Harlan trembles, his mouth twitching, trying not to cry. A high, shaky whimper escapes before he can swallow it.
“Aw, sweetie. You really thought you were the monster in this story, didn’t you? That’s adorable.”
I lean in close, lowering my voice to a whispery growl.
“Here’s what you’re going to do.”
I don’t know how I know, but I do. He’ll obey. Every cruel, beautiful, blood-soaked word of it.
“You’re going to finish your drink. Leave a big tip. Then go home. When you get there, you’ll write down every name. Every girl. Every woman. Every filthy thing you did to them. And you’ll beg for their forgiveness. Then, Harly—” I smile, teeth grazing his ear. “You’re going to find the sharpest blade in your house. The kind that sinks deep. Do you have a bathtub, baby?”
Harlan nods, and the tears that had been welling up in his eyes finally overflow, leaving damp streaks on his face. I followthe salty trail with my tongue, slow and starving, savoring every shudder.
His panic floods my mouth. It tastes divine, like metallic copper and bitter sweat.
And fuck, I want more.
“Next, you’re going to take that sharp blade, go to your bathroom, and fill the tub with scalding hot water. Maybe put some bubbles in there too. Treat yourself. I’m not a complete monster. Then I want you to get naked, climb into the tub, and take a moment to feel the fear and pain you inflicted on those women.
“Now, for the best part! I want you to take your blade and slice your balls off, one by one. Then, slice off that teeny tiny prick of yours. Finally, I need you to slice up your forearms as deep as you can go. Grind that blade against the bone, baby. Can you do that for me?”
Harlan nods, and when his eyes flash a bright gold, his body completely relaxes.
“That’s it, Harly. Relax. Accept it. Now fuck off and get to work.”
Did I really just do that?
Fuck, that felt so good.
Harlan stumbles back to the bar, oblivious to his blood and piss-soaked pants, then chugs his beer.
I should feel bad. Ashamed. Maybe try to take it all back. Fix it.
But I won’t. Because pieces of shit like him will never stop.
And I’m done letting men like Harlan win.
The broad-shouldered, flannel-wearing, ex-military-as-fuck man behind the bar watches the whole thing.
Oh.Flannelflannel.
The same guy who looked at me like I was an undetonated landmine the last time I was here, one he’d probably have to throw himself on if it ever went off.
Now he’s behind the bar, watching like I just detonated the room—which, fair.
But heseesme. Sees what I did. Sees what Harlan is.
He flexes his jaw but doesn’t say a word. Flannel just exhales through his nose, one of those slow breaths that says, “I hate everything about this day.”
So, because I’m feeling dangerous, maybe even untouchable, I meet his stare with a smirk.
And with a flick of my fingers, I blow him a kiss.
Flannel lets out a longer breath this time, dragging a hand down his face like a man already so fucking done with my bullshit.
He mouths the words slowly, begging the universe to hear him: “Jesus. Fucking. Christ.”
As my gaze slides back to my two friends, the jukebox kicks on again.
