Rikr

A girl walks into a bar, dressed in a black crop top and ripped blue jeans. A black chunky boot which has seen better years adorned her foot.

The bar was empty, not yet open to customers. It looked normal-windowless walls painted black, rows of glass bottles, the smell of beer and stale air. But it wasn't normal, standing on the edge of Shappy Town as it did. She wasn’t surprised though. It was still late afternoon. This place gets filled and going only at night.

“Storm? What are you doing here?" A man washing glasses asked her. He looked cool, at least he was still sober. There was no air of aggression, no air of menace. Well, relatively no air of menace. This was a crappy part of town, and menace was its stock-in-trade.

Storm told herself she had nothing to be afraid of; at least for now.  So, she shrugged her shoulders to the man’s question. He was familiar a bit, but she was surely not going to ask him how he had known her name. She wasn’t interested in knowing that. She just wanted to get her money and leave this crappy place. It was already giving her the jeeps.

“Aren’t you going to say something? You should know better that this side of the town is not meant for sweet girls like you. I’m sure the tabloids and newspapers are doing their work well in broadcasting the true image of it.” The man stated, still looking at her dead in eye, the unwashed glass cups abandoned for her sake.

“Sorry. I’m looking for Mr. Tim. I’m here to collect my pay. He had eaten at the restaurant, and had left in a hurry, before I could collect his debt. Where is he? My step mum mentioned that he stays here.” She replied, refusing to call the man unto the error he had made earlier by calling her a sweet girl. If only he knew. She thought, slipping her two slender smooth hands into the front pockets of her jeans.

“Your step mother told you to come here? I wouldn’t be surprised if she falls into the category of the annoying stepmothers then.” The man mentioned, and Storm shrugged her shoulders again at the truthiness of the statement. Her stepmother was from hell. There was no other explanation for the woman’s atrocious behaviors, that had forced her to grow up literally even from an early age.

“You seem to have a problem with words.” The man said after a while, probably not cool with her silence. But that was an error on his part again, but she was not going to call him on that either. The reason for her silence was because she was observing things for this was her first time of being here.

Rather, she nodded, and the man gestured with his cloth to a door at the end of the bar. "Knock him dead, sweetheart. But be careful whilst doing that."

"I'll try." She finally said, pivoted and stalked away towards the door in question, feeling his gaze on her back all the way. She hoped to God that he wasn’t staring at her ass. He had looked to cool to be caught dead doing that. But you never can tell with the inhabitants of this area.

She knocked on the door marked "Private," and a man on the other side growled, "Come in."

“I just need to collect the money from him. Then I'm done, on my way home.  Storm muttered to herself, taking in a deep shaky breath, especially as she noticed two bulky men step into the bar from the entrance door. A trickle of moisture rolled between her shoulder blades as she made herself open the door. The voice had bided her to come in after all.

A man leaned back in a chair behind a messy desk, a sheaf of papers in his hands. His booted feet were propped on the desk, his long legs a feast of blue jeans over muscle. He was quite handsome alright; hard, honed body; midnight black hair; definite air of menace. But he wasn’t the man she was looking for.

When Storm entered, he stood, setting the papers aside.

Damn. He rose to a height of well over six feet and gazed at Storm with eyes blue like the morning sky. His body wasn't only honed; it was hot-big chest, wide shoulders, tight abs, firm biceps against a form-fitting black T-shirt.

“Who are you?” He asked, furrowing his eyebrows at her.

“I am Storm. I am here for Mr. Tim. Is he around? The bar attendant had mentioned that he would be here.” Storm replied.

A pinch of silence. She noticed him trailing his eyes all over her, and she almost scoffed in anger. What a pervert! She thought, wishing they were at the other part of the town where she could have the liberty to hit him at the balls without fearing to be shot down by some crazy assholes.

“Hello…” She bit out annoyingly, waving her hand in the path of his eye-fucking.

A small smile slithered across his full well shaped lips at her outburst. He was enjoying unsettling her. With old-fashioned courtesy, he placed a chair in front of the desk and motioned her to it. 

Storm felt the heat of his hand near the small of her back as she seated herself, smelled the scent of soap and male musk; couldn’t believe that she wanted to drown in them. But who could blame her? The man was way over her league.

"Where is Mr. Tim?" She asked again, wanting to be out of here in the speed of light. She was feeling hot and bothered all of a sudden. This man was bad news for her heart.

The strange man sat back down, returned his motorcycle boots to the top of the desk, and laced his hands behind his head. 

“He will be here in a minute. Why are you looking for him though?” He asked.

The lilt in his voice was unmistakable. Storm put that with his black hair, impossibly blue eyes, and exotic name. "You're Irish." She muttered, before she could stop herself.