2. Maddison
Maddison
Idrive past a few bars and clubs, deliberating going in.
Drinking and watching people until my eyelids are heavy and I can meander home.
But I see crisp button-up shirts and crystal glasses, and my foot presses back down on the accelerator.
I know they aren’t all the Malcolm’s of the world, but even sitting through a corny pickup line or receiving finance advice from a finance bro whose portfolio consists wholly of crypto, makes me want to gouge my eyeballs out with a cactus.
Yes, I know I’m jaded, but you try sitting through an hour-long conversation with Todd from finance, about how if I don’t have thirty investment properties by now, I must be insane…yeah, ugh.
Dim, illuminated lights draped across the facade of a darkened bar.
Surrounded by empty, dilapidated buildings and factories, parking lots, and what appears to be an apartment building.
The gravel lot in front of the building is the only one with cars out the front. A handful of Utes and some motorcycles.
The Pitch reads on a flashing neon sign, and I can see people moving in the dimly lit bar, drinks in hand, through the window. Not a single suit in view.
Gravel crunches under my tires as I park in the lot. A few drinks sound absolutely amazing right now, and nothing looks more appetising than this run-down bar in the middle of nowhere. Hidden from the city and the people who inhabit it.
The establishments I usually stop at, always for a business meeting of sorts, usually have security who checks my name on a list. The Pitch has a bright red door, glowing against the black exterior paint, strips of red falling off.
It creaks loudly as I push it open, allowing the dim light and tinny, crackling music to spill out.
Rowdy conversation, the clinking of beers and the hitting of pool balls combined with old music feels oddly… nice.
It doesn’t last long. The door crashes closed behind me, and all conversation stops. Only the music playing through the shitty speaker plays; otherwise, metaphorical crickets are chirping.
Every head in the bar is turned in my direction, and I freeze, my brows drawn together and my mouth slightly parted. They are looking at me as if I have three heads. My head turns to make sure they aren’t looking at something crazy behind me, but it’s just the chipped door.
The people in this bar are exactly as I expected, not even a collared shirt nearby. Beards and tattoos, men with long hair. I feel as if I’m in another world. Maybe that is why they are looking at me like that. Lifting my chin, my heels clack on the sticky wooden floor as I make my way to the bar.
They can stare all they like, but I need a drink.
I say that, but my heart is beating weirdly fast. And awareness prickles on the back of my neck as I perch on a stool that looks like it could give me tetanus.
Another neon sign whirrs above the rows of glass bottles. “Sinner’s Welcome.” Red and bright, casting a glow over the bar and me.
My eyes shoot to the man at the bar, waiting for him to come and take my order. He stares at me with narrowed eyes, blue and clear, as he looks me over. Not in the way Malcolm did tonight, but in a curious way.
“Good evening,” I hum softly at him, my smile firm on my face. “Can I get a wine, please? Perhaps a Pinot Noir?”
His face morphs into one of incredulity as he raises a thick eyebrow at me. “A Pino, what?” his gruff voice replies.
“You know…a red wine?” I’m confused as to how a bartender doesn’t know what a Pinot Noir is, but I drop it. I’m too desperate for a drink right now; the ghost of his taste still coats my tongue.
He watches me, a deep line forming between his brows. For a man of my father’s age, he is weirdly handsome. Salt and pepper hair, a short beard softening his sharp features. Soft blue eyes narrowed on me, as his eyes slide down my clothing.
“Lady,” he hesitates, not moving to pour my wine, to my chagrin. “This isn’t a place where you come to drink a…Pino Noodle, or whatever the hell you want.”
I look around animatedly, perching myself on the old bar stool. The splintered wood catches on my Celine-branded skirt, and I pray to the Gods that it doesn’t embed itself into my skin. Needing a tetanus shot today would be my last straw.
“This is a bar, isn’t it?” I sigh, severely aware of how much of a desperate alcoholic I sound like. “Please…please just give me a drink.”
Chewing on the inside of his cheek, he watches me for another few slow seconds before he lets out a sharp exhale. “One. One drink, and then we are closing,” he grumbles, turning to rummage through the shelves.
He pulls out the dustiest, oldest bottle from deep under the shelves, and I swear I see a cartoon smoke skull in the air as he pops it, but red liquid pours out along with my cares.
He watches me, bemused, as I take a huge sip. It’s not just the fact that the bitter taste is replacing the previous taste that was on my tongue, but it’s strangely nice. Who knew dusty, forgotten bottles of wine in a run-down bar could taste so good?
I don’t question it, taking another huge gulp.
“What’s a pretty girl like you doing in a bar like this?” A deep rumble pulls my attention sideways. The man at the bar mutters a whispered curse, shaking his head as he walks away.
I look up…and up. This man is, well, he is enormous. Solid chunks of muscle wrap around him, covered in tattoos, his body looming over me. He looks well over six feet; his raggedy brown hair tied up in a bun adding even more inches to his height.
Golden eyes devour me, a hungry smirk pulling at his mouth as a huge hand falls onto my thigh, inappropriately high.
Nervous, I slide my thigh out of his grip, but he just follows, his big fingers squeezing over my leg.
“I, uh, was just about to leave,” my voice is shaky.
Stupid, I’m so stupid, I realise as my head turns over my shoulder to find a few dozen men’s eyes on me, all rough and huge like the man beside me. Not a single woman.
I should have just gone home and crawled into bed. Why do I have to do things like this.
Fear creeps up my spine as the atmosphere shifts, another hand landing on my other thigh as he pushes my legs apart as far as they can go with my skirt.
He steps in close, in between my legs, the scent of cigarettes, sweat and pure male invading my senses as his hands slide up, catching on my skirt.
“Fancy. You dress real fancy to be drinking in here with us animals,” he chuckles, his voice so deep and gravelly it gives me goosebumps crawling on my skin.
By instinct, my professional smile beams up at the towering man, pushing the odd sensation of fear away.
No one stops the man as he keeps pushing my skirt up, almost baring my panties. He stops just before he gets there, lifting a hand to stroke my bottom lip with his thumb.
“Please,” I whisper, my body shaking slightly, and not just from fear.
It’s been a long while since I felt anything other than…vacant. So the influx of sensations is almost too much. The feel of rough, calloused hands touching me in such a demanding way should not feel as good as it does right now.
By a man dressed in cargo pants and huge boots. A rumpled shirt covered by… a leather vest.
“C’mon, pretty girl,” he rumbles, shoving his thumb past my lips and onto my tongue, pushing down. I gasp and try to rip my face away from his hand, but his fingers wrap around my chin, holding me in place. “Let’s see if you taste as expensive as you look.”
My eyes clench shut, and I whimper as his hand on my leg moves suddenly, diving into my panties and cupping my bare pussy.
My face flames at how wet I know he can feel I am. This is messed up. So messed up.
But I can’t deny that my clit is aching. Can’t deny that the fear and adrenaline pumping through my veins isn’t the sweetest feeling.
“Please, I need to go. My boyfriend is waiting for me,” I beg, because it’s the right thing to do. People shouldn’t like this feeling, shouldn’t be aroused by it.
“Such good manners,” he grumbles, nipping at the skin beneath my ear. “I wonder if you’ll say thank you after I’m done with you.”
Rough fingers begin to circle around my clit, and I jolt, my hands coming up to his chest and pushing hard. But being the gigantic man he is, he doesn’t budge. Even my hands look small against his huge pecs, covered by leather.
My glazed eyes lock onto a patch on the front of it. A devil, with horns and a tail that wraps around it. “The Devils” spelt underneath it.
My stomach bottoms out. My eyes flick around the place and see that every other man here wears the same vest, and I hear motorcycles rumbling outside.
The Devils. I mean, you hear stories about the gangs that lurk in the darkness of Havenport Harbour. But I never thought they were factual, or something that I’d ever run into. Turns out I willingly walked into their lair, like the stupid fool I am.
I flinch as the door slams open, more devils entering.
The already tension-filled air thickens drastically, and I begin to tremble.
“Griff,” a stern voice barks, and the man on top of me turns his head to the newcomers, chuckling softly when he sees them.
“Yes, Boss?” Griff huffs.
I turn my head in search of them, hoping that they might be able to stop whatever disaster is about to happen.
Three men, all covered in tattoos and wearing the same leather vests spread out across the space.
A defeated exhale leaves my lips; the middle one I’m assuming is Boss regards me with a feral smile. His eyes are flared wide, and I’m terrified.
“Griff,” he says again, singsong-like, almost amused, those wild eyes focused on mine. “I think that one might be a little too…breakable for you,” he huffs a little laugh.
The man in front of me takes a step back, grinning at his boss, a growing bulge making his pants stretch. “She walked in here willingly. Maybe she needs a little breaking.”
The boss’s eyes flare even wider as his head tilts. The two others standing behind him take me in as well, their identical faces void of any emotion. Twins.