Page 4 of Demon
I don’t know which part of her caught my attention first. She wore cutoff denim shorts; long slim legs going on and on into lace-up black boots stretching up towards her calves. The white shirt was tied in a knot just under her tits, showing off a stomach of smooth, creamy skin, bulging slightly in the middle and out over fleshy hips. On top of the shirt hung a leather waistcoat. Not dissimilar to ours, but withTrouble on the Tyneembroidered on the two rockers on the back. A fake cut.
She walked past me. A tray of glasses balanced in one hand, striding confidently to a group sitting just to our right where she stopped, plucking the drinks from the black tray, and sliding them across the table. The denim shorts rode up her arse cheeks, a tiny bulge of flesh hanging out the bottom, hinting at something fleshy and full if I were to cup my hands on it.
But it wasn’t my hands that cupped those arse cheeks. The man beside her reached out, his fingers trailing up the back of her thigh, her hands busy balancing the last of the drinks on the tray as she passed a tall pint of lager across the far side of the table. She jumped slightly, stepping away, the hand following, groping, and fondling. Touching something that didn’t belong to him.
“Fuck! Demon!”
I heard Fury’s voice from behind me. But I was already on my feet. Already moving.
Chapter Three
Ciara
The club was in the belly of deprivation in downtown South Shields. Only the odd charity shop or bargain basement among a neglected terraced street. I’d left the car in a carpark across the road, but now I worried that even my clapped-out red runabout wouldn’t be there when I got back. At the end of the street the venue stood, a block of black painted vertically down the side, the red letters standing out, telling every passer-by exactly what to expect, not least because of its name.
Trouble.
I’d worked in these places before. I knew what to expect. But despite that, it hit me with a deep thud of dread. An omen, maybe? Or maybe it just stirred up a memory. The same red writing, the same seedy feeling. Pausing, I stared back up at the building. It must have been a shop at one point. In the middle of the wall, the brickwork changed. It was like a giant patch had been stuck to its side. A window hurriedly bricked up.
I should probably have walked away. Found something else. But money was tight. Tighter now that my arsehole landlord was putting the rent up. Again. I should probably find somewhere else to live too. A different job. A different bedsit. Yet life liked to show me how much it could suck. And recently I’d evaded the attention of the Polish. It had given me time to start over, to get back to Uni. And for once, just once, there was a tiny hint my life might just be getting a little better.
Sighing, I pushed against the glass interior door, the outer door already wedged open. My pride would have to wait. The money couldn’t.
Inside, the place was dimly lit, despite not being open to the public yet. Or at least not according to the opening times painted crudely on the black door. The bar was lit by a red back light shining through the optics of liquor hanging against the wall, the light refracting, sending shattered beams cascading down onto the bar top in front. Two people hunched over on stools to the left-hand side, sipping at half-drunken pints and chattering in low voices to the man stood in front of them, wiping glasses with a tea towel.
The place had that stale alcohol smell. And cigarette smoke. There had been an indoor smoking ban in public places in Britain for years, but clearly, these guys didn’t care. If my stomach could sink any lower, it would have done.
No one seemed to notice me as I stepped in, moving cautiously forward. The men on the stool were still deep in conversation, while the man behind the bar occasionally frowned. He had long hair tied back in a ponytail and a bushy beard dangling off his chin a good few inches. The arms poking out of his t-shirt sleeves were thick and covered in tattoos, all the way down to his hands, which seemed to move erratically, the grey shading and dim light making them almost demonic.
“Hi,” my voice squeaked, shrill and loud in the space between us, “are any of you, Terry?”
“Aye,” the man behind the bar answered. “You must be Ciara, huh?”
I nodded. The nerves in my stomach now straining in my throat, tightening their grip around my vocal cords. This place had an atmosphere. A threat in the air that I just couldn’t work out. Yet really, inside, it wasn’t unlike the strip clubs I’d worked in before.
“Yes, for an interview,” I answered eventually, the two men on stools turning round to scrutinise me.
Terry watched me for a moment. His eyes sweeping over my body, resting in the usual places, and moving on again. Then he nodded.
“Great. You pass. Can you start tonight?”
“Don’t you want me to pull a pint or something first?”
“Nah. You’ll be ‘reet.”
“You know it’s bar work I’m after? I’m not a dancer.”
“Aye. Just bar work.”
He smiled. An attempt at reassurance, but it didn’t fill me full of confidence.
“What do you want the bar staff to wear?”
“Just a white shirt will be fine. I’ve got a waistcoat and some other stuff here for you. You a size 10?” he asked, his glare back on me.
“10-12. Ish.”
“Good. See you tonight. 9pm.”