Chapter 3 Stranger and shot

I was sitting on Amanda's bed, half-slouched, playing Subway Surfers on my phone. I still don't understand how this damn game has no ending. I've been playing it for, what, five years now? Amanda introduced it to me back when things were a little less... intense.

"Hey, how do I look?"

I glanced up and nearly dropped my phone.

Amanda stood there dressed in tight black leather, an outfit that left little to the imagination. It hugged her curves perfectly and gave her boobs a kind of dangerous attention. She reminded me of one of those cringe cartoon characters she always forces me to watch.

"You look like one of those girls that dances on poles," I said, deadpan.

Her eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

"You know," I added, "like the ones from that last party we went to."

"Ohh," she said, then burst into laughter, throwing her head back like I was the funniest person alive.

"You mean strippers, Ian."

"Yeah, them. So they're called strippers, noted."

Still giggling, she stepped forward. "Okay, but seriously, how do I look?"

I scoffed, keeping my expression neutral. "Good enough to seduce him."

"Urrgh, you scumbag."

---

We got to the club and made our way to the entrance. The bouncer was bulky, like he was going for a war, arms crossed and expression blank. We showed him our IDs. No words were exchanged, just a nod, and he let us in.

Inside, the place was already pulsing with bass. Neon lights. Heavy scents of alcohol and expensive perfume. It smelled like sweat and something I couldn't put a name on.

Amanda made a beeline for the VIP section in the corner, where our target was sitting.

I went to the counter and took a seat.

"What can I offer you, sir?" the bartender asked. He looked young, like, barely-legal young. Maybe 18, 19 tops.

"Some soda will do."

He handed me a glass. I took a sip.

God. If this is what soda tastes like, then it'll be good sticking to my coffee.

I turned my head slightly toward the VIP area and spotted Amanda already on the guy's lap.

Gross.

But hey, at least the plan was working. That ridiculous outfit might have actually done the trick.

Just then, something caught my eye.

A guy two seats away from me. Sunglasses on. Indoors.

Who the hell wears sunglasses to a club?

He was downing glass after glass. Eventually, he gave up entirely and started drinking straight from the bottle. His vibe was all kinds of chaotic. Still... I couldn't look away.

He looked a little taller than me. I'm 6'3", but he had me by maybe an inch. Though I definitely had more muscle, well, not that I had much. He had long black hair tied into a low ponytail, but strands fell across his face. From the looks of it, he was already drunk. Or on his way there.

That's when I noticed Amanda walking quickly toward me.

"We have to go. Right now," she said, her voice low and urgent.

She looked tense, like someone had just pulled a gun out behind her.

I turned my eyes toward the guy in sunglasses again. He was slumped over, half-passed out.

"I'm not leaving him here," I said.

"What? Ian, we don't even know him! And shit is about to go down. We need to get the fuck out of here!"

"We're not going without him," I snapped.

Amanda looked at me, studying my face. Searching for a reason. Probably realizing I wasn't going to back down.

"Fine. But he's your responsibility. Not mine."

We grabbed him, he was heavier than he looked, and dragged him out to the car. We drove off, the club getting smaller in the rearview mirror.

We weren't even a mile away when we heard it.

Gunshots. Screams. Chaos.