Good Girl Gone Bad

SAOIRSE.

Serve. Slip away. Survive.

Those are always the same three words that get me through the night. Smile. Offer them cigars, the good kinds, and exit the scene to lit more.

I moved through the crowd with the practiced grace of someone who'd learned to vanish into the shadows long ago. My soft pink uniform clung to my curves, the fabric against my skin as I balanced a tray of cigarettes and lighters, the tang of regret in every cigarette I lit flame.

The air was thick with cigar smoke and cologne, a haze that masked the hunger in men's eyes. I felt it, the way their gazes lingered on me like fingers tracing forbidden lines. But I ignored it, as I always did.

Tonight though, was different. Something shifted. I felt it. From across the bar, a man in a tailored suit, his face obscured by the dim lighting, was staring at me from now and then.

He wasn't shouting like the others, wasn't groping the air or leering openly. He just watched, his gaze a steady burn that made my skin prickle. When I approached his table to offer him a cigar, he leaned in, his breath warm against my ear.

“Are you new here?” His voice was low, smooth, like velvet over steel. “I haven't seen an angel like you in this hellhole for ages.”

“Not quite but thank you.” I forced a smile, the kind that didn't reach my eyes. “What can I get you, sir?”

He slid a card across the table, black with a single word embossed in silver. My heart skipped. The code. Outwit. The lowest level of the VIP, but still a world apart from the chaos of the main floor. I'd never been summoned before, and never like this.

“Room 7,” he said. “Just you. Bring a cigar. Cuban. The good shit.”

I nodded, pocketing the card. It was easy money, I told myself. No more, no less. The club had rules, strict ones. Especially for the girls. But the VIPs? They bent them like cheap straws. They held nothing sacred.

Within time, I was up the elevator, I passed the bouncers using the card with ease, who nodded me through without a word. Room 7 was at the center of the hallway, the door looked heavy and soundproofed.

I knocked once, entered with the cigar on a silver tray. The room was lavish, all dark wood and crimson velvet, a king-sized bed dominating the space.

The man was already there, lounging on the edge, his suit jacket discarded, shirt unbuttoned just enough to reveal his hairy chest.

“Close the door.”

I did, my fingers trembling slightly on the knob. “Your cigarette, sir. Is there anything else you’d like?”

“My name’s Giovan,” he introduces. “Yours?”

He took the cigarette in my hand, lighting it with a flick of his lighter. Smoke curled up, bitter and acrid. “Come here and talk.”

“I’m afraid I'm not supposed to—”

“Sit with me.” It wasn't a request. Giovan hand shot out, grabbing my wrist, pulling me down beside him. The cigar's ember glowed like a warning. “I can pay you. Just tell me.”

My pulse raced. This wasn't right. The club allowed flirting, maybe a touch, but nothing more. I tried to stand, but he yanked me back, his grip iron.

“Please, sir, I need to go—”

His laugh was low, guttural. “You think I paid for conversation? Look at you, all that young meat, all for myself.”

He shoved me onto the bed, his weight pinning me down. The mattress dipped under us, the sheets cool against my back. Panic surged through my veins like ice water.

“No, please!” I thrashed, my nails raking his arms, drawing thin lines of marks. “Please, stop! Let me go!”

He laughed again, his breath hot and sour, hands tearing at my uniform. Fabric ripped, exposing skin to the chill air. “Scream all you want. No one hears a damn thing in here.”

My mind screamed for escape, for survival. I twisted, my hand flailing toward the night table. Fingers brushed cold porcelain, until my hand trails against a cold vase, heavy and ornate.

I grabbed it, swung with all my strength. It connected with his temple, a sickening crack echoing in the room. Blood sprayed, warm and sticky, splattering my face. He grunted, eyes widening in shock, but he didn't let go. Not yet.

I swung again, harder. The vase didn't shatter, but the impact was there. Blood poured from the gash, soaking his hair, dripping onto the sheets. He slumped, dazed, his grip loosening. I shoved him off, scrambling to my feet. My heart hammered, breath ragged.

My mind screamed in panic. All I could think of was to run. To get out. To escape.

I bolted for the door, hand on the knob, twisting. But then I stopped in my tracks. My eyes grew from what I saw in the reflection from the glossy door.

A shadow in the corner, a figure lounging in a chair I hadn't noticed before.

He was smoking, the tip of his cigarette glowing red in the darkness, exhaling a plume that obscured his features. His eyes locked onto mine, piercing, unblinking.

He raised a finger to his lips, telling me to shush.

Before I could react, the door burst open. Two men in black hoodies stormed in, their faces hidden, movements silent and precise. They flanked me, one grabbing my arm, not hard, but firm enough to hold me in place.

Memories crashed over me like a hard wave, the intoxicating taste of fear: me hiding inside a dark closet on a stormy night, hands covering my brother's mouth to prevent him from making a sound, as we watched how the hooded man murder our parents.

My legs buckled, knees hitting the floor. Paralyzed. Helpless.

The man beside me leaned down, his voice a whisper, almost gentle. “We are not going to hurt you, only if you keep quiet. You can do that, right?”

I quickly nodded, mute, tears stinging my eyes. The figure in the chair stood then, unfolding like a predator from its lair. He was tall, broad-shouldered, his suit impeccable. Then, he pulled something from his suit. A gun, a silenced gun, the barrel gleaming under the low light.

My breath got caught. Those eyes. I knew them. It was the man from last night.

And without breaking our eye contact, he aimed at the man on the bed — who was half-awake, groaning, struggling himself to sit up. Then, he fired the gun without any emotion readable on his face.

Three shots.

They silently rang out, muffled pops that barely disturbed the air.

The first tore through his chest, a spray of red misting the air. The second punched into his throat, gurgling wetly. The third ended it, a clean hole in his forehead. The body jerked once, then stilled. The white carpet bloomed crimson, soaking through, dripping onto the floor slowly.

The shooter holstered the gun without a word, stepping over the corpse like it was nothing. He approached me, his boots leaving faint prints of blood on the carpet.

Up close, he smelled of danger, the kind I should not touch. His thumb brushed my cheek, wiping away a speck of blood. His touch was surprisingly gentle, lingering.

His gaze flicked to the hooded men, a silent command in his eyes and a subtle tilt of his head. They obeyed. Instantly. Dragging the body away with efficient brutality, limbs flopping, blood trailing in smeared arcs.

I stared up at the man in front of me, the room spinning, the metallic scent of blood choking me. The hooded men dragged the body away, efficient, and silent.

“Fierce help, little fox.” He murmured, his voice a low rumble that sent shivers down my spine.

He held my gaze, a faint, cold grin twisting his lips, and I knew.

I knew with that chilling, predatory grin of his that the night was far from over, it was just the beginning.

Who was this man who'd just saved my life from one monster and why did it feel like I traded one danger for another?