Night Stalker Series 3: FORREST
Forrest Wood, an enigmatic tattooed bartender who lives in two worlds to protect someone he loves. He's been searching for answers half his life and never questions his self-control over temptations until something ch...
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Nightmare
***
"AHHH." A deep groan broke from the Night Stalker Club office as I passed by.
Fucktastic!
A loud thud followed, vibrating the door. This was fucking ridiculous. Call me old-fashioned, but they could do it at home before they came over.
I quickened my pace toward the entrance of the rooftop. Sex noise didn't surprise me, but considering my friends were the ones making those noises, it was awkward. I couldn't listen to that. I couldn't blame them if they wanted a quick fuck with their wives though. They had the best lives, but ignoring the stabbing pain settling in my chest was hard.
At the rooftop, the sun just sat down from the horizon. My eyes were steady as I watched the red, orange, and yellow colors before the twilight beckoning the sky. Those colors reminded me of fire, passion, danger, energy, happiness, and hope.
I leaned my elbows against the concrete parapet, flicked the ash from my cigarette, and breathed in the remaining inch I lit up while watching for the sun to set.
The lights started to scintillate around me to somehow light up the darkness surrounding the city. I stubbed the butt till it stopped smoking. Exhaust and city pollution came back to life.
I knew people said cigarette smoking was dangerous to your health, but this thing was a reminder that life wasn't fair. People thought I was a weird shit to choose a deadly companion than a woman—that I didn't have a beating organ in my body, that I was an ice king if that even existed. What they didn't know was, I was a good guy, that I didn't even like this another part of me, but it grew inside me already, and I had to embrace it for some reason.
The thing was, hard life taught me to be prepared.
The only question was, would I ever want to be that person anymore? The old version of myself—when I felt I was a better version of who I was today?
I walked down and met the nightclub manager, Kyland in the locker room. I quickly cleared my mind and pretended I didn't hear what happened earlier.
"Bro." He patted my back.
"Hey." I wore my black button-down shirt and rolled each sleeve above my elbows. My tattoo peeked out. It was an orange flame full of anger with black smoke swirled from my wrists up to my arms.
"How's your trip?"
"Great. Thanks for arranging my sched."
"Anytime."
"Got to go to work. Bills won't pay itself." I wore my black apron with the club logo and walked out.
The former notorious playboy, Pyke Hughes, the club owner didn't give a damn about the uniform. I was glad he preferred black.
