Chapter 11: Bait

Continued from chapter 10:

Amy's face pales as Jenna and Rose approach, their cheerful greetings ringing hollow in the charged atmosphere. She shoots them a panicked, pleading look, silently begging them not to mention the Sexy Six or their recent escapades. The weight of my stare bores into her, my blank expression somehow more terrifying than outright anger.

She swallows hard, her grip tightening on her clutch purse as she braces herself for the inevitable confrontation.

“Jenna, Rose... hi,” she says, her voice tight with tension and **** casualness.

“Girls, I told him. Everything. He knows.”

She clears her throat, avoiding direct eye contact.

“Yes, I... I told Ero everything. About what happened here, with…you know.”

She finally meets their gazes, her expression a mixture of shame, defiance, and **** appeal.

“I'm so sorry; I never meant for anyone to get hurt. Especially not Ero.”

Chapter 11:

Her voice cracks slightly on his name, and she instinctively reaches out to touch my arm, seeking comfort and reassurance even as she dreads my reaction.

Jenna and Rose go stock still, their smiles melting from their faces.

“Oh Ero,” Jenna begins.

“Rose interrupts. Ero, we are...”

“Leaving,” I say. “You are leaving. Now.”

“Enjoy being the Sexy Five, although it doesn't have the same ring. Amy is done. With all of you. Bye now.”

Amy's eyes widen in shock as I dismiss her friends so abruptly, a mix of humiliation and gratitude flashing across her face. She watches mutely as Jenna and Rose exchange uneasy glances before scurrying away, their earlier bravado evaporating in the face of my icy demeanor. The weight of my words hangs heavy in the air—Amy is done. Finished with that part of her life, whether she likes it or not.

Turning back to Amy, her expression is a study in conflicting emotions—shame, fear, and a tentative, fragile hope. She reaches out tentatively, her fingers brushing against my arm in a feather-light touch, seeking connection even as she dreads my response.

“Ero, I... thank you,” she whispers, her voice trembling slightly. “For handling that situation.”

Amy's expression is a mask of anguish and **** pleading. She reaches for my hand, her fingers trembling as they brush against my skin.

“Ero, please... I know I have no right to ask for your understanding, but…”

“Then don't,” I reply, as if bored with it all. “Is he here? Don’t point, but tell me. Is he?”

Amy's breath catches in her throat at my abrupt question, her eyes widening in a mix of fear and **** acknowledgment. She scans the crowded bar discreetly, her gaze darting from face to face as she searches for any sign of the man who haunts her memories.

When she finds him, standing near the far wall with a group of friends, a shudder runs through her body. She lowers her head, speaking in a low, strained whisper,

“Yes, he's here. Near the back, with a group. I... I didn't see him until now.”

She risks a glance up at me, her expression etched with remorse and trepidation.

“I swear, Ero, I had no idea he'd be here. This isn't... I didn't plan this.”

“I know you didn't. I did. Which one is he?”

Amy's eyes widen in shock at my revelation, a chill running down her spine as the implications sink in. She stares at me, mouth agape, struggling to process the fact that I deliberately brought her to this place, to confront her past mistake. Swallowing hard, she follows my gaze across the room, her heart pounding in her chest as she locates the man in question. With a trembling hand, she points him out, keeping her finger low and discreet.

“He's the tall one, second from the left. Dark hair, wearing the pink shirt.”

Her voice is barely audible over the thumping bass, thick with dread and a confusing undercurrent of morbid curiosity.

“Ero, what... what are we doing here? Why did you bring me to face him, knowing...? Oh God, Ero... what are you planning? What happens now?”

Despite her best efforts to remain calm, Amy trembles slightly, adrenaline coursing through her veins.

“You don't have to do anything. Just sit there, look pretty. You, my dear, are bait.”

Amy's blood runs cold at my chilling words, a strangled gasp escaping her lips.

“Bait?”

The implication hangs heavy in the air, sending a sickening lurch through her stomach. She stares at me, eyes wide with horror and disbelief, her mind reeling as she tries to comprehend the twisted game I seem intent on playing.

Her eyes fill with tears of shock and betrayal, a choked sob catching in her throat. She grips the edge of the table, knuckles turning white as she struggles to process the cruel twist of fate.

In a voice trembling with emotion, she whispers hoarsely,

“Bait? You... you're using me? To what end, Ero? What could possibly justify subjecting me to this nightmare?”

Despite her words, a part of her understands the twisted logic behind my actions. Guilt and fear war within her as she realizes the precarious position she now occupies, caught between her own sins and the consequences she never imagined.

With a shaking hand, she reaches for her drink, needing the numbing burn of **** to steady her nerves for the ordeal to come. Tears begin to well up in her eyes, mascara already smudging slightly from the stress and emotion. She grips the edge of the table, knuckles turning white as she fights the urge to bolt, to flee this nightmare scenario.

I stare at the man—no, a boy, really. He’s tall and lean, with gym muscles and a wispy mustache that he probably thinks is awesome. I’m sure he’s strong, but I don’t think he’s ever had to use his muscles for what he’s going to have to use them for tonight. I hold him with my gaze, and he sees me looking. He gives me the 'sup nod, which I do not reciprocate, but continue staring.

Then he catches sight of who I’m sitting with, and his face breaks into a wide smile. He nods to his friends, two of whom break off to come with him, strutting across the dance floor, grinning at Amy, who looks like she wishes the ground could swallow her up.

Amy’s heart pounds wildly in her chest as she watches the three men approach, their confident strides and lecherous grins making her skin crawl. She shrinks back in her seat, wishing she could disappear and escape this humiliating confrontation. Tears threaten to spill down her cheeks as the reality of her situation crashes over her—she's been set up, used as a pawn in my twisted game of **** and retribution.

As the three men reach the table, she keeps her eyes fixed on the table, unable to meet their gazes, feeling the weight of their stares like physical touches. The cocky bravado in their voices, the unmistakable undertone of challenge directed at me, makes fear and shame churn in her gut as she realizes the volatile situation unfolding, knowing she is the catalyst for whatever confrontation is to come.

Her hands tremble as she grips her glass tighter, bracing herself for the explosion she senses building with each passing second. She darts a ****, pleading look at me, silently begging me to intervene, to spare her this degrading encounter. But my expression remains impassive, almost bored, as I watch the scene unfold with detached interest.

“'Sup bro. If you take a picture, it will last longer,” Mustache says.

To be continued in chapter 12...