Carolina H.S

1

I wasn't who everyone thought I was.

I never have been. People fear me. People part when I walk into a room. People avoid making eye contact with me. That's how I like it though.

If you let people see you cry or see your face falter for even a millisecond, they jump on it. They mold something beautiful and turn it into something ugly just to hurt you. Why?

Because people are evil. But then again, so am I.

I walked into the club, running my hands down the zippers of my leather jacket before adjusting it and pulling it tighter against me. My red top was low cut, just barely exposing my cleavage, and my black jeans were comfortably tight as I walked through the sea of people. Like I said, they took one look at me and moved aside with a glint of intimidation in their eyes.

My eyes were hidden behind a pair of sunglasses as usual, and the tattoos on my collar bones were prominent. Wavy dirty blonde hair cascaded down my shoulders, and I brushed one side behind my shoulder as I walked to the backroom.

"I heard you were looking for Townes?" I announced after walking into the dimly lit room to see a greasy looking man sitting on the couch. My couch.

The man's eyes whipped to mine before sweeping them down my body and back up and saying, "Yes I am, be a doll and fetch him for me."

My stomach clenched and my blood boiled. They love to assume it's a man.

"Unless you came here with a death wish, I suggest you do a little more research on your investors before you come in and disrespect them," I spit back, saying the mildest thing I could while keeping my face monotone.

Suddenly, his eyes went slightly wider and you could tell he knew he fucked up. I took a couple slow, drawn out steps forward towards him, and by the time I stood in front of him, looking down to him from a few feet away, his face had recovered to its typical sliminess with a bit more respect behind his tone.

You see, that slight flicker of emotion, of fear, crept out through his eyes before he could stop it. That's how I knew this was not his day job, he doesn't meet life-ruining "investors" on the daily as I do. He is either new to this, or he wanted a quick fix.

"I didn't realize you were the Townes. My apologies," he says in a barely sincere tone, as if he was forcing the half-assed apology to fall out of his slobbery mouth. Then he gets this look in his eyes, as if he had thought of something that might fix his impoliteness. "I've heard a lot abut you, you know. I suppose the only thing I hadn't heard was that you're a woman. I'm shocked, seeing as you have quite the impressive portfolio."

Well, can't blame a guy for trying. Until he says some misogynist bull crap like that. Then you can blame him for trying, failing, and digging his own grave.

"Funny, I didn't realize what's between my legs had anything to do with the sort of business I deal in." My tone is sharp, and to the chase.

"Right, of course not." His eyes show some sign of worry as he looks in mine, as if trying to see anything behind my glasses. Come on man, this is the third time I've tracked your emotion with a fucking facial expression. "I know this is short notice, but I wanted to see how you'd feel in investing in my ­company."

He says this in a hushed tone as if any of the drunken idiots out there could give a shit.

"I am a business woman. I do business. I don't play games or barbies with little bitch boys. And I sure as hell do not invest in a "company" that you created on the drive here. This is a serious organization, and we don't take too kindly to people disrespecting us or our business."

I take a step closer to him, removing my sunglasses and pushing them up onto my head, burning holes into his eyes, and he nearly flinches as if mine were laser guns.

Speaking up guns, my hand runs through my hair before resting on the gun I have tucked in my waist band, pulling it out and placing it against his forehead while staring straight through his bullshit. I won't hesitate to shoot him, but he still has a chance to redeem himself and make it out alive before I pull the trigger.

His expression shifts for a moment before he looks up at me, a whole new type of anger behind his eyes.

*click*

"I should've left the moment I got here," he starts and I almost think he's pulling himself out of the 6 feet deep grave he's buried himself in. "I should've known a woman could never run a business."

*boom*

A silenced gun shot echoes through the room as his body falls limp onto my couch.

"And I sure as hell don't do quick fixes."

I don't take a second look at him before pulling my phone from my back pocket and dialing.

"Hey, Niall, we got a clean up on aisle 4," I shifted my hips while looking down to the body of the man in front of me, who was so rudely spilling his blood all over my couch. I don't care if it is red, I don't need any more stains on it. "Ok, see you in 10."

I hang up and kick the man with my boot, pushing him to the floor.

Niall walks into the room 15 minutes later, surveying the scene before looking at me. I stay swiping on my phone, half ignoring him, half reading something about some trashy reality tv show that I obviously give 0 fucks about. I keep reading till he speaks up;

"Townes," he pulls me from my thoughts, his Irish accent showing through as he spoke, "Who's this guy anyway?"

The greasy man may not have done his research, but I have. I open the hidden drawer of the table sitting beside the couch, grabbing a file before sitting down and grazing my eyes over it.

"Scott Philips, 39, ex-teacher, married father of 3 turned child rapist, convicted and sentenced for 5 years before being released 6 months ago after 2 on probation, for 'good behavior.'" I roll my eyes, how can a child rapist have good behavior?

"So just like all the other aisle 4's, yes?"

"Yep," I respond before shoving him with my boot again.

"How'd he end up so lucky?" Niall asked with a sarcastic tone, looking at the bullet that went right through his skull and is probably now lodged in that decimal sized brain of his.

"Well, he called Liam saying he had a good offer for me, and I decided to humor him. Then I did a little research, and noticed what a complete dick-wad he is. Then I did a little digging around this so-called "business plan," and spoke to a few of his prison buddies. A few rope burns got them to confess that he had bragged about some elaborate scheme he thought of, to hassle us into giving him supplies and give some sob story about not being able to pay his dues, then running away with the product." My British accent carries through the room, slow and steady as I explain this dipshit's pathetic plan.

"These douche bags have got to stop underestimating this business. He's so used to tricking helpless little kids that he forgot we're not so easily fooled." Niall's voice is filled with hatred as he speaks about this guy's idiocrasy.

I got home late that night, walking into my apartment and relaxing on my couch, turning on the fireplace and staring at the flames.

How can people be so stupid? This business is not the one you choose to fuck with people in. At least good old Scott Philips the Pedophile learned his lesson.

I feel my eyes burning from staring at the light of the flames, but I can't pull them away. That is until I hear a loud knock on my door.

I glance at the clock

3:07

Who the fuck is at my door?

I grab my gun off the coffee table and open the door, and I barely keep my composure when I see who's at the door.

"We need to talk. Now," the deep British voice says, somehow sounding both slow and urgent at the same time.

"Harry?"