nick?"

Michael looked left down the alley. Once again, no Nick. He looked right and just caught sight of a flash of jacket, disappearing around the corner.

"Nick! Wait up!" Michael broke into a run.
 
Crowman's expression was admirably stoic even as Amber moved around him like the practised temptress she was; there was a small hand on his wrist, tugging gently but insistently as she purred and cooed. She was beautiful, of course, but Crowman's eyes scarcely focused on her as he tried to keep his subject in his visual field.

Studying Jones' files hadn't yielded much of interest; a parking ticket or two, a few fist fights, and his more recent trouble with Kennedy Chance. Ultimately, it wasn't anything that Crowman hadn't seen many times before - all the signs of a fairly normal man, only with the addendum of occasionally getting rowdy or stupid.

So why had Chance bended in Michael Jones' favour? Blackmail?

Amidst the small handful of legal troubles, Jones' file provided information - his current employer was the very building he was standing in. Soft Tails, where he worked as a bouncer; it occurred to Crowman that he was speaking with a possible informant.

And sometimes it was a matter of just wording things correctly.

"How do you feel about Michael Jones?" Crowman asked simply, finally moving those lamplight eyes to focus on the shapely dancer in front of him.

---

There was blood everywhere - it was up the walls, it was across the floor, some of it had even got onto the camera lens, but that was alright. His viewers would like that sort of thing. They paid good money for it, got off on it because they were too fucking scared to do the deed themselves, could only bring themselves to fantasize and imagine doing it.

They would imagine taking knives to pale, perfect flesh and hacking open the girls who looked just like the ones who rejected them in high school, looked like the models and actresses that ran rampant in L.A. They got to imagine forcing them to beg, reducing them to tears and then removing hope, fucking them and cutting them and butchering them because it would feel good to do it, to make the bitch pay for humiliating them, for never giving them the time of day. Never wanting them.

Sometimes he got requests from clients. Sometimes they wanted a specific hair colour. Sometimes they wanted a specific body type. He filled their requests, but blondes were his favourite. Gentlemen preferred blondes.

He nudged the naked, butchered flesh with the polished toe of his boot and gave the dead woman a disgusted look. Who could ever want that, anyways?

He would need to get rid of it.

He picked up his cell phone; he dialed the number he always dialed after one of these days - which were becoming more frequent.

"Yes. I have one for you to pick up. Be here soon, I have a date tonight."

---

Grant had quickly realized his mistake had been in running to begin with - all he had done was separate himself from the one safety net he had, which was inside of the dark, dank, and very public strip club. He shouldn't have run. He should have kept his cool, should have slipped past the guy and back inside - but even then, he realized that the monster had been relying on him running.

And, more to the point, relying on the idea that he could catch him.

He did his damndest to prove him wrong, but his knee was still throbbing from the glass that had been shattered over it and years of smoking and minimal cardio had left him at a grave disadvantage. For the first time in his life, he regretted his marijuana habit.

Even more, he regretted ever selling those goddamn DVDs and everything that came with them - but the money had been so easy. All he had to do was pretend he didn't know what was on them and he could do the job. Pretend he didn't know. It had been so fucking easy, he'd never looked at the videos before - not until he'd been forced to watch one of them that very day.

And now that woman's face wouldn't leave his mind. He could see it every time he closed his eyes now, like he'd been the one who had knifed her.

Mid-stride, something hit Burke in the back and he lost his footing.

---

There was no challenge in it; Nick ran the way that jungle cats ran, like it was something he had been born to do, something he had done forever. He closed in far too quickly for his tastes, even hung back a little to watch Burke limp and stagger and hobble.

Eventually he got tired of it. As Burke turned down a narrow, secluded alleyway and ran for a broken fence - probably a familiar route to him - Nick picked up a heavy, metal garbage can and hurled it with astounding accuracy. The force was enough to knock Burke onto his face and the scavenger clawed at the ground to get up but Nick was over him almost immediately.

Burke kicked up a foot in an attempt to catch Nick between the legs, but a big, suddenly monstrously strong hand grabbed hold of his ankle. A converse-clad foot kicked out and hit him in the damaged knee and Burke felt something snap and pop beneath his knee cap; at first the spot was numb, but Nick wrenched hard on his ankle for good measure, separating and stretching the injury.

Pain hit and Burke wailed; Nick released him and let his leg drop to the ground, useless now.

Nick went around behind him, took hold of the back of Burke's jacket and dragged him out of the mouth of the alleyway, pulled him further into the darkness.

"This was a bad idea, don't you think?" Nick asked conversationally, "Because I'm pretty sure I told you not to go anywhere. I said that, didn't I?"

Burke wriggled pointlessly. Nick eyed him,

"I asked you a question!" Nick barked out and Burke nearly jumped out of his skin at the sudden volume change; up until then, the guy had kept his tone almost - genial.

"Yes!" Burke hiccuped, "Yes, you said that."

"But you ran. On a bad leg. Now it's worse." he continued, friendly again; he released his hold on Grant's jacket, letting his upper half hit the tarmac; Nick crouched down beside him, eyes flashing in the dark, "I told you I wouldn't be happy if you ran - and I'm not happy. And I know you're not happy."

Burke made an unhappy noise of agreement; Nick made a noise like a sigh, a soft exhale while one of those big hands found Burke's thigh, just above the bad knee.

"I've been under a lot of stress, you know?" Nick said, "Took a few too many jobs. I guess I got a little too enthusiastic about it - especially since this one has been taking longer than I thought it would. Lots of red tape to cut through. And by red tape, I mean people. Ha."

He gave the knee a squeeze. Burke sobbed out a single:

"Ha."

Funny joke. Really.

"But it raises suspicions, people dissappearing off the street. Women dissappearing. Young women - usually the rich ones. Makes people angry. Made one guy really fucking angry, a guy with the sort of money that gives him endless resources. I'm a resource, Grant. I'm the final resource, I'm not sure you understand that. So here's the deal."

The hand clamped harder.

"You're going to give me something to work with or I'm going to cut something off. I don't know what yet, but give me a minute to think about it and I'll know."
 
Amber startled like a deer. Her eyes went big and round and her mouth made a vaguely denial-shaped moue and she glanced over where Michael had been sitting. He was gone.

She looked back at Crowman. "It's pretty obvious, right? It's a crush. No big deal. But as long as he's living in denial, I should get a little bit of fun out of it, shouldn't I?"

Amber blinked.

"I mean, but you shouldn't worry about him. Just worry about you and me. You want a private dance or not?"
- - - - -

"What the hell, Nick?" Michael barked when he made out Nick's voice in the dark and cut down the alleyway. A few more steps, and Michael was right on top of them, a few feet away. Nick was crouching over a man Michael couldn't recognize, at least not in the dark with his face partially obscured by Nick's body. But the fact remained that Nick had chased down a man and was now crouching down on the ground beside him, saying something.

Didn't take a genius to figure out that the guy on the ground was also terrified.

Michael was lightly winded, had to breathe through his mouth to catch his breath. "What's going on here? This guy jack your watch or somethin'? You okay?"

Michael ignored that feeling in the back of his mind that told him he probably didn't want that question answered. He couldn't help it. He would pretend everything was fine until the sky fell down around him.
 
He hated this part, but he had to do it.

The body was still warm as he rolled it up in the plastic sheet it had been dropped onto, and as he did it, he could feel those eyes on him - watching him. The sicko got a kick out of this, watching him resignedly take the corpse away, got some twisted pleasure out of forcing him to cart off the mangled bodies of young women again and again. Some days there would be two of them.

But he had to do it. He had no choice, the monster knew too much, knew everything - knew what he had done. He had to.

God, but these girls didn't deserve this. These young women - they had their whole lives ahead of them only to have it snapped all for the sake of some sick film producer. All for money. All so he could get off. All so some other sick fuck could get off on watching it.

The camera was still blinking it's red light; he always found himself praying it wasn't still recording - he didn't want anyone to have this on film, watching him stuffing bloodied, dead girls into bags like they were trash. Sometimes he feared he would have to see himself doing it. Sometimes he feared that one day, the killer would make him watch a kill and know he couldn't stop it.

"That one was a screamer." the Producer remarked, and the Undertaker clamped his jaw, partly out of anger and partly to keep himself from vomitting. He didn't want to know the details, but sometimes the monster liked to tell him anyways, liked to torture him with it - sometimes he would remind him that this was what he deserved. He deserved to be tortured, to spend the rest of his life cleaning up after a disgusting predator because of what he had done, because of what he had done to her. Because he was just as bad as the Producer.

"Don't feel like talking to me? I understand. You're under a lot of pressure these days, with all of the cameras on you. I'll see you next time - say hello to that pretty girl of yours for me, will you? I do like what she's done with her hair. Very nice as a blonde. She should be an actress." the Producer remarked, casually buttoning his cufflinks.

"Shut the fuck up." the Undertaker replied bitterly as he pulled the body away, ignoring the way his coveralls crinkled with every movement; as shallow as it seemed, he couldn't have blood on his suit. He had an image to maintain because, god, it was one of the few things he had going for him now.

"See you soon." the Producer replied smugly.

--

Crowman wasn't deterred by Amber's avoidance; he pressed on,

"How long have you known him for?" he asked, his eyes moving away from her and back to the bar again; Jones had dissappeared along with Anatoliy, gone in an instant that left Crowman feeling momentarily stupid. But it didn't matter - he would catch up with Jones later on, his schedule was predictable enough.

Another question came to him, though he wasn't clear on why. He asked anyways.

"In that same vein, how long has he been friends with Viktor?"

--

Nick could feel the knee cap shifting unnaturally just below his hand as he squeezed the already too-tender muscles of Burke's leg; the redhead's hands went to his wrist in an instinctual attempt to pull away, but Nick wouldn't have any of it. He clamped down harder - something that Burke had thought was impossible up until that point - and it was cause for the redhead to make a strangled noise of pain. Nick merely nodded, as though Burke had said something for him to agree with.

Of course, then there was the sound of footsteps - Nick would recognize them everywhere, heavy strikes against the pavement, big feet driven by a big frame, it was Mikey, right on their tail.

"You're very lucky." Nick remarked casually, "But I don't think I need to tell you not to start screaming or it'll be the other knee next."

It was right then that Burke got to watch something unsettling happened; he watched as Nick's expression suddenly transformed into a perfect imitation of concern while the hand on his knee loosened its grip to a light touch. Even the eyes - which only moments ago had held that psychotic gleam - were warm and kind.

Burke was very suddenly sick to his stomach and he turned to vomit on the pavement.

Nick peered at Mikey and gave him a helpless look,

"He was harrassing one of the girls." Nick said as Burke created an unpleasant background noise of retching, "He had a few too many tonight, I think he hurt his leg while he was running, too."
 
Amber was a practiced actress. It was a talent that came with the territory--or at least made the territory a little more bearable and a lot more lucrative. But now she was beginning to lose her patience. Michael didn't want her, nor did his friend. Now Crowman only seemed interested in interrogating her. Nobody wanted her to get naked. It was annoying.

When Michael turned up again, she was going to bleed him for every minute of her time this Crowman guy ate up. "I've known Michael a few years now. Ever since he started working here. Never seen that other guy before, and I'd have remembered. You say his name's Viktor? That's more than I got. Far as I ever knew, Michael only had one friend and his name wasn't Viktor. It's Nick."

Amber paused a moment, let her explanation sink in, and then shot back a question of her own. "Speaking of which, how do you know Michael?"

- -

Michael shuffled a few steps closer. It was dark out, darker in the alley than out on the street, and he couldn't make out the injured man's face. He could see Nick clearly, though. He could see his eyes, wide open with concern.

Without first consulting his brain, Michael's mouth asked, "Why chase him?"

Michael worked the door at Soft Tails. He even considered a few of the girls his friends. Even he wasn't impulsive enough to chase some troublemaker down a darkened alley. It was reckless. And what had Nick planned to do with him once he'd caught him? Give him a slap on the wrist and tell him not to come back?

There was a time that Michael would have believed that very thing. But then there was the case and the scars and tattoos and the notion that Michael had no idea whatsoever who Nicholas Godwit really was.

"Never mind," he rushed to add. Then he turned his attention to Burke. "Hey, buddy, can you stand up?" Michael was already fishing in his pocket for his mobile.

To Nick, softly, Michael said, "I'll get him an ambulance. You make sure he doesn't choke on his own vomit."
 
The mansion echoed with the sound of silverware on porcelain, a hollow scraping that made Bianca flinch; the best dishes were out on a table that seemed to stretch on endlessly and she could remember the way it had made her feel so small as a child. Back then, it had been rare for her father to be home - he was always busy promoting his business, building his empire, and when he did come home, he brought his business with him.

Men in suits. Her father in suits, all the time, never relaxing, never casual, always so concerned with the way he looked.

Talk of coffins and burials and hearses and finances.

She remembered her mother always ushering her away when those talks began, insisting it was nothing important and she should go play.

She remembered her father, losing his temper more frequently as the stocks dove, could remember him tossing a few trinkets her way whenever he felt guilty for not putting aside enough time for her.

These days, though, he practically begged her to come see him. Sometimes she acquiesced; most of the time she didn't.

On that particular day, she couldn't be sure what had driven her to accept her father's awkward offer for dinner together, but there had been a strange desperation in his voice that had appealed to her. It had sounded enough like he was pleading, perhaps.

So now she sat over a cooling plate of roast beef and gravy, the picture of quiet indignity dressed in an ice blue, high-necked lace frock complete with a small cameo and her hair pulled back in a tight bun.

"You aren't eating, pumpkin." Gunnar said, gesturing to his daughter with his fork.

"That's because I'm a vegetarian, father." she replied patiently, and Gunnar's thick grey eyebrows dipped down.

"Since when?" he asked, astonished.

"Since '95."

"Oh." he said, setting his utensils down and straightening up in his seat; Mr. Borgstrom was fit for a man his age - after all, appearance was important in his business - but age had taken its toll on his hair. After years of fighting it, Gunnar Borgstrom had finally decided to age gracefully, resisting the urge to get hair implants and allowing his hairline to recede; he had grown a beard instead. The combination of the shiny, shaved head and mottled gray beard was something Bianca was still getting used to, "Not even roast beef? Really?"

"I don't make exceptions for any sort of dead flesh."

"Oh." he repeated, then chewed awkwardly on his bottom lip for a moment, silent under the hard, cold gaze of his daughter.

"What's Nicky up to?" he asked finally, "I haven't seen him around for a while, I'm starting to miss our golf matches. How is he doing?"

"I wouldn't know." Bianca replied icily, "I left him."

Gunnar's mouth fell open, then closed again,

"When?" he blurted out, "Why?"

Bianca's irritation gave way to a measure of pity; it always astonished her that a man as ruthless and business-minded as her father could be so utterly inept when it came to his own child.

"I'd rather not discuss that."

"Bee," Gunnar said, reaching across the table for her hands, but Bianca moved them away, "Bee - tell me you didn't leave him for someone else. Just tell me that, please - you know what Nicholas Godwit did for us."

"What he did for you, father. I'm not obligated to stay with a man just because he put some money into your company," Bianca said, pushing her chair back and rising from her seat, "And frankly, I don't appreciate what you're implying."

"Bianca," Gunnar replied, rising from his seat as well, voice levelling in volume at the same time, "Are you seeing someone else? Is that what's going on?"

"Goodnight, father." Bianca replied, her heels echoing rapid footsteps across the marble floor.

"Don't you walk away from me, Bianca!" he shouted after her, bringing one big fist down onto the table hard enough to shatter one of the fine porcelain plates; it was enough to bring Bianca to a sudden stop. After a moment of silence, she looked coolly back over her shoulder and watched as her father raised his hands in a passive motion, his expression falling into something horrified.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to - " he began, but she continued out the door anyways, her chin pointed up.

---

One friend. It seemed Michael Jones' social life was about as exciting as his own; Crowman made a mental note to look into it.

"I signed Mr. Jones' release forms." Crowman replied absently, looking once more at the spot where Michael had been sitting, "I believe he sent you over to me as a joke; do yourself a favour and find a man who doesn't have assault charges attached to his name. Thank you for your time; I must be going."

---

Burke knew he was rapidly running out of options; earlier that day he would have said a hospital was his least favourite place to be, but now he knew it was actually preferrable to a walk-in freezer - which is where he would surely end up again if he let this guy keep close tabs on him.

"No!" Burke said, lifting a hand in protest as Michael went for his cell phone, "I mean - yeah. Yeah, I can stand. I'm fine alright, I just pulled a fuckin' muscle okay?"

Those eyes were still watching him in the darkness, but the guy was leaning away, giving him space - observing. Burke reached out for a nearby dumpster then and gripped the edge of it to pull himself up into a standing position, balancing on the leg that was still functioning,

"See? I'm fine. Just leave me the fuck alone." Burke said.

"You should probably try walking on it first." Nick supplied helpfully, and Burke shot him a dark look.

"Yeah, yeah. Fine." Burke said, taking in a breath and steeling himself; he could do this. He had to do this. It was the only way he was going to get away. Slowly, he extended his bad leg and discovered it was surprisingly numb - in fact, it almost felt like it was okay.

Until it met the ground.

Pain shot from toe to thigh and back to his knee, searing agony that was accompanied by a nasty-sounding crack; Nick's arms shot out and caught him before he could crumple back to the ground,

"Yeah, we'd better get you to a hospital." Nick replied, "Mikey, you wanna get the truck? We can drive him faster than the ambulance can get here."
 
If Crowman was expecting an expression of shock or dismay from Amber upon hearing the news of Michael's legal entanglement, he would be disappointed. She already knew more than she cared to about the assault, thanks to Michael's own drunken ramblings. She knew more than Michael Jones himself, which wasn't much of an accomplishment considering the man was perfectly transparent to everybody but himself.

The emotion that did make an appearance, glittering in her suddenly narrowed eyes, was anger. She already didn't like this Crowman, and he was a cop--another strike against him. And now he had revealed himself to be one of those cops, who thought the badge came part and parcel with wisdom and credence.

"Chance had it comin'," she said. "Maybe you should find a woman who will pretend to like you for free."

Amber flashed a tight white smile, pivoted on her heel, and left.

- - -

The sound of Burke's knee ripping out of place was not unfamiliar to Michael. He'd heard it before, on the field once in high school. Michael couldn't remember the name of the team or the color of their jerseys or which girl's knees he was supposed to be unlocking at the time, but he did remember the sound.

He heard it again in college, in the middle of his first walk-on practice. It was his own knee then. It sounded different that time, but then maybe blinding agony did that to a person; messed with their perceptions.

Michael's stomach turned over and he flinched back minutely. "Uh," he said, and for several seconds that was all he said. Abruptly, he shook himself free of his stupor.

"Yeah, good call." His cell returned to its home in his pocket and Michael started to turn back the way he'd just come, toward his truck. He stopped short, however, and turned his eyes back on the two other men. Nick had his arms around the redhead--the guy who'd just harassed one of the girls and then sought refuge in a darkened alley--and his eyes were wide and concerned, wearing his expensive custom tailored clothes, and he pretty much had 'mark' stamped on his forehead in giant neon lettering.

"You know," Michael said slowly, as if the idea were slowly occuring to him, but his feet were suddenly planted very solidly against the pavement. "You go and I'll stay here with the guy. If I run into Amber it could be daylight before she lets me off the hook."

Translation: If shit gets real, I know how to take a punch.

Michael fished his keys out of his pocket and walked them over to Nick, smiling reassuringly as he did, as if to promise with nothing but his expression that he had no other motive for sending Nick in his stead.

"Promise I won't punch the fop," he added and winked.
 
Michael's hesitation was cause for Grant and Nick to exchange furtive glances; the redhead was the first to look away and Nick knew it was because the little rat was thinking he might have found a way out of his current predicament. For Grant Burke, Michael Jones was presently a shining beacon, a possible escape route - but Nick knew better.

Despite the fact it was against Nick's better judgement to let any target out of his sight once he'd found them - and especially one that had already managed to get away once - he knew that Mikey could take on Grant Burke with his eyes closed. The guy was slippery, but he was also lame in one leg; Nick had made sure of that personally.

"Yeah," Nick said, lowering Burke to the ground with great care before heading for the mouth of the alleyway, "Yeah, sure. I'll be right back."

Mikey wouldn't let Burke get away; Nick had never been big on putting trust into anyone but himself, but if there was anyone who deserved a little confidence, it was Michael Jones - even if he had seen the contents of the briefcase.

But that wasn't something he wanted to think about; he didn't like the implications.

Rules had been broken. His rules had been broken - long ago, in fact. It had been his own stupidity that had led to this.

He had gotten careless.

Taking the keys from Michael and casting one more look back at Burke, he headed for the truck - and once he was out of sight, he sprinted for it. The less time Burke was alone with Michael, the better.

---

Burke looked blearily through the shadows; all his years of working the streets had left the dealer with impressive night vision, enough that he was able to see the alleyway around him in precise detail. Amidst the usual mess of graffiti there was a large metal dumpster, a rusted-over ladder, a few piles of garbage and some broken glass.

That would have to do; he didn't have much else to work with.

Using his good leg to shift himself back, Burke shifted himself back and up against the brick wall, a maneuver that made him appear as though he was just looking to support his back against something. With his right hand he reached into the inside breast pocket of his filthy peacoat to extract a joint - may as well - while his left slipped subtlely across the pavement near his leg, blocked from Michael's sight.

He moved the joint to his mouth while the left hand found contact with the neck of a champagne bottle, the base of which had been broken recently, if the dampness still on it was any indication. His fingers curled around the glass and he kept it obscured by his thigh while he lit the joint, peering only once over at Michael.

His voice came out shaky, with a plume of heavy smoke accompanying it,

"How long've you known him?" he asked, before taking a second draw on it.

---

Csardas paced and Hrodulf watched him intently through watery blue eyes; the big man had been walking in circles for what seemed like hours, ever since he had discovered the empty chair in the freezer.

"So stupid." Csardas said, moustache bristling, "He has seen Niko; he will know his face now."

Hrodulf nodded his head understandingly and lit another cigar, having forgotten about the one that was already lit, sitting in the ash tray. Csardas didn't bother to remind him; it would only confuse him.

"He is so close. I know he is." Csardas added, rubbing at the sun-reddened back of his neck, "This is almost over."
 
Michael watched Nick's long silhouette until it disappeared around the corner, unaware of the way his lips twisted into a shy, fond smile. If it were up to Michael, they would have left this drunken creep to his own devices, but he couldn't bring himself to argue with Nick when he had his mind made up to do something noble. Especially considering the not-so-noble way Michael had treated Nick not long ago.

When the drunk started moving around, getting comfortable and lighting up a cigarette, Michael didn't pay him any mind. It wasn't as if he could be considered an actual threat with his knee in its current state.

"How long've you known him?" Grant asked, and Michael turned to give him his full attention.

Nick may have been a bleeding heart, completely incapable of turning a blind eye to the suffering fo strays, but Michael possessed no such handicap. His eyes narrowed to slits and he returned deadpan, "Dunno. How long you been harassing defenseless women? Probably about that long."

Michael gave a pause. He didn't intend to say more, but his mouth tended to run away with him, almost as much as his fists did at times. "I don't think either of us expect a long and meaningful friendship to blossom from this encounter, so how about we both just--Hold up."

Michael sniffed.

"Dude, that is not a Marlboro you're smoking." Against his better judgment, Michael shuffled closer. "All right, I may have been wrong about the meaningful friendship."
 
Burke wasn't a great person, even he was aware that his morals were a little lacking and as far as the politesse of society went, he tended to break the rules - but his job required him to be capable of dealing with other people, to know whether the jerk-off passing him in the street would be interested in buying a gram or two.

Mikey was an obvious one; the guy had the familiar, laid-back attitude of a pot smoker - so he wasn't surprised when the joint caught his interest.

One mottled ginger eyebrow rose and Burke gestured to the empty ground beside him, waving the joint in Mikey's direction to indicate he should take a seat. There were rules of etiquette in pot smoking, and Burke was never opposed to sharing a joint - even if it was with the guy he was preparing to stab.

"Definitely not marlboro." Burke agreed, offering an off-white smile.
 
To Michael's credit, he did hesitate. Burke was unknown to him and, in all likelihood, a crazy person who held long, rambling conversations with hallucinations of his dead relatives. And Michael knew it was never wise to accept drugs from unknowns, but the smoke smelled clean and he hadn't gotten high in a long time. And if there was a single night in recent memory when Michael desperately needed to get out of his head, tonight was the night.

So, after a beat, he accepted Burke's invitation and settled down on the pavement next to him, careful to avoid any puddles of mysterious liquid. "Thanks man," he said, and plucked the offered joint from his fingers.

Before he took his first drag, Michael cast a suspicious glance at Burke and asked, "What were you really doing in the alley? Dealing? Tryin' to pick up a date?"

Then he put the hand rolled cigarette to the corner of his mouth, closed his lips dryly around it, and sucked deep.
 
Burke saw the hesitation - so the guy had some sense, despite the company he kept - but the weed overpowered the doubt and Burke could see why; it was the good stuff. These days weed was being cut with other shit to make it stronger, mixed and boiled and stewed and bastardized in student chem labs to turn it into something other than fucking weed - but this was the good stuff. It was just plant. Burke sold the other stuff, of course, but he pretty much liked to roll his right off the plant.

"Dealing to your buddy, he wanted a fucking brick of hash and I told him I couldn't carry that much at once." Burke replied drily, breathing out smoke that he'd held in for an impressive amount of time, "The fuck do you think I was doing? Running from that fucking doberman of yours, is what."

The guy ran like a greyhound, but the temperament wasn't right for comparison - a doberman seemed right, all dark and sleek, looks pretty until you have to face it's jaws.

He was getting metaphorical; the weed was already seeping into him - he would have to act before the smoke made him stop giving a shit.

While Michael was distracted by the joint, Burke did something that he'd only done a few times in his life, and he attacked - he brought the busted champagne bottle around and aimed it into Michael's left shoulder, swinging hard.
 
The herb tasted good; not too dry, not too stale. Something eased in Michael during that first toke, like the first splash of liquor on an alcoholic's tongue. It was like a placebo, that taste, alerting his body to the euphoria that was to come.

In the meantime, officially, the bum was proving himself to be the insane person that Michael suspected him of being. Or, if not insane, then incredibly dense. Michael pulled a sour face--not on account of the pot, however, which was choice and already gently urging him to grin like a maniac. It was that description of Nick; the same way the man at the steakhouse had referred to him--a dog.

A cloud of brownish smoke punched out of Michael on a breathy laugh. "You know, that's the second time today someone's said that ab--Jesus Christ!"

Bright, tearing pain shot into Michael's shoulder and down his arm and he could swear he could actually hear his flesh giving way to whatever the asshole had just shoved into his shoulder.

"What the fuck," Michael said, not because he actually expected an answer, but because snarling curse words was a far cry manlier than moaning in agony. His hand--the good hand and not the one attached to his now profusely bleeding shoulder--groped instinctively for Burke's chest, fingers twisting and clenching in the fabric of his jacket. He knew better, but he looked down at his shoulder, anyway.

There was a bottle jutting out of it. Or what was left of one, anyway. "Oh, Hell no. You little shit. What the fuck." His fingers tightened in Burke's coat and, for a split second, Michael considered his options. He could shove the guy off him, get a safe distance away and collect himself. He could call the police, wait for Nick to show up. They were on their way to the hospital, anyway.

But if he did any of those things, he wouldn't be Michael Jones, so instead he shoved back hard against Burke and, as his torso was tipping away, he let go, formed a fist, and pounded the small of it into Burke's bum knee.
 
Burke knew that there would be several possible outcomes if he hit Michael with the broken bottle but when it really came down to it, all of them were better than the possibility of being taken away by that maniac again - because if he didn't act, he knew that he would end up alone with Nick again.

It turned out that desperation had good aim, though, because the glass hit Michael square in the shoulder and dug all the way through his shirt, through skin, and into muscle and the moment Burke heard Michael's snarl of pain, he made efforts to scurry back, but then a hand clenched into his jacket and held him in place.

Shit.

In unison, both of the men looked down at Michael's shoulder; the neck of the bottle stuck out horizontally from where it was planted into him, but there was surprisingly little blood yet. Burke fought the way his stomach rolled at the sight; he was a drug dealer, and a small time one at that, most of his customers were too shit scared to ever try anything on him - he'd only had to lay out a few punches in his life, but mostly he'd relied on running the fuck away. This was a new one for him.

Of course, then Michael shoved him away and a blow landed to his already fucked up knee before he could get away, causing a howl of pain to escape Burke as he clutched at the bad leg - the pain was incredible.

And then the entire area was flooded with light; highbeams shone like enormous yellow eyes at the mouth of the alleyway and a shadowed figure stepped out of the truck - but Burke didn't need details to recognize the build. He was out of time.

And Nick, standing in the alleyway in his finely tailored suit, had to take a moment to really absorb the details of the scene laid out in front of him: Burke on the ground in the fetal position, screaming and holding his leg. Michael against a wall with a champagne bottle sticking out of him.

A lit joint smoldering between them.

Nick brought one hand up to his face and pressed his middle finger and thumb into his temples, drawing a breath between his teeth before he straightened up and advanced, going straight to Michael. There was a long moment of silence then, as he stood over his friend, peering at him with his head cocked to the side and watching the way the headlights shone through the green glass. He looked back over at Burke for a moment, wetting his lips and pressing them together, before looking back at Michael again.

"That's not how you enjoy a Chardonnay." he said finally, leaning down and reaching for Michael's good arm, throwing a glance over at Burke, "How're you doing over there?"

Burke made a noise that was somewhere between whining and vomitting; it was unpleasant.

"Fuck you!" Burke managed to get out, while Nick was busily pulling Michael's arm over his shoulders.

"Just, uh, don't go too far, yeah?" Nick said.
 
You must log in or register to reply here.
Back
Top Bottom