I wonder what he tells himself about wearing a crucifix while he shoots young girls full of poison and pimps them out to pay for the addictions he created.
Rourke slides onto a stool a few seats down from me. His posture is loose and casual, as if the night already belongs to him. He keeps his face turned away, absorbed in whatever fantasy he’s chasing this time.
The mirror catches his outline. Broad shoulders. Relaxed confidence. And the gleamof that cross.
He orders a Fireball with a beer back. Juvenile. All cheap heat and frat-boy bravado.
The bartender barely reacts.
Rourke looks younger than you’d expect. Too clean-cut, a pretty boy who got lost in this world of sin. That softness makes him more dangerous. It’s easy to see how a young girl might fall for the mask without ever glimpsing the monster behind it.
“Drinking alone or meeting someone?” the bartender asks.
Rourke smirks, drumming his fingers on the bar. “Meeting someone. She’s—well, she sounds special.” He glances toward the door. “Met her online.”
“Let me guess. Tinder?” the bartender teases.
Rourke chuckles, low and smug. “Something like that. I mean… she’s young, but fuck, I’m into that.”
The bartender raises a brow. “There's nothing wrong with liking ’em younger, long as they’re not too young.”
Rourke grins. “Yeah. Said she’s into older guys. Guess I’m her type.”
He finishes his drink and orders another. Then another.
I watch without giving myself away. Every twitch of his smirk, the tap of his foot, the lazy sprawl of his elbow.
Then it starts.
The huff. The check of his phone. Screen lights up, thumb scrolls, jaw clenches. He sets it down, picks it up again thirty seconds later. Same move and frustration.
He watches the door every time it opens, gaze eager, then disappointed.
Again.
And again.
Each restless shift makes the heat rise in my chest. He’s unraveling. Growing impatient. The silence stretches too long, the drink disappears too fast, and still, no girl.
Good. Let him wonder whether she changed her mind.
Rourke exhales through his nose and downs the rest of his drink. “Looks as though I got stood up. Maybe her daddy caught her sneaking out again.”
The bartender’s gaze sharpens. “Daddy? How young are we talking?”
Rourke laughs. “Old enough.”
Disgust rolls through me. This is a man who preys on the unsuspecting, whose charm is a costume stitched from ego and poison. He smiles as if he’s harmless, as if the evil in him is mischief.
But I know better. I’ve seen the aftermath.
And he sits there, untouched by guilt.
He palms two bills across the bar and pushes away. The door shuts behind him with a soft, final click. I wait for a moment, allowing the silence to settle. Then I rise and follow.
No hurry. This isn’t a flare of fury. It’s a predation.
I move through the night like the promise of a storm. Quiet at first, then impossible to ignore.
