Chapter 2 #2
Inside, Penumbra pulses with low, ambient music.
I scan the bar, and there she is. Jiya. Her pink hair catches the cobalt-blue backlighting, creating a halo effect any photographer would kill to capture. She moves with efficient grace, mixing something complicated for a woman in a power suit.
For a moment, I just watch. There’s artistry in how she works. The exact measurement of liquids, the precise timing of her shaker, the theatrical pour into a chilled glass. Her fingers dance over bottles like a pianist’s over keys.
I could have her. I could have her tonight. I could tie her up and lose myself in her, just for a little while. Pretend I’m someone who deserves it.
When she looks up, our eyes meet across the room. Her smile blooms slowly, recognition followed by something warmer. Despite myself, I smile back.
The Gerald-high still hums in my blood as I weave through the crowd, camera case bumping against my hip with each step. I slide onto the corner barstool.
“Calloway,” she says, my name sounding different in her mouth, like it belongs to someone worth knowing. “Changed your mind about that dinner?”
“Not exactly.” I set my case on the floor between my feet. “But I craved the best Old Fashioned in Boston.”
Her eyes narrow slightly. “Just the drink?” She reaches for a bottle of bourbon without looking, her gaze never leaving mine.
“And the company,” I admit. The residual adrenaline makes me reckless, honest. “I had a...productive evening.”
“Did you now?” Jiya selects a sugar cube, dropping it into a mixing glass. “Breakthrough with your photography?”
I watch her hands as she adds bitters to the sugar. “Something like that. Created a masterpiece tonight.” The words feel dangerous, delicious on my tongue.
“So this masterpiece,” she says, eyes flicking up to meet mine, “is it part of your gallery show?”
“Not exactly gallery appropriate,” I say, the double meaning making my lips twitch. “Some art is meant for a private collection.”
“Private, huh?” Jiya leans forward, elbows on the bar. Her fingers brush mine as she slides the drink over. For a split second, her eyes flick downward before meeting mine again, steadier than before. “I’ve always been curious about the things artists keep to themselves.”
I take a sip, the bourbon warming my throat. “Be careful where curiosity takes you. The private stuff is usually private for good reason.”
“Or maybe,” she says, voice dropping lower, “it’s the only honest work you do.”
The statement hits close to home. My pulse quickens. She’s not wrong.
“And what about you?” I deflect, gesturing at the surrounding bar. “Is this the real Jiya, or just another performance?”
Her smile shifts into something sharper, more genuine. “That’s quite the philosophical question from someone who just wanted an Old Fashioned.”
“I’m full of surprises.”
“I bet you are.” She tilts her head, pink hair cascading over one shoulder. “For instance, I’m surprised you turned down dinner with me. Most men wouldn’t.”
“I’m not most men.”
“Clearly.” Her eyes travel over my face with deliberate slowness. “Most men don’t look like they walked off a Norse mythology book cover, either.”
A laugh escapes me, unexpected and real. “Norse mythology?”
“Please.” She rolls her eyes. “You know exactly what you look like, Calloway Frost.”
“If I’d known you were into Vikings, I would’ve worn my horned helmet.”
“Now you’re just trying to turn me on.” The playfulness in her voice makes something warm unfurl in my chest.
“Would that be so terrible?” I take another sip, watching her over the rim of my glass.
“Depends on your follow-through,” she counters, leaning closer. “All tease and no action makes Jiya a frustrated girl.”
The air between us crackles with possibility. I know I should pull back, maintain distance. But there’s something about her that makes me want to lean in instead, despite every self-preservation instinct screaming at me.
“Trust me,” I say, voice lower than intended, “my follow-through is impeccable. But that doesn’t make it a good idea.”
Her eyebrow arches. “So you admit you’re tempted.”
“I’d have to be dead not to be.”
“Then why resist? Life’s short.” Her fingers slide across the bar, stopping just short of mine. “Some might even say brutish.”
“And some of us are more brutish than others.” The words slip out before I can catch them.
“I can handle brutish.” Her gaze is steady, challenging. “I might even prefer it.”
A couple at the end of the bar signals for her attention. She straightens, but her eyes stay locked with mine.
“Duty calls,” she says. “But this conversation isn’t over, Viking.”
I watch her walk away, the sway of her hips deliberate, performing for my benefit. And despite knowing better, I enjoy the show.
She’s dangerous. Not in the way I am, but dangerous nonetheless. I can’t say I’m not tempted.
A suit leans across the bar, flagging Jiya’s attention. “Bourbon, neat. Put it on my card.” He slides a platinum Amex between them. She takes it with a smile, fingertips barely touching the plastic as she turns toward the register.
I’m halfway through my drink when the door bangs open. A man in a dark hoodie strides in, movements jerky, agitated. Wrong energy. Wrong place.
He reaches into his pocket.
Handgun.
“Everyone on the fucking ground!” his voice cracks with desperation. An amateur high on something strong. The most dangerous kind.
Screams erupt. People dive behind tables, glasses shattering. He sweeps the gun across the room, finger twitching on the trigger.
“You!” He lunges toward the bar, aiming the barrel at Jiya’s forehead. “Open the register or I blow your pretty brains out!”
Her eyes go wide. She doesn’t move, just stares at him with an expression I can’t quite read.
Close range, shaky grip, poor posture. I can take him if I move fast enough. But he could still hit her.
“I said now!” His hand trembles. Drugs, fear, or both.
Something ice-cold floods my veins. I slide off my stool.
He whips the gun toward me, his hand shaking even more than before. “I said on the ground!”
I smile. “Shoot me, then.”
His eyes go wide. The gun trembles in his grip. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“Lots of things.” I take a step forward. “But right now? You pointed a gun at her.”
“Stay back!” Sweat beads on his forehead. “I’ll fucking do it!”
Another step.
His finger starts to squeeze—
I launch myself across the space between us.
My left hand strikes his wrist, shoving the gun to the side as it fires, the sound deafening in the enclosed space.
My fist slams into his gut, air whooshing out of him. As he gasps, I twist the gun from his grip, thumb finding the magazine release through muscle memory.
The magazine clatters to the floor.
My shoulder drives into his ribs with the force of a linebacker. Bones crack. He goes down hard, gun skittering across the floor. Before he can recover, I’m on him.
“You made a mistake,” I whisper.
My fist connects with his temple. Once. Twice. His eyes roll back.
He goes limp.
The wail of sirens rips through my post-fight haze.
Someone called the cops.
My heart slams into my ribs.
The camera case. Fuck, fuck, fuck. How could I be so stupid?
The evidence sits under the table—tonight’s masterpiece captured in high-resolution digital glory.
Twenty-seven photographs of Gerald’s death, each more incriminating than the last. My fingers dig into my palms. Sweat beads on my upper lip. I can’t breathe. Can’t think.
The sirens grow louder.
I stare at the camera case, my pulse thundering in my ears. I should have left it in the car. I should have left her alone. I should never have come here at all.
But I did. Because I wanted her. Because I wanted— God, I don’t even know what I wanted. A drink. A fuck. A moment of pretending I’m not a monster.
Now I’m standing in a bar full of witnesses, blood on my knuckles, a man on the floor, and a gallery of horrors zipped up at my feet.
1 Francis Bacon's was a British figurative painter known for his visceral, distorted portraits and scenes that often depicted human figures as raw, twisted meat.