Perverts

MIGUEL

The bar smelled like stale beer and desperation, a haze of cigarette smoke curling through the air as laughter and slurred voices bounced off the chipped walls.

I wove through the crowd, tray balanced on one hand, while the other itched to shove someone—anyone—who got too close. At 20, I shouldn’t still be here, slinging drinks for tips I’d never see enough of, but life didn’t give a shit about age. 

My sneakers stuck to the floor with each step, the soles worn thin from nights like this. Endless, loud nights full of assholes who thought I was part of the menu. I adjusted my grip on the tray, four beers sloshing in their glasses as I caught a flicker in the corner of my eye. There, in the dark part of the club, in the shadowed nook where the lights didn’t dare reach, a figure sat still as stone, staring. Always staring.

I rolled my eyes, gritting my teeth. Another fucking creep. The men here were predictable. Their eyes would crawl over me like I was some prize to paw at, mouths running with garbage they thought was clever. 

I cursed him in my head, that shadow man, and lumped him in with the rest. Probably some perv nursing a whiskey and a hard-on, waiting for me to bend over just right. Disgust coiled in my gut but I kept moving. No time to care. I had tables to serve and cash to scrape together. 

Every cent was a step closer to paying off Emily. My mother. My stepmother. Whatever the hell she was now, with her brassy hair and her shrill demands echoing in my skull: “You owe me, Miguel! Every dime I spent keeping you alive!” 

She’d tallied it up like a ledger: food, clothes, and the shitty roof over my head, shoving it in my face since I was eleven. And that was the exact age I started bussing tables, washing dishes, and doing anything to chip away at her bill. Nine years later, I was still at it, still drowning in her greed while she lounged in her leopard-print dresses, counting my sweat like it was her due.

I hit my next table, a rickety four-top near the jukebox, and set the beers down with a clink. Three guys in their mid-30s were already half-tanked with their ties loosened, faces flushed, and their voices loud over the thumping bass. The fourth was the worst. He was sprawled in his chair like a king, gut spilling over his belt, with his glassy eyes locked on me.

“Well, look at this,” he drawled, lips wet with spit and booze. I could almost hear the next sentence even before it poured out his filthy mouth. “Pretty little thing, ain’t ya? Bet you’d look better outta that apron.” His buddies snickered, and I bit my tongue, sliding the last glass in front of him. 

I’d learned to always ignore them. My jaw tightened, but as I turned to go, his hand shot out, his thick fingers grabbing my ass like it was his to claim.

The tray hit the table with a bang as I whipped around, smacking his hand off me so hard the crack cut through the noise. 

“Keep your filthy paws to yourself,” I snapped, my voice low, sharp enough to slice. My skin crawled where he’d touched, a hot flare of rage licking up my spine. 

He lurched to his feet, swaying, his face twisting red. “You little shit,” he bellowed, loud enough to turn heads. “Do you know who you’re messing with? Huh?” He loomed over me, breath reeking of beer and bad decisions. His bulk blocked out the dim light. I didn’t flinch. I’d seen worse. Hell, I’d lived worse.

He snatched a bottle off the table, gripping it by the neck, and raising it like he thought it’d scare me. My hand was faster. I dipped into my pocket and pulled out the small knife I always carried. It was about three inches of steel, chipped but sharp, my lifeline since I was a kid dodging Emily’s parade of perverts. I flicked it open, holding it steady between us, the blade glinting. 

“Back off now,” I said, calm, cold, my eyes boring into his. His gaze darted from the knife to my face, and I saw the flicker of doubt in him. The drunk bravado was crumbling. He muttered a slur I didn’t catch, then staggered back, the bottle clinking as he set it down. 

“Fuckin’ psycho,” he spat, but he was already turning, weaving through the crowd toward the door, with his buddies trailing like scolded dogs.

I let out a breath as I slipped the knife back into my jeans. My pulse still hammered, but I shook it off and straightened my jacket. The bar hummed back to life, glasses clinking, voices rising, like nothing had happened. Just another night.

I grabbed the tray and wiped a hand across my forehead, pushing damp curls out of my eyes. That was when I felt it again: that prickling on the back of my neck. I glanced over, and there he was. The shadow man. He was still there, still watching, a lazy silhouette against the dark wall. No movement, just that steady, unblinking stare pinning me in place. My stomach twisted, not with fear—fuck that—but with something else. Annoyance, maybe. Or curiosity I didn’t want to admit.

I turned away and forced my focus back to the bar. Didn’t matter who he was. Another creep, another night, another dollar toward freedom. I’d been dodging stares and hands since I was old enough to carry a tray. Emily made sure of that while dragging her sleazy boyfriends through our house, leaving me to fend for myself. Self-defence wasn’t just a skill; it was survival. 

And that knife was my best friend when fists weren’t enough. I’d never stabbed anyone yet but the threat worked. Usually. Tonight, it had, and that was enough.

I headed for the counter with my tray tucked under my arm, the weight of that shadowed gaze still lingering like a ghost. Let him stare. Let him rot in that corner. I had work to do, tables to clear, and a debt to kill. Emily wasn’t getting another year out of me if I could help it. 

One day, I’d walk out of this shithole, out of her grip, and never look back. Until then, I would keep moving, fighting, and keeping my knife close. The shadow man could watch all he wanted. Just like the other men who had tried, he wasn’t going to get a damn thing.