I clutched tightly to the thin arm leading me through the alcohol-intoxicated crowd. The arm was, obviously, attached to a body, the body of my current boyfriend,
Terry. A painfully skinny boy of 22 with pale gold hair, deep chocolate eyes and pierced ears. Terry towered over the majority of the crowd with a grand height of 6’2; his skin was a light crème
colour that reflected the clubs dancing lights- only slightly lighter than my own skin. Sticky bodies pressed against my thighs and arms, rubbing sweat onto my already gleaming skin, I
recoiled from these bodies only to find more waiting behind me. This was the sole reason I hated clubs; the sweat. It was disgusting. God knows how whores worked here, it was bad enough being a
whore to start with but some level of comfort would be expected.
The tall body in front of me halted and I lightly fell into his side. Terry flicked his fringe back in the way that meant he was stressed about something, I
peered around his arm and coiled back, spotting a gang of pierced trouble makers. I hit Terry’s arm with my fist, he looked down at me and shook his head, his brown eyes catching my crystal-pale
blue. He had promised he wouldn’t be seeing them tonight; that he just wanted to take me out somewhere. The moment he drew up outside a dirty building with a neon sign hanging on the wall like
a bat clinging to a tree, I knew he had been lying. Terry never took me anywhere nice, nice to me at least; he seemed to think clubs were romantic places to take your girlfriend.
I sighed and dropped my fist to my side, he grabbed my now limp hand and squeezed it, I looked back up at his face and he smiled. My lips timidly rose in response
and he let my hand fall again, beginning towards the gang. I trailed along behind him, we had emerged from the greasy crowds and now lingered on the outskirts where an array of patched sofa’s lay
pressed against the bland brick walls. Adorning these sofas were a group of pierced up, pale skinned terrorists. Otherwise known as ‘The Jokers’.
Terry sat himself down at a particularly battered indigo sofa and I hesitantly sat down next to him, close enough as too feel the heat radiating off him. I
hated being apart from Terry when he went out; he took me too places I didn’t know, and would most likely get lost in. He casually struck up conversation with some fellow members of the gang, I was
instantly shuttered out. This always happened; he would drag me to a club, buy me a drink then completely leave me out. There was really no point in me ever coming; but it was ‘fashionable’ to
bring your girls to hang out with the gang. And that’s what I was, a fashion.
“Drinks boys!” called a stupidly high-pitched, happy voice from the direction Terry and I had just come from. I turned my head along with the others to find Lucy
holding a tray of drinks prancing towards us in a golden short dress with a diving neckline, showing off her divine breasts and delicious bronze skin. Smiling her model-shaming smile she
places the tray on the low scratched wooden table, then chose the largest and a small champagne flute. Lucy turned to an auburn armchair and draped herself on the arm pressing the large glass into
the hands of a dark-haired beauty. He gripped the delicate, transparent glass and raised it to his perfectly curved lips. He took a sip then paused, his light blue eyes flickering open he nodded.
The rest of The Jokers retrieved their glasses from the shining plastic tray and started on their own drinks. The tray now alone on the wooden table I realised Lucy hadn’t got me a drink. My heart
deflated slightly, she never did.
Terry carried on his conversation with Connor, second in command of The Jokers. He was dark-eyed and serious, had a reputation for being cruel and owned a head of
thick flame coloured hair which glinted red in the dim lights. Connor was also a close friend of Ace, the leader of The Jokers. Ace’s only real friend in fact, everyone else was just a
contact, just another person to call on.
I pitied him for that; for never having someone to depend on, never having someone to catch you when you fall. But Ace Chadwik didn’t need anyone there to fall
back onto, to talk to about personal issues. Ace Chadwik was the number one criminal of the USA and England; Ace Chadwik needed more contacts than friends. Why did he need someone to fall back
on when millions on young criminals around the world adored him, when his personal issues were the issues of every single member of The Jokers, when he wasn’t just a person, but a god?
Any pity I held for him evaporated in that moment, instead my lip curled in disgust at the man. He must be so full of himself. Knowing everyone knew him, he must
feel like a god, some sort genius. But this man wasn’t worthy of life, of a working body, of a brilliant mind. He was nothing more than a greedy man who slacked off school and never could turn in a
piece of homework in his life. This man was scum, he ought to be living on the streets, but his brilliance prevented him from being anything but worshipped. The pure genius of his mind kept him
alive. And he didn’t just think that; he was that, he was pure excellence.
What a jerk.
I looked up at the man in the Auburn armchair; my lip still curled, and met his intense eyes full on. Glaring straight into his core. The cleanness of his eyes
was a deceiving mislead to his true nature, the greedy, dark nature that possessed him to kill, to rob, to injure. Only when his eyes dropped back down to his cup did I realise what I had just
done. A monumental wave of embarrassment, pride and fear swept right into my mind, swamping my head. I had just stared off the most feared man in the world, I had challenged him directly and he had
resigned. The shock of it sent the blood pumping into my face, staining my cheeks a rose scarlet. He had let me beat him. I was just a girlfriend of a well-known member of the gang and I had
felt I had the right to challenge the leader. I was so stupid. But it had happened. My disgust in him had given me the bravery, or stupidity, to glare him off, perhaps to even make him feel
ashamed. He should be, the filthy man.
No; he wouldn’t be ashamed. He was Ace Chadwik, he was a god. Maybe he just thought me below him; someone he shouldn’t even bother to challenge, someone who held
no claim at all over The Jokers. I slowly relaxed my shoulders and fell back into my chair, only just noticing I had been sitting up-right staring straight at Ace. That must be it; I wasn’t even
worth fighting, I was just a girl he saw a few times a week. Nothing special; nothing different.
I slowly let out a breath and brushed a lock of blonde hair from over my eye, snatching a glance of Ace in the process. He continued to merely survey the group,
not contributing to the conversation but listening in to the debate that had now taken over several present members. He showed no sign that he had dropped my gaze; that I had won because, in
reality, he always won.
Rolling my tongue over the inside of my mouth I became aware of my thirst. I sent an anxious look around the group; everyone else had a drink, no-one would buy me
one, I was on my own. Sighing inside I stood and whispered something about needing a drink into Terry’s ear, he nodded absentmindedly as I slipped away into the slimy crowd of grinding
The bar was easy enough to find, a crooked sign hung over its location, subtly reading ‘BAR’ probably for the benefit of half-drunk lunatics. And me, I didn’t
know a thing about clubs except they were loud and smelled repulsive. But there was a standard layout I knew nothing about; anyone who used clubs regularly would figure it out. Dance floor in the
middle, bar on the side, sitting area opposite or to the side of the bar, bathrooms next to the bar, back exit also close to bar, entrance close to seating, but never opposite the bar.
Breaking free of the warm crowd I leant against the bar and waited for the bartender’s attention. He was currently serving a blonde-haired boy who couldn’t be any
older than me. My gaze drifted from him and to the stocks of bottles the bar held behind it. As a child I had always loved to join my dad at the bars of fancy restaurants and gaze in wonder
at the bright selection of carefully stacked bottles, each of which cost a fortune. This bar was a sad comparison to that magical sight; dull hardwood shelves containing a maximum of 10 dusty
bottles of fine champagne, the taps where beer and other alcohol was served were well used and turning a coppery-yellow colour in a distinctive thumb mark. The glasses in the cupboards were
far from clean – but not yet black, they were all chipped and stained. I frowned; did I really want to drink out of that? What about The Jokers? The glasses they had used had been perfectly clean.
A distinctive memory of Ace’s pale hands gripping the glass echoed in my mind. Defiantly clean.
The bartender turned away from the boy and then went to a corner to clean some cups. My brow knitted further together; why was he ignoring me? He had defiantly
seen me; I had spotted him glancing my way while pouring the boy a drink. I drummed my nails impatiently against the table, angry that the bartender thought he could get away with ignoring me. He
grew increasingly annoyed at the drum roll that disturbed his moody cleaning before finally giving out and pulling his unsightly dirty body over to the serve me.
I ordered my drink in the most patronising voice I owned and coated it with sugar, making sure to tell him to make it quickly. His face grew red as he
muttered ‘Aye ma’am’ and turned around the cupboard, rummaging around in it till he came across possibly the dirtiest glass he could find and pouring a golden liquid into it. He pushed the cup out
to me and smiled smugly; he then turned away once more and returned to his slow and pointless cleaning of cups. I picked up the glass and raised it to my lips; about to brave taking a sip, I had
after all just challenged this Bartender to an invisible game of wills. Something brushed against my arm just as I opened my mouth. I instantly stopped before I consumed any of the liquid, that
brush had been very much purposeful. I half turned to see who had so obviously ran his hand across my arm and came face to face with Ace – well not face to face, the guy was just too tall, rather I
stared at his chest before realising how tall he was and looking up. He wrapped an arm around my shoulder so that both his hands touched the bar and stood behind me.
“Bartender” he said coldly in that slightly Russian voice of his, the bartender instantly stood still. Ace repeated and the bartender hurried over to us, his
grubby face white reflecting the fear I felt for being so close to this daunting killer. His impressive chest was pressed against my back, his smooth skin brushing my own; the scars prickling
slight hairs on my arms.
“My dear friend here wants a drink, not a cup of filth” Ace told the man, gesturing to the glass which was now turning a flaky brown colour, swirls of dirt
rotating in circles in the mixture. The bartender nodded urgently, his head bobbing up and down and he rushed to retrieve a glass from beneath the bar. The cup he drew out was impressively clean
and sparkled in the bar lights. The bartender then went to fill this cup with the same golden liquid as before but a word from Ace prevented him.
“Barolo, Ken” His dark voice once more froze the bartender; he nodded frantically again and ducked under the bar. Barolo? Barolo, I wasn’t made of money,
there was no way I could afford that. Ace must know that; this is probably his revenge, make me buy an over-priced drink and loose half my wages. My hands gripped the sides of the counter next to
his, the scum.
Ken, the bartender, poured the enchanting red liquid into the clear cup, careful not to spill a drop from the dark bottle. He placed the cup carefully on the side
in front of me and waited. I went for my small leather side-bag I kept at my side but Ace stopped me, gently grasping my wrist and bringing it back up to the counter. He drew out a few notes from
his pocket and threw them on the counter. The bartender hurriedly gathered them up and stuffed them into the till. Ace didn’t wait for any change but instead took my drink in one hand and my wrist
in the other and heading back to the gang. The crowd parted from him as moved, no-one knew who he was, but his presence was enough to stop an elephant in its foot-step. The dark radiating off him
in waves most certainly repelled the dancing crowds that flocked the dance floor.
As we once more emerged from the crowd he stopped me, placed my drink in my hands and strolled back to his auburn seat, where Lucy threw herself onto him. I stood
there for a second, trying to process my thoughts. He had just bought me a whole glass of Barolo, one of the most expensive red wines then just walked off like it was nothing, and
just before that I had been glaring at him in open disgust. Biting my lip in confusion I made my way back over to Terry and sat next to him, he briefly ran his hand over my thigh then removed
his hands again, engaging in an argument with Connor.
I crossed my legs over and watched Lucy run her hands over Ace’s body through narrowed eyes; he didn’t make any move to touch her.
Smiling to myself at her pathetic desperateness I took a sip of the delicious liquid; the exquisite flavour burning my throat as it fell like honey through my
So; Should I Continue? I've Got To Chapter 4 Already, But I Want To Know If It's Worth Keeping This Up And Publishing More...Your Opnions?
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