𝑮𝑳𝑰𝑻𝑻𝑬𝑹 | 𝑘.𝑏.

04

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H E A D L O C K
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ROJAKKE WAS IN A HEADLOCK, jagged teeth of a shattered glass bottle prickling his temple. Ironically, from where Feta had elevated herself on a stool so she could comfortably hold the headlock (without actually injuring Rojakke, of course), one of the dim lights swinging over the tables provided her with a halo, outlining her golden curls with light. Jesper merely titled back on the legs of his stool to appraise the scene happening right beside him, bits of glass littering his cards from Feta smashing the bottle on the edge of the table.

"I thought we was friendly!" Rojakke gasped shallowly. His fingertips clung to Feta's arm that was locked around his neck, but every time he made to pull her arm off, Feta tightened her grip just enough to close around his throat and encouraged the nipping broken bottle to take a bite.

"We are," Feta said pleasantly, sounding truthful. "But you don't make grabs at me, Rojakke, and you don't expect me to pay for Kaz's decisions. Ever hear that you shouldn't shoot the messenger?"

Rojakke hadn't taken the news well. Feta had tried to separate him from the table he'd been working out of sheer politeness, tried to save him from being let go in front of his friends. Rojakke hadn't budged, had told her to just spit it out. And just as Feta suspected, Rojakke had called out the injustice of the situation, demanded Kaz at least cough up his last paycheck. But Feta recalled Kaz's mercy of a second chance, his carefully turned cheek instead of a stolen finger, and so she'd told Rojakke to cut his losses and move on.

So much for diplomacy since she'd still had to put him in a headlock.

But perhaps this was how all ambassadors wished they could handle things. Perhaps this was diplomacy.

"I've seen you at the tables, Rojakke," Feta continued. "Any den would be lucky to have you." She felt Rojakke relax in her grip, like a bear flattering a fish into giving up. Leaning close, aware of their intrigued audience, Feta spoke lower still, trying to spare the crowd the knowledge of Rojakke's skimming. "Go home and be grateful Kaz doesn't take what you owe him out of your hide, okay? And remember," she hummed, scratching the glass teeth of the bottle down the side of Rojakke's face, just enough to leave thin lines in their wake, "messengers don't take kindly to threats they haven't earned."

Feta released Rojakke from his headlock and promptly kicked him towards the door with the firm sole of her boot. The man stumbled out of the club, the brightly patterned crowd parting to let him out of the red and black lacquered den, fingers gingerly touching his neck.

Jesper offered a hand to help Feta off the stool. She took it and leapt down, the grace of her landing signifying that the show was over; her audience resumed their gambling. "He's right, you know," Jesper said. "Kaz shouldn't send you to do his dirty work."

"Until it gets me shot, I won't complain." Feta glanced towards the club doors thrown invitingly open. "Shame about Rojakke, though. Hope he finds another gig soon."

"Thanks, by the way, for interrupting my game. I almost had a flush."

Feta laughed, and just like that, whatever grim essence had bled into her pleasure during her little headlock maneuver was gone. The lights in the dim gambling den seemed to brighten. Jesper couldn't help but envision a halo on her even now. "Jes, you saying you almost had a flush is like me saying I almost got Kaz to do ballet."

Jesper laughed at the thought of Kaz dancing, shoved Feta's arm at her rightful comment about his stretch of a flush. "So I take it your little walk lacked a waltz?"

Feta shrugged. "It's been a long night. Speaking of," and yes, Jesper was aware of the change of subject, aware that this undoubtedly meant her and Kaz's little walk had satisfied Feta enough — until it gets me shot, I won't complain, "do you plan on getting any rest tonight? You look exhausted."