Sneak Peek: Late Night Backstreet (Patreon)

A sneak peek at a scene midway through Chapter 4. After all that fun bridal experience, Julia takes Cindy out for dinner. They eat and drink and talk and leave the restaurant at closing time. It's late and dark out and they're standing alone outside waiting for a taxi....

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By the time we stepped outside, the unseasonable heat had faded to early October chill. Corset notwithstanding, my dress offered little protection and I hugged myself against the cold. Saturday night, and the city centre was busy though our backstreet alley of fancy restaurants was quiet, shopfront lights blinking off one by one.

            Our ride was delayed. It was late, moon veiled behind scuttling wisps of clouds and perpetual urban haze. With a distinct click, Chez Pierre locked up behind us. We’d stayed late, drinking and talking, until the waiter firmly asked us to pay up and leave. Drunk, we hung off each other outside, girl giggles and high-heel clatter in the night as we waited for the taxi.

            That’s when I noticed the man slouched in an alcove across the way. He stood at the top of stairs leading down to some dark and expensive late-night bar. He noticed me, noticing him. Eye contact: the man’s smile was unpleasant.

            “What’s so funny?” The man lurched towards us into the street. He was drunk, too. Behind us, the restaurant lights behind us flickered and went dark. The street was strangely silent, except for this man’s shuffling steps. He wore a shirt and tie, armpits damp with sweat, tie loose around the neck. The watch at his wrist and the cut of his suit implied wealth; the stains on his shirt and redness to his eyes spoke of a bad night out.

            Julia stayed quiet. She went tense and her eyes slid away.

            “Hey.” He was on our side of the road, now. Close—almost close enough to smell. He was big, this guy. Nearly two meters, and the way his white shirt pulled across his chest spoke of bulk and muscle. His knuckles were calloused. He’s thrown a punch or two in his time. “Hey, I’m talkin’ to ya.”

            Julia studiously ignored him. She checked her phone, tracking the taxi’s progress. The night’s cheer evaporated, just like that.

            “Over here,” she said, loudly. “Taxi’s waiting around the corner,” and she tugged me by the elbow.

            “Just wanna talk,” the guy slurred.

            Julia started to walk away, dragging me with her.

            “Fuckin’ bitches,” the man shouted. “Fuckin’ c—”

            And then he was close enough to smell, because I was right in his face, staring up into those bloodshot eyes. “Say it,” I hissed. “Go on—say it.” This close, he could smell me, too, delicate perfume warring with sweat and booze and anger. “Please. Call us ‘cunts’—I’m begging you.” I trembled with restraint. My heart pounded in my chest, but my corseted breath was low and controlled. “Give me an excuse, man—do it.”

            He blinked with slow surprise. His lips curled into a sneer—wavered—and staring back he saw something that made him reconsider.  He shook his head, and drew his hand across his face, and fell back a step.

            “Sorry,” he muttered. “I’m—” he shook his head again, “sorry.”

            Julia grabbed me by the elbow again. “This way. Now.”

            I dutifully followed her down the darkened street and around the corner, the clip-clop of my heels a counterpoint to her hurried steps. It was busier the next street over, back in the middle of weeknight action, brights lights and cheer pouring out of late-night fast-food joints, dive bars, small clubs and florescent-lit 24-hour convenience stores.

            A few minutes later and our taxi found us waiting, shivering, in the shelter of a cheap shop selling touristy t-shirts and emergency prophylactics.

            The car swiftly ferried us back to Julia’s. We rode in silence. I seethed with indefinable emotion riding over a deep well of exhaustion. Drunk, I still spoiled for a fight. I hadn’t realized how much I wanted to hurt someone until that man approached. My fists itched. There was a powerful urge to tear someone to pieces. I nearly vibrated with the desire for violence.

            The reason for this was beyond me. I was too drunk and too tired from the day’s performance. Maybe there’d been too much thinking today, too much delving into emotions I’d ignored for months. Fortunately, the corset was as good a restraint as any, a reminder of the idiocy of lashing out. I felt its unyielding grip and it kept my breathing controlled and gradually, over the course of the ride to Julia’s, the desire to hurt someone faded.

            Meanwhile, Julia stayed quiet. Anger rolled off her in silent waves, though I ignored them in favour of my own introspection. She said nothing as I followed her up to her apartment.

            But once the door clicked shut behind us, she immediately turned on me. “What the hell were you thinking?”

            “I wasn’t.” I knelt to unbuckle my heels.

            “No shit.” She glared down at me. “That guy could’ve—”

            “What?” Standing, I flexed my toes and sighed with relief. “What could he have done, Julia?”

            She stared at me for a long moment, then shook her head in disbelief. “I just don’t—every single time! I forget. You fool me into thinking there’s this sweet, demure girl, all dolled up in a sexy dress and heels and makeup—all giggles and smiles; and then this shit happens, and it’s the same macho bullshit.”

            “What should I have done? Ignore him?”

            “Yes!” Julia nearly shouted. “Ignore him! Like women do ever single fucking day when some creep comes up to them, talk to them and they don’t want to talk, invades their space—ignore him, and walk the fuck away and hope he doesn’t do anything nasty.”

            “And if he does?”

            Instead of answering, she kicked off her shoes and pushed past me. She was still muttering as she passed: should’ve fucking known. I do, I’ve got evidence. Macho fuckwit—she reached the kitchen and spun on me and demanded: “and what would you have done, Cindy, if he’d turned violent?”

            “I could’ve taken him.”

            She rolled her eyes. “Oh, please. Of course.” She waved a hand in my direction. “I mean, just look at you! Pillar of strength that you are.” She started to rummage around in the cupboard, eventually yanking out a pair of tumblers. “Did you see the size of that guy? You’re full of shit, you know that? Be honest: could you have ‘taken him,’ as you put it, even as David?”

            I walked over and stood hand on hip. “Guess we’ll never know, huh?” Leaning into the counter, I flexed a slender arm. “I admit it’s not much to look at now, but I was in good shape when you knew me before, right?”

            “Doesn’t mean you know how to fight.”

            “True.”

            Julia crossed over to her drinks cabinet and came back with a bottle of whisky—a 12-year old Macallan—and poured a few fingers for us each. She slid the glass over. “Since you’re feeling so fucking manly.”

            Staring into the drink, I considered her anger—or rather, disappointment. She wasn’t wrong. Picking a fight with that guy would’ve been colossally stupid. Sure, it would’ve felt awesome, fleetingly until the inevitable horror expressed by Julia penetrated my lustful anger and drunkenness. Then the reality, of a delicate twenty-year old girl tearing a full-grown man to pieces in full view of a half-dozen security cameras. How long before this idiotic act of violence filtered through to some police or investigatory database? How far might it reach; and might some snoopy AI draw an association between this moment and previous acts of violence, query the little girl and her skillful violence?

            Resisting the urge to knock it back in one, I took a delicate sip and returned the glass lightly to the countertop. “I’m sorry,” I said, quietly.