recklessly

iii.//a quiet place

The shops are all closed; the only lights on are the streetlamps.

You and him are the only ones on this street, with distant sounds of cars sweeping between the silence. His hand is still on yours, and you’re thankful it’s dark because your face is most likely red.

“We’re almost there,” promises Chance, taking your silence as tiredness. You let him lead you down a small alley, even though that’s as suspicious as it sounds. But you’ve been with him for long enough that almost all initial apprehension and wariness have pretty much faded. That may be dumb on your part, but you never claimed to be a genius. Besides, Chance is giving you an adventure, an endless night, and that’s more than you could have asked for.

“Down here.” Chance starts to turn down a backstreet alley, away from the already-dim lights. When you hesitate, he looks back at you. “It’s not as shady as it looks, I swear. The entrance is just a little ways down here. So unwelcome guests won’t wander in by accident, see.”

You hesitate for a second more, before nodding because why the fuck not? He had plenty of chances to do you off before this, and he didn’t. And you figure if he wanted to take you into a dark alley to murder you in cold blood or whatever, at least his beautiful face will be the last thing you see.

As it turns out, he wasn’t lying and a couple steps into the alley reveals an underground entrance with a crooked worn out sign that has the faded letters of KO KY K TT E barely discernable on it. The door is just as worn, paint peeling and chipped in places, but there is light seeping through the dirty window on the door. No one would have seen this place if they weren’t looking for it.

“It’s not a brothel, is it?” you say dryly, just to make sure.

“No.” Chance leads you down the steps to the door. “Trust me, Sky. You’ll like the Kooky Kettle.”

“That sounds like a knock-off gift shop,” you mutter warily, “one that’s a front for a drug dealer.”

Chance just laughs. He opens the door and pulls you in.

You blink. The inside is completely different from the outside. The place isn’t brightly lit, but the warm overhead glow casts a lazy atmosphere that’s easy to sink into. The bar has a polished shine, and the shelves behind the counter are full and stocked in an organized manner. The tables are clean and the chairs inviting. It’s not a huge space, but with the deep hue of the carpet to the stark contrast of the modernized furniture to the antique feel of the wall fixtures, the place looks cozy and welcoming. It’s near empty, with only a couple of guys in the corner drinking and another group playing cards at one of the tables.

“What do you think?” Chance sweeps a hand out, looking at you for your reaction. “I’m good, right?”

You shrug. You are impressed, but you don’t show it.

“I found this place a couple years ago,” he says, leading  you to the bar counter. “Stumbled in on a rainy day, tried the coffee, and bam, I was hooked. Now I’m practically a star customer.”

“Didn’t your mother teach you not to lie, Chanson?” A big burly guy with a sparkly diamond earring appears behind the counter, pulling out two glasses out of nowhere.

“No,” retorts Chance, plopping down on a bar stool. “She was too busy lying in her grave.” He says it so easily, you can’t tell if he’s joking or not. His expression didn’t change, so you assume that he’s cracked that one many times before, but you still can’t help the ripple of unease at the flippant way he talks of his mother, deceased or not.

“Don’t mind him,” the gruff bartender says to you, big hands mixing coffee beans expertly. “Chanson’s always been too straightforward without a firm grasp on which lines you shouldn’t cross.”