Chapter 8
Artyom
A bar never ran out of people who lived for a show.
A couple of tables nearby stopped mid-drink, glasses hanging in the air, eyes swinging over like spotlights.
Somebody whistled. Somebody else grinned like they'd just been handed free street theater.
"Aw, look at the chubby girl acting all classy. If somebody wants you, you'd better hurry up and go home with 'em."
"Yeah. Quit playing saint. Everybody knows you smile at customers like an idiot every damn night."
The laughter rolled in like a dirty wave—thick, hot, and loud enough to clog your ears.
Willow stood behind the bar. Her shoulders locked up, but she kept that trained smile in place—the same curve to her mouth, only the light in her eyes got snuffed out.
Tom looked thrilled. He tipped his chin at the room, smug as hell, like a guy who'd tossed a bone and waited for the dog to wag.
"Alright, alright, settle down," he said, waving a hand, his voice pitched just above the jeering. "You all know with her size, not many men can handle it. A little shy is understandable."
Willow's fingers twitched. The bar towel slipped and hit the counter.
Tom kept smiling—louder, nastier—like his "invitation" was some kind of charity, and Willow was a starving stray who ought to be grateful.
My fist clenched. I started to move.
"Mr. Carson,"
But she spoke first.
She fought to look calm. "I'll get someone to make your drink."
"Don't," Tom said, grabbing her wrist, eyes full of contempt. "You work here because you're broke, right? So tell me—how much for one night?"
Willow's eyes went red.
Her lashes fluttered twice, forcing the shine back.
I knew she was swallowing it. People like her did that—stuffed every humiliation down and pretended they hadn't heard. But words didn't wash away. They sank. They settled somewhere even she couldn't reach, piling up like river sludge.
She drew a breath and kept her voice steady. "You've had too much. I'll get you some water."
She yanked her hand free and turned away—no, she ran. Straight toward the employee lounge.
I leaned back, the ice in my whiskey melted to hell.
"Chubby girl." "Acting classy."
And I got it—why she didn't fight back.
Because every time she did, the stares and laughter only came harder, like a flock of birds pecking you raw. So she stopped resisting and learned to bow her head until they got bored and flew off.
And suddenly I felt like a fucking idiot.
When I'd left earlier, I'd been ready to watch her perform, watch her slip, catch her in a lie. I'd even pictured her face cracking when I called her out.
But now...
She looked like nothing but a small, helpless little drunk.
I stared at the half-open door at the end of the hall.
Normally, I wouldn't have given a damn about this kind of trash.
If she wanted to endure it, wanted to let people point and curse in her face, that was her choice.
What the hell was it to me? I should've turned around and walked out, like I'd never met the little liar who'd used me like an escort, slept with me, then vanished.
But my feet stayed planted.
All I could see was her red-rimmed eyes and that forced smile. And Tom's line—not many men could handle it.
That piece of shit sounded disgusting.
I handled it. I liked it. I thought she was damn beautiful. So what, I wasn't a man?
I shoved down that stupid heat in my chest, set my whiskey on the table, and started walking—cutting through the still-laughing crowd toward the hallway.
The lounge door wasn't shut all the way.
Light bled through the crack, a thin stripe across the metal locker handles.
She leaned against the lockers, shoulders shaking. She heard me but didn't turn. She wiped her face fast, voice wrecked. "I'm fine. I'll go back out in a second..."
I reached back and closed the door, sealing the noise outside.
"Idiot," I said, leaning on the door, letting out a cold snort. "People call you names, you listen. People grab you, you dodge. No matter what job you work, you just show up to be everybody's punching bag?"
Willow froze, then slowly turned.
Tears still clung to her face. Her eyes were swollen like walnuts, lashes stuck together in wet clumps.
When she saw me, she couldn't speak for a long moment.
"What, you don't recognize me?" I stepped closer, looking down at her. "You had the guts to fuck a stranger, and you should have the guts to smash a bottle over Tom's head."
I knew my tone was brutal. Anyone else would've snapped back.
She didn't.
She bit her lower lip and shoved the sob in her throat back down. Her eyes reddened even more, but she didn't let a single tear fall.
I couldn't stop myself. I threw a couple more insults.
Called her stupid. Called her out for having a mouth and only using it to smile.
She stood there like a good student, head down, fingers twisting her shirt.
Watching her take it made the fire in me burn hotter.
I would've preferred her to mouth off. I would've preferred she jumped up and yelled, What the hell do you know? But she stayed silent, like cotton left out in the rain—press it, and it just caved in, soft and useless, giving you nowhere to land a punch.
So stupid. So damn pitiful.
I let out a breath, the kind that leaked out of your chest and left you feeling helpless—not angry at her, just... unable to do a damn thing with her.
Then she tugged my sleeve, voice thick and muffled. "Don't yell at me. You'll get thirsty."
I stared.
The words hit like a bullet fired without aiming—slipped past every defense and nailed some soft spot I didn't even know I had.
Christ. I lost.
She was fucking adorable.
She sniffed, then asked carefully, "Are you thirsty?"
She bent down and dug through the junk on the bottom shelf, rustling around until she pulled out two bottles of brandy.
Each one had a scribbled handwritten label—obviously the kind from the bar stock that got "forgotten" off the books.
She held them out with both hands like they were treasure.
"Don't be mad. I'm buying you a drink."
She offered the bottles, and I took them without thinking.
I knew she was trying to sweet-talk me, but...
I looked at the brandy and let out a laugh that sounded more like a bite. "You steal booze on the clock? You aren't afraid the boss will fire you?"
"Shh." She covered my mouth, her palm a little cold. "People sneak drinks all the time. I just... I didn't dare."
The cold glass sat in my hand, and that heat in me died down for no good reason.
"Why didn't you dare?" I asked.
She took a small sip, her cheeks slowly turning pink. "I get scared. What if they catch me?"
"I can't afford this stuff," she said, eyes wide, dead serious. "If they catch you, you pay full price. My monthly paycheck isn't even— I can't."
Little miser.
I almost laughed again at her face, so earnest it was ridiculous.
I was a shareholder in this place. Every bottle in this bar tied back to my money, one way or another. And she was standing there, right in front of basically half the owner, stealing liquor to bribe me.
The last of my anger drained out. All that stayed was a helpless, baffled amusement.
I didn't drink. I leaned against the lockers and watched her.
The lounge went quiet.
Outside, the music thumped through the door, muffled like someone threw a blanket over it. The window hadn't been closed right; night air slipped in, lifting the wisps of hair on her forehead, then letting them fall.
She sipped in tiny swallows. Every so often she'd sneak a glance at me, then jerk her eyes away the second she caught mine—like a hamster caught stealing food, the tips of her ears slowly turning red.
Half an hour disappeared. One bottle ran dry.
Her cheeks were fully flushed now, heat blooming from her ears down her neck. Her gaze started to drift, pupils softening like sugar melting in warm water, edges turning blurry and glowing.
She shook her head. The empty bottle almost slipped out of her hand. I caught it. The mouth of the bottle still held the warmth of her lips—thin, lingering, like a wax seal you'd just pressed between your fingers.
"Drank too much?" I asked.
She didn't answer. She just looked up at me.
Those ice-blue eyes were fogged over, like glass dipped in honey—bright, wet, and soft around the edges.
She gave me a smile—loose and gentle, soaked in alcohol, wide open with no guard up.
Exactly like last night.
Last night in that private room, she'd come at me just like this, drunk and bold, fist twisted in my shirt, telling me I couldn't run.
Little drunk.
We meet again.