Nights like these, when the moisture and heat of the day filled the night with thick humidity, always brought them inside to the salvation of a cold beer and airconditioning. The early evening had gone over well enough. Mostly regulars dotted the bar stools, but as eight o’clock pooled into nine the sound of engines down the roadway cut over even the most. The dogs started howling.
One by one they entered, shedding their leather jackets with boisterous grunts while calling for the first round. It was an eerie sight, seeing all those canines hanging off the backs of the worn chairs. Fox remained behind the bar while the others who worked there, those deemed tougher, began ferrying out the pitchers. Cleaning the inside of one of the glasses, she watched their pretty, relaxed faces with envy. Vipers ready to bite at the heels of hounds at the first sign of a threat. They received compliments with sneers, never blushed, never found their mouths lacking the right words to say to get them to stop. Unlike Fox who would bashfully nod her head and offer up a weak thank you in a voice too quiet for anyone to pick up the Slavic accent that dripped over the words. The others, her friends and fellow waitresses, nicknamed her Candy for she was too damn sweet and knew how to make everyone smile, but that wasn’t all. Fox knew how to clean a wound with vodka, extract bullets from bone, and stitch up just about every type of scratch, slash, and gash that made it into the backroom of the bar. Returning her attention to the glass, she hoped she would not have to this night.
The night continued on with little to no issues, only one patron seemed to be giving them a problem and the women already had a tradition to deal with his sort. ‘Go get sticky, Candy,’ they grinned at her and Fox, feeling rather devilish, aimed to delight. Assholes who didn’t tip would be forced to whether they knew it or not. Pickpocketing, another of her laundry list of skills she could not put on her resume. What she found in the pocket of the man however was not a wallet, nor a wad of cash or the thin edge of a card. No, inside his pocket she extracted a thin column of cold metal. All her blood sank into her feet, though she fixed the man with a pretty smile as she took away his empty glass to hide her real reason for getting close. Without stopping she dropped off the empty glass and grabbed up another pitcher. The others watched with worried curiosity as Fox made her way between tables, ignoring touches and jeers until she was taking a seat before the leader himself. A gruff, fearsome-looking man his men called The Hound. Firearms were prohibited within the establishment, ( too many volatile personalities all packed together ), so the silencer could only mean one thing. It was not hard to put the pieces together -- who else within the four walls was notorious enough to deserve an assassination attempt?
Scared fingers shaking as she set down the pitcher, sloshing beer across the table. Fox kept her eyes low, her back to the rude stranger with the gun to hide the item she placed atop the wasted beer. “Look at me, do not look at him.” She knew her straight shot across the room had not gone unnoticed and if he was any degree of paranoid, the stranger would be sweating. “I think that man is here to kill you and I do not know if he is alone.”
@scarredhound ❤’d for a starter.
