How to be a Murderer

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[copyright AubreyParsons ©2017]

O N E

THE LOUD MUSIC permeated my eardrums as I weaved shamelessly between warm bodies. A few months ago, I might have been a little less comfortable being pressed up against the sweat and hormones that rolled off of dancing bodies day and night, but at this point I could care less. I'd gotten used to the lack of space between myself and others, not that I could complain any if I wanted to keep my job.

With a heavy sigh, I lifted the tray higher up in the air so that it wouldn't be tipped by any of the clumsy, drunken males grinding against tonight's targets. No doubt half of them would be leaving alone—the women used them for a short period of their own fun, but rarely ever gave in to the sleazy men who tried their hardest to bed them.

"Hey, baby," a husky but slurred voice called from behind me, a hand on my ass following soon after.

"Hey," I snapped back, spinning around to face my next buyer. He was no different from the rest of them—he'd pay me to take a shot with him, hoping against all odds that he'd get me drunk enough to leave with him for the night. "Hands off the merchandise."

"That's a fine set of merchandise if I'd ever seen one," he muttered. Glossy eyes raked hungrily over my body, leaving a repulsed shudder in its wake. I cursed as somebody bumped into me, quickly raising the tray that I balanced on my hand so the glasses wouldn't spill. The woman turned to glare, nose tilted up distastefully before she scoffed and continued though the musty crowd.

"What's that?" the guy from before asked. I shifted my attention back over to him, taking in his rich brown hair and cheap suit. Even in the dark lighting of the club, I could still see that he couldn't have been much older than twenty.

I followed his eyes to the tray in my hand and lowered it for him to see it's contents. "Rum," I answered robotically. "It's a dollar per shot."

"I'll take one." He nodded to himself and fished around in his back pocket before pulling out a wallet, followed by two ones. Rage fluttered through me as he tucked them into my cleavage, but I held back. Getting angry would lead to losing my job, and I couldn't afford to lose the nightly tips. "And I'd like to buy one for you, too."

A plastic smile lit my face as I said, "Of course," and downed my third shot of the night. Just thirty minutes left on your shift, Kira. Just thirty.

I didn't give him the chance to speak again after he grabbed the miniaturized glass. Instead, I spun on my heal and searched for the next man or woman too drunk to care about another shot. Relief sunk my shoulders whenever I glanced at the clock and noticed I only had to suffer through five more minutes before my shift ended. All that was left was to make it back to the bar, empty the last of the glasses, and get the hell out of here.

Of course, nothing ever works out as planned for me. As soon as I started back towards the bar, a hand wrapped tightly around my free arm. When I tried to tug it away, the grip tightened.

I turned around with a tight-lipped smile. "Can I help you—" A tremor of fear pulsed through me at the familiar face. I jerked my wrist roughly from his grasp. Taking a cautious step back, I asked, "What the hell do you want?"

Black eyes like endless pits stared through narrowed slits as his arms crossed tightly over his chest. "The money you owe me."

"I don't owe you shit," I spat, teeth bared as my cheeks flushed with rage. It was my money, not his. Not theirs.

"You do." He took a threatening step forward to prove his seriousness on the matter. "You and me both know you're mom ain't getting that money herself, and if she can't pay, you're going to for her."

I took a few more steps back, sending a cautious glance towards the bar. At seeing the more pleasant familiar face of a colleague cleaning the counter, I sent her a pleading look. She didn't see it. Dread gnawing at my insides, I turned back to the man in front of me. His salt and pepper hair hung in messy strands throughout his head, thinning with age. The wrinkles around his lips were unsurprising from the amount of cigarettes I'd seen him smoking on my cough alongside my mother. "You shouldn't be here." I nodded back towards the bar, hoping he'd catch the hint. There's people around, jackass.

His eyes followed my gesture and narrowed even more, if possible. He sneered. "You think I care about these people?"

"You care about going to jail," I stated matter-of-factly.

He leaned forward, the threat of his action creeping past my senses with his foul breath. The message was clear. I got away this time, but this wouldn't be the last I saw of him. My heart pounded in my ears and my hands tightened their grip on the tray in my hands. I suddenly wished the clock I'd been watching all night would set back, and that five minutes I had left of my shift would revert back to the several hours I'd spent here this evening. Anything to get away from this monster of a man.

"You've got 'till the end of this month to get me what I need," he hissed. "If I don't have my money in hand by the last day of November, you're little friend isn't going to be the only one in an early grave."

I flinched at the comment, the finality of the situation sinking in. My knees trembled and my hands felt weak; it took a lot out of me just to hold the tray full of shots in my hand.

Without another word, he started towards the exit of the bar, shoving roughly past the dancing bodies and various alcoholic beverages.

I slowly turned on my heel and started towards the bar. A quick glance at the clock told me my shift had been over for a good six minutes, but I didn't care. I couldn't focus on anything except for getting out of here and getting home. I needed a hot shower and a lot of sleep if I wanted to figure out how I was going to gain two grand within the next three weeks.