Warning:Cross-dressing Vincent and mentions of prostitution
The smoky, low-lit bar was tucked away in a forgotten alley, the kind of place where the neon sign buzzed quietly above the peeling paint of its facade. Soleil Noir, it was called—an ironic name, given how little light found its way through the grime-streaked windows. The bar itself wasn’t much, just another watering hole for the city’s lost souls, but it was where Rody Lamoree felt most at home. He worked behind the counter, serving drinks and chatting up the regulars. Rody was a bartender, and in his mind, a guardian of sorts for those who stumbled into the dark corners of the world.
Tonight, as always, his eyes followed Vincent.
Vincent Charbonneau was impossible to miss. He was all elegance and flair, a vision in red lipstick and smoky eyes, his short black hair tousled just enough to give him that sultry, dangerous look. The heels he wore clicked rhythmically on the floor as he moved through the room, his black dress clinging to his slight frame. For as long as Rody could remember, Vincent had worked the streets around the bar, always slipping inside for a drink or a few words with whoever caught his eye that night. He was one of the regulars—only, unlike the others, he seemed like he belonged somewhere better.
And Rody had taken it upon himself to save him from this life.
"Whiskey neat?" Rody asked, sliding Vincent’s usual across the counter as the man approached.
Vincent took it with a smile, though his sharp eyes seemed tired tonight, maybe even frustrated. "Thanks, darling." His voice was low, husky, with just enough sweetness to make Rody's heart skip a beat.
"Busy night?" Rody leaned on the counter, close enough that Vincent could smell the whiskey on his breath.
"Could be busier," Vincent said with a dry chuckle, eyes flicking to the corner where a man had been watching him for the last hour.
Rody followed his gaze, eyes narrowing at the guy. Another creep, he thought. "That guy bothering you?"
Vincent’s smile faltered, but he quickly recovered. "No, Rody, he’s not bothering me. He’s a client."
The words barely registered. Rody was too busy watching the man in the corner, waiting for him to make some sleazy move, to leer or reach out with dirty hands. "He looks like trouble," Rody muttered.
"He’s not trouble, he’s my job," Vincent said, a little firmer this time.
But Rody wasn’t listening. The moment the guy stood up and started towards them, Rody was out from behind the bar. He moved faster than Vincent could react, stepping between him and the man, blocking the way with his broad, well-built frame. His disheveled auburn hair caught in the bar’s dim light as he fixed the stranger with a hard glare.
"Can I help you with something?" Rody asked, his tone just shy of a growl.
The man hesitated, clearly thrown off by the sudden confrontation. "Uh, I was just gonna talk to—"
"No, you’re not," Rody cut him off. "Vincent doesn’t need your kind of trouble tonight."
The guy glanced at Vincent, confused. "I thought—"
"Thought wrong," Rody said, his voice low and threatening.
Vincent sighed, pressing a hand to his forehead as the man stammered an apology and quickly left the bar. Rody watched him go with a satisfied look before turning back to Vincent, beaming as if he’d just performed some grand act of heroism.
"You're welcome," he said, smug.
Vincent’s eyes narrowed, though there was a hint of amusement in them. "Rody, you’ve got to stop doing that."
