Drunk In Love // A Neymar Jr. Fan Fiction

Mi Nombre

The woman in black stepped into the still bustling streets of Barcelona at exactly 2 AM. People were still in line to get into the club she worked at, obviously most were high or intoxicated with the burning liquid known as alcohol. Waving to Luis Andrés, the bouncer at the front, she straddled her motorcycle kept on the side of the Amapola. Her bike. It still amazed her how she could buy a bike with her own money. Just 5 years ago she couldn't even buy enough food to put some meat on her bones. But now, she had her motorcycle and an apartment that would make anyone envious of her newfound wealth.

Was she proud of how she earned it? She's still trying to figure that out. But at least now she could survive. And it wasn't completely her fault that she fell into this dark world that no one in the right mindset would stumble on. It had to be done. She needed to become what she is today. It's made her who she is today; strong, independent, and heartless. She's lost so much that her heart went with it all. She built too many walls and now she survives because of them.

Her walls were the only thing that kept her from falling into a dark abyss. Her walls were her job.

The wind blew threw her dark burgundy hair, she never bothered to wear a helmet. Police officers stared at her ass rather than her safety. Blessed with good looks she would always think.

She knew she was hot, she felt the stares from her clients, both in the bar and out on the streets. She was no virgin. Letting in the men and sometimes women was part of her therapy, her healing process. She longed to feel the way they caressed her body, but never let them stay longer than she needed them to. It was one of the only ways to escape; her guilty pleasure.

But sometimes her guilty pleasure would drive her to be bought. Not something she was proud of, but sometimes selling her body would bring more money onto the table. She needed to survive. Drugs and sex were her kryptonite.

Reaching her destination she pulled up a bandana over her face so only her eyes would show and she entered the shady looking building.

It was time for her real job.

"What the actual fuck, Javier? When I ask you to bring the best dealer in town, don't bring a fucking woman!"

Melissa tightened her fingers in a tight fist, praying to the nonexistent God that she didn't shoot the sexist man in the face. The gun in her back pocket burned a hole through her jeans. Murder was a rule she promised she'd never break, but she was about to.

The man was slouched against a red leather couch surrounded by five whores. Of course, she'd wind up in a whorehouse. It was part of the job anyway.

"Listen I can leave if you want me to, but then you wouldn't have this," Melissa pulled the grams of coke from her special made pocket in her bra. "Best of the best, all the way from Kuwait, but I guess a woman shouldn't be the one selling you this, huh? So I'm gonna go..."

She turned to leave fed up with the fat man, when Javier, another balding man who she believed was the owner of the whorehouse, pulled her back, "Little lady, hold up." The man grabbed her by the arms, something that brought back memories she longed to forget.

On instinct she pulled the man in a headlock and pointed her gun at his head, "Now, listen here fatsos, do you want this shit or what?"

She heard the some backup come up behind her, about to pull her away or maybe even shoot her dead, but fat man on the couch waved dismissively at them and said, "How much?"

Letting Javier go she brushed off her leather jacket, "350 per gram."

"Jesus Christ, lady, that's a bit steep don't ya think, can't we bargain for a new price?" Javier asked.

She pointed the gun at him again, "Tell me, Javier, can't we bargain for your brains blown out?"

He reached into his pocket, Melissa placed her finger on the trigger, ready to shoot, but instead he pulled out a wad of cash. "How much for 100 grams?"

"35,000," she said without any hesitation already knowing the price of the shit she sold.

Javier counted the money while the man on the couch pulled a joint to his lips, "You got any weed? I have back pains."

Melissa pulled out her bag of weed from her other compartment, "I'll give you 50 grams for 500."

The men gave her the money, and she vanished before they could say thank you.

Her phone beeped just as she mounted her bike. There was a party. The address surprised her. It was in one of the wealthiest areas of Barcelona. She always dreamed of buying a house there, but she opted on a nice flat in the city itself. Normally the places that usually called for her were low income locations where people had huge amounts of money just for the drugs.