Nothing is, but what is not // John Shelby

XXII

There were a few tiny drops of sweat on their foreheads as they danced. Finally they had to stop and get a moment to breathe, so they walked to the bar for something to drink. Beth gave John a little kiss on his cheek, brushing the corner of his lips with her own, making it look like a coincidence.

"Another Gin Fizz?" The man asked as they sat down by the counter on one of the high chairs, which was empty only because everyone else was occupied by dancing which usually meant obvious or not so obvious flirting.

"Lemon soda" Beth said to the barman, when he finally came to them "With sugar" she added, remembering that for some reason there were people in this world who didn't love sugar as much as she did. As they were waiting for their orders, Beth was gently nudging John with her knee, and he was just giving her amused glimpses. She was also looking at him. Who were they for each other after all? And did she have to know that? It was good the way it was; with John, who now had his hand on her knee, drinking his Negroni. With John who hated theatre, while she loved it with her whole heart.

With boredom, John was looking around the room. Then he straightened up quite suddenly, his hand unconsciously moved towards his hip. Beth turned her head to see what he was looking at, but she saw nothing, but a crowd of dancing people; men in suits and women in sparkling dresses. Yet, there needed to be something out there, because John jumped off the chair, clearly focused on something she couldn't notice just yet.

"Wait for me here" he took Beth's hand for a moment, as if making sure she would listen to him. She followed him with her eyes, noticing how the hand that just held hers, was now holding a gun.

Beth had to be extraordinarily rash, or she just had read too many books where the heroes were in possession of an unreal amount of luck, but she decided to follow John, who was now gone behind the door of the room where they left Arthur some time ago. It was hard to get through the crowd. Beth spent some time squeezing in between dancing pairs, probably ruining some romantic moments. Then there was a shot. Everyone froze. There were many nervous whispers, which quickly changed into heated discussions. No one knew where the shot came from, but Beth was certain about where to go to check it.

As she put her hand on the door handle, she felt how sweaty her fingers were. Those were one of the additional doors to the billiard room. She opened them slowly, not being entirely sure why she decided to take the risk in the first place.

Another shot was heard as soon as she slightly opened the door. Beth jumped back with a scared squeak stuck in her throat. It was almost painful. Something fell. She heard a sound of glass breaking. She found courage to stick her head out once more.

There was glass from a shattered whiskey bottle everywhere. The alcohol was slowly soaking into the wooden floor, mixing with something of a metallic smell. Blood. Beth followed the red stream with her eyes. There was a body at the end of it. It was not moving. The man was dead.

"Who the fuck sent you?" She quickly changed her main interest, now noticing John, who was pinning some man against the wall. Blood was running down his arm, making the light grey jacket she liked so much, red. Yet, the pain he must have felt didn't stop him from almost digging his fingers into his opponent's neck, while Arthur held a gun to his head. There was an answer to John's question, but Beth wasn't able to understand the words, too shaken up by what she just witnessed. Shelby brothers let the man go, threatening him beforehand, making sure he would repeat those words to his boss.

People from the main room already knew where the shots came from, and their approaching voices were heard from behind the door. John and Arthur turned around and the first thing they saw was Beth's silhouette, which now seemed awfully tiny, as she was shivering, taking in the scene before her with her grey, scared eyes.

"Sweetheart..." John walked up to her, carefully reaching out his hand to her, as if she was some terrified animal "Everything's—"

"You're wounded" she cut him off with a sharp voice that no one, especially not her, expected to hear now. This caused the man to hesitate. He expected her to panic, to yell at him, and tell him what an awful person he was. He expected her to remind him in fury about the promise he made, about ending this type of life. But all the fear in her was already gone. There was no disgust, no anger. Nothing.