Chapter 12: Visions of

Continued from chapter 11:

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.

Chapter 12:

His bro friends laugh fiendishly. One wears a polo several sizes too small, short but packed with muscle. The other is tall, wiry, and bored. He’s the one I have to worry about.

Mustache says,

‘Amy, it’s good to see you back. We had us a good time, didn’t we, beautiful? Who is this old guy you’re with? Your dad? Older brother? Nice to meet you, bruh, I’m Bradley.’”

Amy recoils as if slapped by Bradley's crude remarks, her cheeks burning with humiliation and rage. She opens her mouth to respond, to defend herself and Ero, but no words come out, choked by the lump of shame lodged in her throat. Instead, she shakes her head vehemently, her eyes pleading with Ero to intervene, to put an end to this degrading spectacle.

The laughter of the short, muscular friend grates on her nerves, each guffaw a twisted reminder of her own weakness and poor judgment. The tall, wiry one—there’s something unsettling about his bored demeanor, a hint of latent **** simmering beneath the surface that sends a chill down her spine.

She can feel the weight of Ero's silent rage beside her, the tension in his body radiating like a physical ****. When Bradley extends his hand in mock greeting, she flinches involuntarily, shrinking further into her seat.

“Please... don’t do this. Not here, not now. It’s not what you think...”

The plea is directed at Ero, a **** attempt to forestall the impending confrontation, even as a part of her acknowledges the futility of her words in the face of his simmering anger and the provocation of her former lover.

These young men don’t recognize what is in front of them, and I let them keep their illusion for a little while longer.

“Hey fellas, I’m Ero.” I say with a winsome smile.

“I often feel like Amy’s dad, it's true. She's a wild, headstrong little minx with a nose for trouble, am I right?”

I dap up Bradley, while the polo-shirt-wearing Conor laughs like a hyena. The tall one—Gavin—continues to look bored.

“Can I buy you three some drinks? Pull up some chairs, drink with us for a while. How do you know Amy here?”

Amy's eyes widen in shock and dread as I engage with the men. My tone is light and conversational, but beneath the surface, there’s a tension that makes her skin crawl. I play along with their crude assumptions, validating their crass remarks about her character. Each word I utter feels like a knife twisting in her gut—a painful reminder of the trust she has shattered and the consequences she now faces.

When I invite them to join us, offering drinks and camaraderie, her breath catches in her throat. She shakes her head frantically, her eyes wide with panic, silently begging me not to prolong this agonizing encounter. The thought of sitting there, pretending everything is normal while these men leer and speculate about her, is almost more than she can bear.

Bradley, polo shirt, who happens to be Conor, and the bored guy, Gavin, order hard seltzers.

“Gotta watch the carbs bruh”, Bradley grins, patting his flat stomach unapologetically.

Conor gives another hyena laugh, while Gavin shrugs.

“Amy, would you be so kind as to get us all drinks, sweetie?” I smile coldly at her, the mock endearment dripping with venom.

She flinches at my command. I know she understands the price of disobedience in this moment. With a shaky nod, she rises on trembling legs, grateful for the brief respite from the suffocating tension at the table.

As she makes her way to the bar, fighting back tears, I watch her, the weight of my gaze boring into her back—a constant reminder of her precarious position. The line at the bar stretches endlessly, each second ticking by with excruciating slowness as she waits to fulfill her assigned task, to play the dutiful wife.

At the bar, she orders the requested drinks with a trembling voice, fumbling with her wallet as she pays. Her movements feel stiff and robotic. Each second away from the table feels like an eternity, her mind reeling with dread and the guilty anticipation of what may unfold in her absence.

When Amy finally turns to return to the table, she finds that I, along with the three boys, have vanished.

Amy freezes mid-step, her heart plummeting into her stomach as she surveys the empty table, the drinks wobbling on the tray in her trembling hands. Panic surges through her veins as the horrifying realization dawns—I've left with those men, abandoning her in this crowded, unfamiliar place. A whimper escapes her throat as the gravity of the situation crashes over her.

With shaking hands, she sets the spilled drinks on the nearest table, ignoring the annoyed glares of the occupants. Her mind races, trying to make sense of my actions, trying to anticipate where I might have taken the confrontation. Visions of **** flash through her head, fueling her rising hysteria. **** back a sob, she spins around, scanning the crowd desperately for any sign of me or the three men.

The night air is cool, raising goosebumps on my skin as I lead all three boys into the dark alley behind the club. A lone camera hangs from a wall, but it’s disabled, as I hacked it from home, before coming here—because you know, my job. I have sold these three a line about having some pot and pills for sale, and they have swallowed my bait hook, line, and sinker.

I turn and smile.

“Okay,” Bradley says, smiling.

It’s the smile of someone who has always had it easy—the smile of a handsome boy who has always gotten his way.

“Where is it, buddy?” he asks.

Conor scrunches up his face like he's trying to think, or poop, or maybe both.

“Well, where’s the shit, man? It’s cold out here.”

To be continued in chapter 13...