✔𝐁𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐓𝐨 𝐁𝐞 𝐆𝐨𝐨𝐝 ➳𝐌𝐚𝐱 𝐁𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐭𝐭

𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝑭𝒐𝒖𝒓

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𝐒𝐡𝐞 watches as Max ambles towards a corner of the bar with the bald man. He doesn't look like the kind of dealer she's spent time around, his clothes are too clean and expensive. It means he isn't an addict himself. He made a point to let them know that by pulling up his sleeves past his elbows.

Digging into her purse, she pulls out the pack of cigarettes and a lighter. Smoking isn't something she usually does, it's too much of a stench when she's on the clock, which she isn't ever off — until she met Max. She wonders if he minds smokers, he might with how uptight he can be. It's to stay safe, she knows that, but he could relax a little. Even on the plane ride here, when they didn't need to keep up appearances, he had a certain air that wasn't present in his apartment.

Max leans closer to the dealer, speaking lowly and glancing in her direction. She makes a quick effort to look at her phone and pretend she hasn't been watching their entire interaction.

She's going to get to the bottom of him and get a shitload of money out of it at the same time. Moving to Europe doesn't sound half bad, she had a friend who went off to college and studied a year abroad. Came from a rich family too. Thinking back on it, she regrets pretending to be upper middle class. Her friend's parents were kind, if she had played it right, they might have given her money and she could have gone off to college too.

A sound from the corner pulls her attention, one of the older men who's sat here throughout the entire afternoon and evening has started puking his guts out. The poor bartender tries to push him out, so he won't have to clean as much of a mess, probably. She grimaces and gets up, wandering over to them. The bartender is a young man, probably desperate for a job if he chose a place like this, his eyes are a dark brown, weighed down with something far beyond his age. Maybe he's trying to escape something or someone by working here. Runaways are common. Especially in larger cities, she's had to track down enough of them herself to know.

She's moving towards them without thinking much of it, anything is better than sitting still with the remainder of the poker players at the table. They're the worst kind of vultures. Not only do they prey on the ones living on the edge but they're filth right to the core. When she was younger there used to be programs on TV about wildlife in Africa, some man in a deep voice would give a voice-over, depicting in gruesome words how vultures would eat anything and strip the meat clean off the bones of creatures. Anything except other vultures, they wouldn't ever touch their own kind and neither would others. Likewise, no one touches them whether they're dead or alive. Not even the police.

"Need help?" She asks the young man and deposits her smoke in an ashtray, crushing out the last sparks.

He looks up with large eyes. "Oh, no you don't have to. Michael often has a little too much of the good stuff. He just needs some air," he grunts, trying to force the guy to stand while Michael babbles incoherently, dragging his jacket after himself.

She smiles and walks to the door, holding it open. "Hey, Michael? Ready to go?" Her voice drips with honey and the bartender frowns slightly, confused. Michael looks up, grinning toothily if one can call it that with how many of them are missing. He slurs some more but throws himself in her direction, hitting harshly against the door frame when his legs aren't quite strong enough to keep him standing.

The bartender takes over holding the door when she lets it slip from her hand and walks outside. The man is like a hungry dog, yapping and barking while following in her footsteps, hoping that if he stays close and keeps making his presence known, he'll get a treat. Her arms fold over her chest while the bartender helps Michael sit against the wall. Michael's jacket is lying halfway in the door and she grasps the collar, pulling it up. Her eyes are quick to catch it, that little glint from a clear ziplock bag with its red edges and her body moves without a thought crossing her mind. Fingers lock around the bag as she plucks it smoothly from the pocket and stuffs it into the thick waistband of her skirt. The bartender is none the wiser.