COD OneShots

Konig "Good Fuckin Girl~"

Figured I'd treat you all to a lengthy chapter for once ;)

I loosely based this as a prequel to Konig's "Come Here You~"

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The club music thumped in his ears, his buddies dragged him out here, only to leave him standing alone. He clutched his whiskey like a lifeline, his eyes darting around the room.

Women...

Dancing suggestively, men approaching them, joining or pulling them off to the side. He was a confident man, yes, with the looks, the brawn, the size. But he was out of his element here.

He'd never been in a club before.

His massive frame towered over the barstool, a lone whiskey sweating in his calloused grip. The bass thumped through his ribs like a jackhammer. Neon lights strobed across the polished wood, catching the scar that cut through his five o'clock shadow—the one souvenir from his last tour in Kandahar that hadn't healed clean.

His buddies had ditched him twenty minutes in, vanishing into the sea of grinding bodies toward some VIP booth.

He was honestly debating on ghosting.

He had originally agreed to come out, but he didn't see the point in staying now. His car keys were practically burning a hole in his pocket.

The thought was tempting. His grip tightened around his glass, the ice cubes clinking softly as he debated whether to down the rest of his drink and sneak out the back door. His Porsche was parked around the corner, waiting for him like a loyal pet.

That's when he notices you...

You move through the throngs of people like mercury, deep red silk clubbing dress catching the neon club lights deliciously.

You come up to the bar, within ear shot of him, and the bar tender doesn't ask. She simply slides you a drink.

His gaze snagged on the silk dress first, the way it clung to curves that seemed made for sin. Then your face —sharp features softened by full lips painted a shade darker than blood.

It felt like you belonged here more than anyone else in this den of iniquity. His hand paused mid-air, his whiskey glass halfway to his mouth.

You didn't take long to notice him. You could feel his eyes on you long before you turned your head to look.

Your eyes flicked up and down, not once, but twice, as if taking him in, thinking about how he looked. Konig felt like a meal being sized up.

The second sweep of your eyes made his spine tighten. There was no coy glancing or subtle checking—this was a full inventory, the kind of appraisal he'd only ever gotten from drill sergeants and arms dealers. Your gaze lingered on the scar cutting through his shadowed jaw, then dropped to the veins roping his forearm where it gripped the whiskey glass like it was the only stable thing in the room. When your eyes finally met his, you didn't smile.

Instead, you bit your bottom lip, as if imagining something.

The club seemed to blur out, his pulse roaring in his ears.