Midnight Demons [ON HOLD]

Just Buy a Drink

Thursday nights were surprisingly busy nights. The number of horny men groping shirtless strippers was unbelievable. There were about five times as many customers here than there were on Monday through Wednesday nights.

Not that I minded. The more people that frequented Twisted Nights, the better. Usually, the hornier they are, the more they'll tip. The reason behind that being that none of the drunkards can tell the difference between bartender and stripper. The amount of times I have been groped is drastic.

I stand behind the bar watching the minutes tick by on the last hour of my shortened night. Typically my shift goes from 9:30 to 5:30. I got off early today because the owner is fumigating the place tomorrow morning at seven. Why a seven am fumigation requires a three-hour close is unbeknownst to me.

I'm approached by a man in his late twenties early thirties who looks all kinds of cocky. I would bet money that this man calls himself dominant but wants nothing more than to be tied to the bed and dicked down till he screams.

"Howdy there, precious." This man looks to be the one who would send their son to conversion therapy.

"Can I get you something to drink?" I ask with a tight smile.

"I would love to get a taste of you, darling." The man punctuates his remark with a wink. As though this would entice me into his pants.

"Well, that's rough because all we serve is alcohol. How about a nine dollar shot?" I prompt with an unamused look on my face.

"Depends. Will I have a better shot at taking you home tonight if I do?" He smiles cockily.

"Let me tell you how this is going to work. I'm going to pour you an eleven-dollar drink. You are going to set a twenty down on the counter, and then you are going to walk away. I don't care where you go or who you take home tonight. But it sure as hell isn't going to be me or with me," I tell him while poring a shot of tequila.

With an incredible look of defeat, the asshole sets down a twenty and takes the drink. After this, the man sulks away.

The rest of the night continues on similarly. Not to sound narcissistic, but I get hit on, scam them into buying an overpriced drink. And then send them on their way.

At closing time, I finish up with a quick sweep behind the counter. Then the dishes before locking up. With a glance around the club, I assess that all of my nightly duties have been fulfilled.

I lock up and head on my way. The city is never quiet, but between 2:45 am and 3:15, Chicago was the most silent it ever is. Which makes it the perfect half-hour for crimes.

The silent hour is why I carry pepper spray and a pocket knife in my pocket. Fortunately for anyone who attacks me, I could never stab anyone. I have no hesitation about using pepper spray, though. But that didn't stop me from clutching the knife in my pocket.

I pass by the same alleyway that I do every time I walk home from work. But this time, something feels off. The night's quiet is eerie instead of calm.

That's when I see it. A foot sticking out on the sidewalk from the shadows startles me. I freeze up, nudging the foot with the toe of my shoe, and look deeper into the alley.

I see a pair of eyes looking deep into my soul. Then in an instant, I am pushed up against the brick wall of the alley.

"Listen here, pipsqueak." A low voice growls. And just so it's clear. I am not a pipsqueak. I'm five-eight, which is barely below average. "You didn't see anything got it. Because I would hate for your night to end so very badly." There is a slight indistinguishable accent to his deep voice.

"I-I-" I stutter, not being able to form a complete thought due to the absolute fear coursing through my body.

I feel a fist full of my hair as my head is pressed further against the wall. Suddenly a feeling that I desperately try to suppress begins to bubble up.

For the record, my body reacting to being roughed up is in no way a representation of how I feel in this situation. I am one hundred percent terrified currently, but I may also have been a little aroused.

I hear a low laugh as my hair is pulled more aggressively. "I'm going to need a verbal response unless you would like your throat slit." I can't see his face, but I am one hundred percent picturing him as a Jeffery Dahmer type.

"I um, I-uh, didn't see anything. Please let me go. I swear I wouldn't dare tell anyone." I gulp. The light of the speeding cars illuminates his face enough that I can gouge his level of attractiveness, which, by the way, is high. Not at all Jeffery Dahmer level.

With dark hair and reddish-brownish eyes that must be contact lenses, Mr. Murder was definitely a sight for sore eyes. And this detail is incredibly cliche, but the jawline could cut a piece of bulletproof glass. Goddamn, if he wasn't a murderer, I could just melt in his undoubtedly muscled arms.

"Give me your phone." Mr. Murderer lets go of my hair, allowing me a little wiggle room to move.

The only phone I carried on me at work was my burner phone. Because A) I didn't want to get robbed and B) If anyone wanted my phone number, I could claim to not have one as there was no massive square bulge in my pocket.

I pull my burner phone out of my left pocket and hand it to him.

"A flip phone? Really?" The man scoffs before breaking it in half.

"Yes." I mumble, watching as the pieces crumble to the ground.

"Go home. And if I find out you tell anyone about tonight. I'll fucking kill you with my bare hands.

I furiously nod as he shoves me back into the street light. I turn to look down the alley, but I see nothing now. I wise up and focus my attention back on my walk home.

It takes me just under ten minutes to reach my apartment. And by the time I get there, I am still shaking with fear.

The lobby is empty, so I make a wise decision to sit there and sob in an armchair for a minute before regaining my composure.

Sometimes the only thing to fix writer's block is to start a brand new book. Anyways, hope you enjoyed, if not keep it to yourself.