VICE [h.s.]

Chapter 2

I arrived at Westerly's Tavern at around noon the next day, and immediately felt my stomach churn with a sense of dread as I pulled into the parking lot. My beat up black Chevy Malibu was the only car in the parking lot, surrounded on every side by huge, shiny motorcycles. I debated calling Ian and backing out, but I knew I needed to do this. If I didn't, not only would my coworkers taunt me for it for the rest of my career, but I may no longer have a career.

I decided to act my age and suck it up, pulling myself out of the car and walking towards the building. It was a small, stained- wood covered building, a large brass sign reading "Westerly's Tavern" covering a significant portion of its front face.

The door was old and heavy, and as soon as I pushed it open I was hit with the smell of cigarette smoke and brandy. How were they even allowed to smoke in here? Following the sound of male voices, I found myself in a fairly small, dimly lit room, littered with men in leather jackets sipping on glasses of hard liquor. They all turned to look at me as I came in, then turned back to each other and continued talking, more quietly this time.

The bartender looked comfortable with the men, striking up a conversation with the two nearest to him, tall men with what looked like permanent scowls on their faces.

"Need help there, sweetheart?" A deep voice called out to me, and I turned around to see a man with ear- length, curly blonde hair and a handlebar mustache gesturing for me to move closer to him.

I clutched by purse closer to my side, remembering the pepper spray that Ian had given to me that morning.

"Hi." I said, probably too quietly compared to the loud murmurs filling the bar. I had to walk carefully to avoid stepping on the peanut shells that littered the floor. "I'm uh-" I stepped closer, raising my voice higher. "I'm here to speak with um... Mr. Hawk?"

Ian hadn't really gone over how to address the men here, and I suddenly felt very stupid doing it like that.

The man laughed, a deep, throaty sound, raising his glass and pointing it towards the other side of the bar, towards a man sitting with his back to me.

"Over yonder." He said, the last remnants of his laugh still making their way out of his mouth.

"Thank you." I said, unsure if he could hear me. When he nodded in response, I began shuffling my way through the peanut shells over towards the other man.

I was kind of scared. In the research I had done, I had come to find out that this man was not somebody who should be messed with. Especially not by people like me who barely even know how to use pepper spray.

As I reached the man, a strong, cedar scent emanated off of him, a refreshing change from the cigarettes and liquor clouding the air around me.

Before I could stand there debating what to do and making myself look like an idiot, I reached out and tapped the man on the shoulder, immediately deciding that it was probably the wrong thing to do.

He spun around quickly, his barstool turning with him so that his entire body was facing me. He was handsome, with green eyes and curly brown hair that fell over his forehead in the form of a single strand. He seemed tall, too, and radiated a sense of confidence and superiority.

"What." He said. It was worded more like a demand than a question.

I was suddenly extremely intimidated.

"Um, i'm sorry to bother you sir, but are you... Hawk?"

"Yeah." He hissed, his eyebrows knitting together as he looked at me with a sense of disgust. "And what about it?"

"I'm Nadia Hartwell from The Emerson Times." I began, and he immediately began to turn back around in his chair.

"I'm not doing your fucking interview." He spat, tossing a peanut shell to the ground to add to the collection already covering the hardwood floors. His voice carried a rugged tone, but laced within a smooth British accent, and I couldn't help but be surprised when I heard him speak.

"It's just an informational piece." I lied, taken aback. It was really more of an expository piece, but if I told him that he definitely wouldn't be persuaded.

"Don't care." He said brazenly. "I said i'm not doing your fucking interview. Might wanna get your ears checked, by the way."

"Are you sure? Because I don't mean to be a bother but my job really depen-"

"You are being a bother, actually. You know where the door is."

"Are you su-" I began, shifting my weight between my feet nervously.

"I'm sure." He said, sounding like he was chewing something. Probably another peanut that he would throw on the ground. "Girls like you shouldn't be in here anyway."

"What's that supposed to mean?" I felt myself getting agitated.

He turned to face me again. "Girls like you with your cute little bags and your fancy high heels." He said in a voice that made me feel small. "If you had done any actual research about us, you'd know that we're criminals."

I looked down at my attire and and pursed my lips. It probably wasn't the best idea to come here dressed like this.

"Well, i'm sorry if my research wasn't adequate." I replied, a slight edge to my voice. "Care to give me some better information then?"

"Nope." Was all he gave me, tossing another peanut shell to the floor. "Now get the fuck out."

For some reason that i'm not very proud of, this hurt me a little. I don't like being talked down to, especially by people that I don't even know.

When I lingered for a few seconds more, he turned just his head to offer me a piercing gaze with his green eyes that were far too soft for his demeanor.

"That's usually your signal to leave."

At this, I flipped him off behind his back, making my way out of the bar under the stares of the other bikers, as well as the death glare of a blonde girl sitting on the lap of a man with a skull tattooed on his neck.

I trudged to the car feeling defeated. What was I supposed to tell Ian? I couldn't give up that easily. My job depended on this.

I hope you guys liked this chapter!
Just for reference, this is how i'm picturing Harry in this story: