Chapter 4:
Tom (Cruise) Control
Bullet Gloryhole!
“Ha! Yeah, right, keep dreaming,” I said, grabbing Aya’s wrist and yanking her back.
“H-Hiro… t-that hurts…” she mumbled, rubbing her wrist with a flush creeping up her cheeks.
“Hurts, my ass. I’m not falling for that act.”
“Oh, come on! I nailed it!” she said, massaging her cheeks. “Who can blush on command, huh, huh?”
“A fucking nutcase, probably…” I replied, taking her hand and dragging her to the bar.
Here’s the plan, alright? Simple. We walk in, grab a spot at the corner of the bar, angled toward Cher, maybe toss out some loud-ass comments to get her attention, then—BAM! A kiss, or something to throw her off her game.
That way, she’d see the stupidity of what she was about to do…
Or maybe she’d already done it?
Was getting plastered her way of capping off an orgy?
No. Gotta stop right there. This won’t end well if I spiral down that rabbit hole again.
Though, now that I think about it… what’s her voice like when she moans?
No. Done. Enough. Chill.
This is fucked-up and borderline insane.
It’s like a sinking ship’s captain thinking the ocean’s a better source of oxygen. That’s the poetic version. If I’m being real, it’s like getting your balls caught in your zipper and thinking the best fix is to yank it up anyway.
“Uh… alright… let’s see… I want that drink with the weird glass and the olive,” Aya said, spinning on the barstool.
“It’s called a martini, Aya…” I said, not pissed at her exactly, but who the hell doesn’t know the word martini in a crime story?
“Uh-huh, yeah, whatever, one of those and… fries?”
“Girl, this is a bar, not a diner. Beer or whiskey, pick one or get the fuck out,” the guy behind the bar said, dry-wiping a used glass.
Yup, you read that right—dry-wiping a used glass.
“Girl? Look, I don’t know what kind of fucked-up fetish you’ve got, but FYI, I’m theoretically 27,” Aya said, leaning over the bar. “Just give me the damn drink, alright?”
“Theoretically, my balls, Aya. You’re fucking 27 dammit,” I said, then turned to the bartender. “Gimme a whiskey, double…” As I spoke, I caught one of those drones stroking Cher’s chin out of the corner of my eye, all laughs and heat radiating over here. “You know what? Fuck it, give me the whole damn bottle…”
“And get me my goddamn martini. The bottles are right there, man, earn your paycheck, let’s go,” Aya snapped, rocking on her stool and snapping her fingers like some diva—at least in her own head.
The guy slammed the whiskey bottle down beside me and leaned in to whisper, “I don’t like people coming into my shitty joint telling me what to do, so put your girl in her place, yeah?”
“Oh… yeah, you leaning in like that? Not sure if you’re trying to threaten me or seduce me, but neither’s working,” I said, popping the bottle open and chugging straight from it. I’d forgotten about my yanked-out molar, but it didn’t burn as bad as I expected.
Here’s the thing—I didn’t mention this, but I’m a lightweight with booze. Hell, I don’t even like drinking.
I mean, I was already half in the bag, but yeah, my bad for downing a quarter of the bottle in one go.
“Hey… hey… what’s your name? Wait, no, I don’t wanna learn another name I won’t use… Look, the damn bottle’s back there, just give her the martini and call it a day… I don’t know, shove a cork in it if you’re out of olives, she won’t care,” I said, struggling to keep my back straight, propping myself up on my elbows to grip the bar without looking like it.
The guy tossed his rag next to an ice bucket and came back at me. “I told you, whiskey, beer, or get the fuck ou—”
“And… she said… she wanted a martini…” I slurred, yanking him by his greasy tank top. “She wants… a martini… I want you to shut the fuck up… and you don’t want…” I continued, pulling the .45 and letting the barrel rest under his chin, “me to find out… if six shots… are enough to rearrange… that face…”
“Alright! Alright! Chill, man… Shit, it’s not that serious, tsk…” he said, pulling free from my grip—which, honestly, wasn’t that tight. Judging by his reaction, this wasn’t the first time someone’s tried to put a few holes in him.
“Hero…” Aya said, clapping. I swear her eyes sparkled like fucking stars, or maybe I was just too sloshed. “My knight in shining armor…” she went on, leaning toward me. “Lemme see how that whiskey tastes…”
She grabbed the bottle and smashed it hard against the bar with a dull thud.
Clearly a blatant attention-grab, the kind of desperate theater-kid move you pull for an A.
What wasn’t obvious was her hand on my neck, or the way she lightly bit my bottom lip.
This was NOT a kiss, let’s be clear.
But I caught the eyebrow flick she gave. I rolled my eyes, and yup, there was Cher, staring right at us.
Part one of the plan: Call it a half-assed win.
Aya slid back to her seat with a smirk that said everything without saying a word.
“Whoa, whoa… Hiro! Finally getting the goddamn dopamine fix!” Cher shouted, like it was a damn celebration, waving her pint around, spilling beer everywhere, and nobody seemed to care. “And the chick’s fucking hot… makes me wanna hang with her a bit,” she continued, stumbling over and throwing her arm around my shoulders. “Just. One. Bit.”
Let me backtrack—my plan was garbage. This was not how it was supposed to go.
“Come on, come on… do it again, I wanna see it up close,” she said with this stupid, probably booze-fueled enthusiasm. Though, to be fair, I wasn’t one to judge on that front right now. “Ready—action!” she said, dragging a chair over and plopping down in front of us like she was watching, I don’t know, Citizen Kane or some shit.
“Uh… no… I don’t know…” Aya mumbled, faking a stammer. “This whole thing… it’s… not my style… I just got carried away…”
“Oh, please! Rip his lips off with a kiss, come on, this is getting good…” Cher said, downing her pint in one gulp.
“It’s just…” There it was, that fake blush. “I’m more about… intimacy…” Aya said in this weird, faux-vulnerable tone, slowly brushing my hand, then lacing her fingers with mine.
Cher dropped her pint glass, and by the time the sound of shattering glass faded, her face was inches from Aya’s.
It was like playing chess, setting up your bishop or knight, and the other guy slaps a rook right next to it. That kinda vibe.
“Hey, bitch, nobody ever teach you boundaries?”
I… I need to rephrase again: The plan had gone to absolute shit, and if there was a siren, it’d be blaring louder than Chernobyl’s reactor meltdown.
“H-Hiro… t-that hurts…” she mumbled, rubbing her wrist with a flush creeping up her cheeks.
“Hurts, my ass. I’m not falling for that act.”
“Oh, come on! I nailed it!” she said, massaging her cheeks. “Who can blush on command, huh, huh?”
“A fucking nutcase, probably…” I replied, taking her hand and dragging her to the bar.
Here’s the plan, alright? Simple. We walk in, grab a spot at the corner of the bar, angled toward Cher, maybe toss out some loud-ass comments to get her attention, then—BAM! A kiss, or something to throw her off her game.
That way, she’d see the stupidity of what she was about to do…
Or maybe she’d already done it?
Was getting plastered her way of capping off an orgy?
No. Gotta stop right there. This won’t end well if I spiral down that rabbit hole again.
Though, now that I think about it… what’s her voice like when she moans?
No. Done. Enough. Chill.
This is fucked-up and borderline insane.
It’s like a sinking ship’s captain thinking the ocean’s a better source of oxygen. That’s the poetic version. If I’m being real, it’s like getting your balls caught in your zipper and thinking the best fix is to yank it up anyway.
“Uh… alright… let’s see… I want that drink with the weird glass and the olive,” Aya said, spinning on the barstool.
“It’s called a martini, Aya…” I said, not pissed at her exactly, but who the hell doesn’t know the word martini in a crime story?
“Uh-huh, yeah, whatever, one of those and… fries?”
“Girl, this is a bar, not a diner. Beer or whiskey, pick one or get the fuck out,” the guy behind the bar said, dry-wiping a used glass.
Yup, you read that right—dry-wiping a used glass.
“Girl? Look, I don’t know what kind of fucked-up fetish you’ve got, but FYI, I’m theoretically 27,” Aya said, leaning over the bar. “Just give me the damn drink, alright?”
“Theoretically, my balls, Aya. You’re fucking 27 dammit,” I said, then turned to the bartender. “Gimme a whiskey, double…” As I spoke, I caught one of those drones stroking Cher’s chin out of the corner of my eye, all laughs and heat radiating over here. “You know what? Fuck it, give me the whole damn bottle…”
“And get me my goddamn martini. The bottles are right there, man, earn your paycheck, let’s go,” Aya snapped, rocking on her stool and snapping her fingers like some diva—at least in her own head.
The guy slammed the whiskey bottle down beside me and leaned in to whisper, “I don’t like people coming into my shitty joint telling me what to do, so put your girl in her place, yeah?”
“Oh… yeah, you leaning in like that? Not sure if you’re trying to threaten me or seduce me, but neither’s working,” I said, popping the bottle open and chugging straight from it. I’d forgotten about my yanked-out molar, but it didn’t burn as bad as I expected.
Here’s the thing—I didn’t mention this, but I’m a lightweight with booze. Hell, I don’t even like drinking.
I mean, I was already half in the bag, but yeah, my bad for downing a quarter of the bottle in one go.
“Hey… hey… what’s your name? Wait, no, I don’t wanna learn another name I won’t use… Look, the damn bottle’s back there, just give her the martini and call it a day… I don’t know, shove a cork in it if you’re out of olives, she won’t care,” I said, struggling to keep my back straight, propping myself up on my elbows to grip the bar without looking like it.
The guy tossed his rag next to an ice bucket and came back at me. “I told you, whiskey, beer, or get the fuck ou—”
“And… she said… she wanted a martini…” I slurred, yanking him by his greasy tank top. “She wants… a martini… I want you to shut the fuck up… and you don’t want…” I continued, pulling the .45 and letting the barrel rest under his chin, “me to find out… if six shots… are enough to rearrange… that face…”
“Alright! Alright! Chill, man… Shit, it’s not that serious, tsk…” he said, pulling free from my grip—which, honestly, wasn’t that tight. Judging by his reaction, this wasn’t the first time someone’s tried to put a few holes in him.
“Hero…” Aya said, clapping. I swear her eyes sparkled like fucking stars, or maybe I was just too sloshed. “My knight in shining armor…” she went on, leaning toward me. “Lemme see how that whiskey tastes…”
She grabbed the bottle and smashed it hard against the bar with a dull thud.
Clearly a blatant attention-grab, the kind of desperate theater-kid move you pull for an A.
What wasn’t obvious was her hand on my neck, or the way she lightly bit my bottom lip.
This was NOT a kiss, let’s be clear.
But I caught the eyebrow flick she gave. I rolled my eyes, and yup, there was Cher, staring right at us.
Part one of the plan: Call it a half-assed win.
Aya slid back to her seat with a smirk that said everything without saying a word.
“Whoa, whoa… Hiro! Finally getting the goddamn dopamine fix!” Cher shouted, like it was a damn celebration, waving her pint around, spilling beer everywhere, and nobody seemed to care. “And the chick’s fucking hot… makes me wanna hang with her a bit,” she continued, stumbling over and throwing her arm around my shoulders. “Just. One. Bit.”
Let me backtrack—my plan was garbage. This was not how it was supposed to go.
“Come on, come on… do it again, I wanna see it up close,” she said with this stupid, probably booze-fueled enthusiasm. Though, to be fair, I wasn’t one to judge on that front right now. “Ready—action!” she said, dragging a chair over and plopping down in front of us like she was watching, I don’t know, Citizen Kane or some shit.
“Uh… no… I don’t know…” Aya mumbled, faking a stammer. “This whole thing… it’s… not my style… I just got carried away…”
“Oh, please! Rip his lips off with a kiss, come on, this is getting good…” Cher said, downing her pint in one gulp.
“It’s just…” There it was, that fake blush. “I’m more about… intimacy…” Aya said in this weird, faux-vulnerable tone, slowly brushing my hand, then lacing her fingers with mine.
Cher dropped her pint glass, and by the time the sound of shattering glass faded, her face was inches from Aya’s.
It was like playing chess, setting up your bishop or knight, and the other guy slaps a rook right next to it. That kinda vibe.
“Hey, bitch, nobody ever teach you boundaries?”
I… I need to rephrase again: The plan had gone to absolute shit, and if there was a siren, it’d be blaring louder than Chernobyl’s reactor meltdown.
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