Christine tucked her frizzy hair behind her ear and adjusted her shirt nervously. Being looked at had always made her nervous; she thrived in solitude.
There was a low murmur of conversation. She listened to the click of glasses on the bar top. Someone in the back of the room was already a bit too intoxicated; she could nearly make out every loud and jovial word he spoke from the short stage she was in the middle of.
When she shifted, the stool she sat on tilted dangerously and she held the acoustic guitar across her lap tightly, blushing.
It was one man in particular that stared at her. He sat with his back to the bar, clutching a glass filled with an amber liquor in his long, thin fingers.
He stood out in the crowd. He was tall and thin, alone. He was quiet and focused.
Christine smiled softly at him. He was relatively attractive; his face was a little thin, a little pale, but she didn't mind that. She was pale as a ghost.
He gave no reciprocation to her smile, he simply lifted the glass to his thin lips and took a long, slow drink.
Christine looked down at the guitar in her lap and finally, she strummed it.
She had done well enough to land a small gig here and there, but she still didn't feel comfortable with it yet. She blushed when she sang her own lyrics, the ones that she couldn't help but feel were too cheesy, her chord progressions were clumsy and she knew that anyone with any amount of training was sure to know exactly what a hack she was.
It was pleasant enough to be a cheap background sound to drunk patrons, and even though it wasn't enough to live off of, something about getting paid for her music made her heart soar.
He was still staring at her. It was unnerving.
Christine managed to mostly ignore him until her set ended, even though he seemed to be determined to make sure that she knew he was looking. He stared at her, completely unashamed. She wasn't even sure if he blinked.
When her set was over, she sat the guitar gently in its case that was definitely worse-for-wear and looked back toward him. He had turned back to the bar, and she frowned, hefting the guitar case up and pushing through the tables that she was sure were too close together to be up to fire code.
She slid onto the empty stool beside him and he tilted his face toward her, never actually looking at her.
The bartender was a pretty, young blonde woman and she smiled kindly at Christine.
"Add her to my tab," the man beside her said. His voice was smooth and rich and now it was Christine's turn to stare at him. "Whatever she wants."
The bartender smiled at Christine, lifting one eyebrow. "Must've sung your way right into his heart," she teased. "James is a notorious penny-pincher."
"And Amy is a notorious liar," he said, finally looking at Christine. "I'm not cheap. I just know what I like. What are you drinking?"
"Oh," she replied stupidly. She wasn't really sure what she was supposed to read into his words and she really wasn't much of a drinker. "Uhm... rum and coke?"
His smile was amused. "Midwest," he commented. "It's been a while. I've been meaning to travel out that way. Tell me, what's worth seeing?"
"Not much," she admitted, her smile shy. "Fall, I guess. Nothing is as pretty as a midwest Autumn."
He hummed, turning his short glass and tearing the napkin under it. "A colorful season," he said thoughtfully, sipping at his drink. "I expected as much."
"Too predictable?"
"The perfect amount of predictability , actually," he answered easily. "Surprises can be rather boring and dull... there's nothing wrong with predictable. What's your name?"
Christine bit the inside of her lip, taking her glass from the jovial bartender that offered her a wink. "Amber," she answered, staring at the color of her drink.
"You're lying."
The words were flat, serious, and Christine looked at him in surprise. "What?"
His smile was knowing. He turned his glass on the table again, staring at the steadily melting ice cube. "You're lying," he repeated easily, his tone almost amused. "That isn't your name."
"How would you know?" she asked defensively.
"I just know," he chuckled. "Perhaps you aren't as predictable as you seem. How long have you been playing?"
Christine sipped at her drink carefully. "Long enough," she answered, wiping at the condensation on the glass with her thumb. "And I've been singing even longer. What about you, huh? What's your name?"
"Erik," he answered simply. "You have a lovely voice."
"Thanks," she murmured, sipping at her glass and trying to hide the way she cringed at the burn. The bartender was obviously a heavy pour and Christine wasn't much of a drinker at all when it came down to it.
His laugh was warm. "You didn't have to order alcohol if you don't like it," he pointed out. "I would just as happily buy you a plain coke."
"I like it fine," she lied, forcing herself to take another sip.
He hummed just as warmly as he laughed. "You are very bad at lying for someone who seems so fond of doing it," he murmured. "I find it intriguing."
"I'm beginning to find you insufferable," she bit back.
"You wouldn't be the first," he answered easily. "That was honest, at least."
"You're a bad liar too, you know," Christine pointed out, feeling the redness in her cheeks. "Which is it, Erik or James?"
He took a long, slow drink from his glass and when it was emptied, he set it on the bar top, pushing it toward the inside edge. "So you do pay attention," he said slowly. "It depends on the day of the week."
"Seems pretty sketchy for you to be using a fake name when you're obviously a regular."
"I am?" he asked, looking amused. "Tell me something else that I don't know about myself, sweetheart."
Christine drained the rest of her glass with a long drink, trying to find anything to blame the redness in her cheeks on other than him. "Does this work often?" she asked, stifling a reflexive cough.
"Does what work?"
"The douchebag act," she explained. "How many women does it actually work on?"
He huffed another laugh. "Who said I was trying to pick you up?"
"Oh, fuck off," she said, surprised at how easily the words came. "It's textbook. Backhanded compliments, gas lighting... you're trying to take me home. Being a bad liar doesn't mean I'm an idiot."
For the first time, his smile was almost sad instead of smug. "You are a beautiful woman and you do have a lovely voice," he said eventually. "I didn't intend for my compliments to be ingenuine."
Christine pressed the heels of her palms against her eyes, trying to force away the lightheadedness of too much liquor too fast away. "Thanks," she sighed.
"Maybe a regular coke next, huh?" he asked, sounding slightly concerned.
She nodded slowly, resting her arms against the table. "Thanks," she repeated, staring at the green glass bottle of liquor on the shelf behind the bar.
"It works on a few," he answered eventually. "Never for more than a night. It fails on just as many. People don't come to a place like this looking for a real connection."
"I just came to sing," she pointed out. "It won't work on me."
The next drink he bought her really was a plain coke and, to her surprise, he didn't even tease her about it. As the minutes wore on his attitude seemed to shift and change and, one more plain coke in, she actually found herself enjoying his company.
"I really was trying to take you home," he murmured honestly, leaning against the bar top on one elbow.
She hid her smile behind the rim of her glass. "I might let you," she confessed.
"You think so, hm?"
He blinked when she looked at him and she only just managed to catch the movement, the blue of his contacts shifting just slightly.
Yellow eyes.
She smiled as sweetly as she could manage. It was the entire purpose, after all. "I think I'd like that."
It was nothing particularly impressive. The house was small with generic blue siding and the plot of land it sat on wasn't much bigger, teetering just on the edge of overgrown.
Somehow, she knew that she was exactly where she was supposed to be. If it was grandiose , she might have doubted her own intuition.
His kisses were warm and sloppy and if Christine was honest, she enjoyed them a little too much. When his hand groped for her breast, she was careful to guide it away from the small dagger tucked in her bra, letting herself moan as he pushed her back against the plain white front door.
It would be quick and clean. That was what she promised herself as his suddenly clumsy hands fumbled with his nondescript keys.
The inside of the house wasn't much more impressive than the outside. Plain white walls and generic hardwood floors, it wasn't hard to pick up on the fact that he was a transient.
"Sit down, please," he offered, gesturing to the little leather couch against the wall in the front room.
She obeyed his invitation. The couch was clearly new and it was particularly comfortable. A transient with money. There was no doubt in her mind at that point.
She wasn't sure why he turned his back to her but she took the opportunity, reaching for the holster on her calf. She had no more than unlatched it when she heard a click.
"Drop it."
The sound was familiar and she held her free hand where he could see it, sliding the little six-shot revolver out of the holster and setting it on the ground before she held her other hand out in just the same way.
"Every one is sloppier than the last," he murmured thoughtfully. "You were sent on a suicide mission. Put the rest down."
"That's it," she argued.
He sighed. "Don't make me strip search you. I'm not above it."
Out came the dagger, still in its sheath and tucked between her breasts, and out came the small pink semi-automatic handgun strapped under the edge of her flowy shirt.
"Cute," he commented, sounding halfway amused. "Is that it?"
"That's it," she confirmed honestly, her heart racing in her ribcage. Suddenly she was nauseous.
"Hands where I can see them," he instructed her. "Stand up and walk toward me backwards. I'm not going to pull this trigger unless you give me a reason to."
She obeyed him, her steps slow and steady, and the press of his hand against her back was what stopped her. "How did you know?" she whispered.
His touch was gentle but firm as he patted her down. "I've been living this reality for at least five years," he answered, his hands running firmly along her hips. "You were too real. There's a fine line and you are not up to the idiocy they've roped you into yet."
Christine swallowed thickly as his hands ran against her inner thighs. "Are you going to kill me?"
"I haven't decided," he answered thoughtfully, finally making it to her ankles. "If I don't they will... I find myself tired. Put your hands down, sweetheart. You're good."
She let her hands drop hesitantly, playing with the edge of her shirt nervously as he stepped around her and collected the weapons off of the dark wood floors. "What now?" she asked.
"What now indeed," he answered, turning the dagger over in his hands. "Sit down. If you run I'll find you and I'II have no choice but to pull the trigger."
She sat hesitantly on the edge of the couch and he left the room with every form of protection she had in his hands.
When he came back, he only had his own black glock in his hand. He turned it over and looked at it thoughtfully before he made his way to the couch she sat on, kneeling in front of her on the floor while she swallowed hard.
He guided her hands around the gun that was much heavier than her own and pressed the barrel of it to his own temple.
"Go ahead," he said softly. "It's what you came for, right?"
Her hands were trembling and the way he stared at her was incredibly unnerving.
"What is your name?" he asked again after a long moment, his long fingers wrapping around her hands to keep them steady.
"Christine," she answered, the word broken in her tight voice.
"Christine," he echoed warmly. "A lovely name. Have you ever killed a man before, Christine?"
"No," she admitted weakly.
He hummed. "Have you ever been hunting?"
She shook her head, and his laugh was a ghost of a thing.
"Shot a gun?"
"Yeah," she answered weakly.
Slowly, he was pushing the gun down between them, sliding it out from between her trembling hands. "It isn't even loaded," he said thoughtfully. "One of us will have to die to get out of this. Do you understand that?"
Her nod was lame, weak, and he sighed.
"You really dug yourself into a pickle," he commented, sitting back on the floor and running his thumb along the metal of the gun's handle. "I'm willing to be the one to die, Christine. I'm exhausted. But you'll have to earn it. At least I can teach you some things... make myself useful in some way."
"What?"
He only shook his head. "Until then, you're stuck with me. You need to hunt, sweetheart. It gets easier."