Rather than respond, she turns away, feigning shyness.
His face reddens, clearly not used to or willing to take the dismissal. "Come on. Just one drink. I don't bite."
I do, motherfucker, so back off.
Where on earth that thought came from, I'll never know. But something zips up my spine, some strange need to step in and protect Blondie from this dude she has less than zero interest in.
"No thanks," her quiet voice reaches me, tentative. "I've had plenty."
Internally, I groan. That's not something she should have said. She just told a stranger exactly how drunk she is, and now he's like a fucking shark scenting blood in the water.
One minute, I'm watching the exchange; the next, I sink into a chair on her opposite side, two stools down to give her space, ordering another whiskey and pretending I'm not paying any attention to them.
Her eyes flick to me momentarily before darting back to the drink in front of her, her immaculately painted fingers reminding me of the scarlet liquid I can hear pumping through her body.
"One more won't hurt," he says again, crowding closer. Heat crawls up my neck, and I try to shake it off, try to ignore the way I feel as if I'm screaming at her in my head to tell this guy to fuck all the way off rather than simper and make herself smaller for him. "It's on me. What's your name?"
"I think she said no," the words escape my mouth before I can hold them in.
Both of them look at me, and while I expected a dirty look from him, her expression takes me by surprise.
She looks at me coolly, the doe-eyed innocence gone, a fellow monster staring right back at me. Her gaze travels my face before going lower, giving me a once-over that would be considered indecent if it didn't light my body on fire the way it does.
With the slightest shake of her head, I hear the unspoken message loud and clear.
Back off.
And the mystery deepens.
Who am I to stop whatever game she's playing? Perhaps it's something they're playing together and she actually does know this man. Perhaps I'm reading it all wrong, and the fear excites her.
Intuition tells me otherwise, but I take my drink and disappear back into my seat, granting her wish. Her gaze follows me momentarily, trailing me to the little booth in the back corner before she returns to staring at her glass, signaling for another.
That cloying smell of decaying blood was even stronger up close, but something about it felt off. I could scent her own blood, the sweetness I expect from someone so vibrant, then her perfume, a dark, spicy mixture with maybe vanilla, or chocolate. And sandwiched between all of that, was the smell of decaying blood.
A smile pulls at my lips at the realization.
It's not her blood.
She's walking around with someone else's blood on her body somewhere.
God, I want to find it.
The strange man reaches for her, his fat fucking finger about to taint her blonde waves, when suddenly the sound of sirens pulls all of us to attention.
The lights and sounds of police cars fly by, andeveryone in the bar turns to watch them.
Everyone but Blondie.
She's frozen in her seat. Staring at her drink like she wishes it could swallow her rather than the other way around. She's explicitly trying not to look, staying too still.
Sirens aren't uncommon in this area, but a scandal always draws attention.
Against their better judgment, most patrons make their way to the windows, looking outside to see where the emergency vehicles stopped.
Now, Blondie finally decides to move, following the crowd to see what manner of crime we'll find outside. I down my drink all in one go, determined to keep her in my sights— to solve the mystery of whose blood is on her, of course.
Outside, in the frigid night, people gather, watching the police set up a perimeter.
