Secretly you love this, do you even wanna' go free? Let me in the ring, I'll show you what that big word means
mentions: Yvonne, Ayaz, Vidal, Henry and Olivier tw: gore, violence, murder
The lights had never bothered her. If anything, they made it all the easier to slip in and out of the crowd of people that ventured into the open mouth of the Venue, and more specifically the Rutherfords. A cesspool of the cities most oblivious mingling without a thought about the demons they congregated with. If Hell offered an everglade of euphoria for the worst creatures the city held; the Venue would be the welcoming party. The leather skirt she wore clung tight to a lithe form. A snake among them, sidling up alongside the unsuspecting offering a glimpse of sweat and honey beneath the white lace of her crop top; leaving little to the imagination as she lured them beyond the lobby of a Rutherford hellscape and beyond. Without question, she teed up dealers with those willing to pay, and poured every elixir known to man that might otherwise inebriate those only looking for a night they’ll never remember.
Gather information; carve out a safe place for lips eager to spill all. She was little more than a pretty face to them; harmless. Good for a fuck, just a taste; all while she wove the design of their own demise between manicured fingertips.
As easily as she managed, there was no doubting the dire need to lash out that had simmered away since her initial release. Bound and muzzled by her mentors, Isla listened to Henry and Vidal because she wanted to. And subconsciously, in a grab for their approval. Their respect. It’s one of the few things she’s deigned to desire since the cold night two of the Rutherford's enforcers arrived at her fathers store to deliver the consequence of a failed payment. It was a fire that never dimmed, and one that Isla would prove was catching, even if it killed her. Even if she was just a pretty face.
A hand, as silken as the smoothes porcelain surface found its way beneath her skirt, squeezing the curve of her behind with a certain fervor that made her teeth grit. Pause. Her features soften as she glances across her shoulder at him, the glint of mischief in the sparkle of her eye that only becomes all the brighter as her manicured brow peaks “Where you going, baby?” She reads his lips over the reverberating thrum of drum and bass that called the club home. The blonde turns, instantly pressing her body into his, just to speak into the shell of his ear as she lifts the expensive bottle she was taking to a booth of loyalists. “To do my job. Someone around here has to make sure you’re all having a good night,” there’s something sickly sweet to the curvature of her voice, a flicker of venom that nobody ever saw coming. Yvonne Rutherford. The name had swelled an unspeakable cloud above them that they were entirely unaware of. A passing mention that perhaps nobody else would have thought to pick up, and yet Isla had. Perhaps the awful accent, or the pompous way in which they dressed, as loud as their voices - begging everyone close enough to believe they were something worth watching made them believe that there was too much to see, for anyone to truly be listening. Maybe they knew that their worth truly only extended to their looks; and not every moronic fucking thought that came to the front of their barely mature mind. She never missed a beat though. “How are you meant to make sure we’re having fun if you’re not here with us?” It doesn’t really land with her, though the fact that he and his friends are quickly jabbing each other with elbows makes it clear to her the kind of people they were. “You’re too pretty to be working like this..” he grinned and pulled her closer, pressing a finger beneath her chin to lift her gaze, “- I’d take care of you.” She could have gagged, openly, feeling her skin crawl in the same way that it always did.
Gather information. Fuck that.
White teeth scour her lesser lip, and doe hues flicked between them, and back to the bar. Beneath her heels, the sticky substance seeks to glue her to the spot and the tang of desire rears its ugly head as she sets the bottle on the table and offers a dazzling smile, “How about you take care of this for now..” The blonde drawls out, the briefest touch of fingertips across his leg, just a taste, “And then you take care of me later.” Hues linger just long enough for it to sink in, beneath his foolish demure of importance, “Both of you… take care of me later.” It’s all she says, plucking the phone from the table in front of him, to dial her own number before she tucks it safely into the pocket on the inside of his suit jacket. “I’ll call you when I finish,” —----------------
There are options. There are always options. But Isla had never been one to weigh them up equally. And the taste of being the only one to know only served to fill her drunk with the spark of desire that she felt beneath her bones once again. Proving herself was one thing, though she’d hoped that the things she wanted didn’t make her seem desperate to impress. Simply put, Isla Hunt knew what she was good at. And chaos tangled itself so tightly around her fingertips, it was impossible to ignore. “I’ll be out in five x.”
The club had emptied out and the lingering echo of all that went on within the four walls continued to ricochet as each lights dimmed out, as each of those she worked with said goodnight and left. The early hours always gave Isla the time she needed to herself - it suited her to be the last to leave, very few others were willing to deal with what could be waiting beyond the doors. But this time, Isla knew. The back door closes behind her, a heavy steel door upon rusting hinges and she perches upon the landing just long enough to light a cigarette. The cherry tip in the dark an ominous glow when one considered the horrors that lurked in the dark. Luckily, tonight, she intended to be that horror. The car pulls up. The darkened SUV worth more than everything she owns, and she cursed it to hell as her heels click against the steps and the doors of the vehicle swing open to reveal the two french soldiers. Unassuming, and stupid. They jeer. One waves a clear bag of white powder and the blonde feels a sting of disappointment at the notion of it. Inebriated, she didn’t hate.. But if they were high, it certainly took an ounce of fun out of it. The irony wasn’t entirely lost on her. The barely gone cigarette is crushed beneath the toe of her shoe as she slows to a stop, pressing a shoulder into the car and it’s clear enough that they’ve only got one thing on their mind. The press of damp lips meet her shoulder as the taller of the two draws an arm around her waist - the giggle that she elicits is hollow, but they don’t know that. Somewhere in the mess of powder, lips, teeth and the bottle of vodka she’d palmed off to them earlier, the cool leather of the backseat settles against her skin. It’s a wonder the two can barely see, though she supposes they’re built like bulls and couldn’t think for a second that they’d made a single wrong move in their attempt to run a very, very stupid play by the eyes and ears of the Rutherford organization. A rough hand curls in against the inside of her thigh, and she buries fingertips into the mess of blonde hair upon what she thinks might be the younger of the two before she speaks. A heavy breath, one among many to fog the windows just that little bit more.
“Hey.. hey,” there’s velvet in the husk of her voice, as she thinks about how many times she’ll have to scrub her skin raw, and yet she continues, reaching for the bottle with one hand as she shifts just enough for the brute with blue eyes to draw her into his lap, the cramped backseat nothing that he clearly hasn’t maneuvered before. She draws the bottle to her lips, careful enough that the clear liquid slips through the gap without her ever really touching the rim of the bottle. Isla leans in, a hand pressed to his chest as she looks between the two. The tilt of her head portraying the same beautiful woman she’d become accustomed to being seen as, “How do you know Yvonne Rutherford’s address?”
Silence.
Something in her eyes changes. A flicker in the warmth of the fire burning. Once one of muted desire, turned to a raging inferno as realization dawned on them.
“It’ll be easy. She’s like an outlier of the family.. Nobody is paying her any fucking attention right now and I’ve been staking the place for weeks now.” “You’re insane.” Pause. “Wait till the boy’s find out we kidnapped and put Yvonne Rutherford six fucking feet under.”
The bottle she held already cracked; a detail she’d noted hours before and intended to get rid of before conversation had crept in like a little voice in her head, met the back of the center console with a deft shatter of glass, and everything within the confines of the car exploded. Isla’s hand still curled around the neck of the bottle as she drove the jagged edge into his gut, once... twice.... in the same breath that a hand curls around her neck and drags her to the other side of the backseat.
Her head connects with the window, tinnitus rupturing within her head as everything spins and she searches in the dark for clarity. It doesn’t matter where it is. All she knows is anger - anger and pure hatred. The air in her lungs rushing out as a fist buries itself somewhere in the pit of her stomach. Like hell - the blonde knew who she was, what she was; and among the monsters that reigned above her, Isla Hunt wasn’t one to be underestimated. She’d lost the bottle, and it rolled away beneath one of the chairs; but she didn’t need it. The shard she now gripped as she doubled over cut deeply into the palm of her hand, her own blood the same sacrifice she’d make over and over for the Rutherfords after they picked her up and gave her something to wield. They’d lost enough. Stars splinter her vision, and she feels the skin at her brow split, blood slipping to stain usually piercing eyes with a certain horror that she’d fight to see through. Instinctively, her hand flies up to protect her face and instead collides with a target she hadn’t been aiming for. Glass slices through flesh and she knows it’s a scar he’ll either wear for the rest of his life, or one that will never get a chance to heal. His scream ripples through the air and she knows it pierces the night beyond the cars cabin. “You fucking bitch, my eye..” His eye indeed. It hangs limp from his socket and the gnarly open wound a crevice of flesh and blood that she knows belongs to her now. Isla heaves a breath as he slows, perhaps conceding some kind of defeat. The other, slumped in his seat growing paler by the minute hadn’t served an ounce of fight since she carved open his gut.
She feels a moment of relief slither into the tension in her back, but disappointment soon follows. All that bravado for fuck all. The blonde spits, a mix of blood and saliva and wipes at her mouth, crimson highlighting the white of her teeth even more than usual. “Fucking pigs.” It’s muttered beneath her breath, stained blonde hair catching against the drivers side headrest as she leans back to catch another breath; a mistake that she deeply regrets as she her side lights up, white hot with pain and the sound of a bullet fires off. It’s deafening and whatever ringing she might have heard in her ears before hand was nothing compared to this. The hole the bullet had carved through the roof of the car only inches from the side of her head; a near miss. Unlike the shard of glass now broken off just beneath her ribs. The blonde gasps and finds she can’t draw a big enough breath, and where defeat might have come swiftly, it only surged her anger to boil over. “And here I was, considering leaving you alive to play messenger boy.” But with one heavy swing, the already bloodied glass buried itself in his neck. The blonde slumps back in his seat, and she watches quietly, as he drowns in his own blood and meets whatever devil hell sent for him. “The Rutherford’s send their fucking regards.”
—------------------ It’s with great effort that Isla pulls herself over the center console and into the front seat. She digs through the glove box, quick to snatch up the phone that definitely doesn’t belong to her - knocking an array of photographs to the floor in the process, only to dial her own number long enough to find her purse. Tucked away beneath the passenger seat, blood smears the leather, dark until it dries and becomes a piece of the upholstery, and true to the women’s ability to multitask, she flips over the photographs as she digs it free.
“I need your help. Venue. x.”
She texts, hues flickering over each snapshot of Yvonne coming and going from her home in London. She doesn’t care what the time is; Isla knows Ayaz will be there.
And while she waits, she flips the vanity mirror down, drawing the edge of a shaky pinky finger around the edge of her lip, her opposing thumb pressing down on the trigger of her lighter, watching as it caught light in the dark of her resurgence. She would always be more than just a pretty face, but a pretty face didn’t hurt.