Page 52 of Cut Me Down

I always know where you are little wolf, you don’t have to tell me. Take your time, have fun, I’ll see you tonight.

Serena and I walked to Hateful Harry’s, a seafood bar across the stretch of downtown. It’s only about a twenty-minute walk, and the weather was nice outside. On the way over, Ser was telling me about the crazy things she’s seen over the past week at the ER. Apparently, a guy had an accident with a chainsaw and shredded his leg, there was a lot of overdoses, and a kid got a pencil shoved in his eye and they had to remove it. I can’t imagine seeing half of that. I threw up from brain matter, I don’t want to see bones sticking out, and oh my God that poor kid’s eye. How does she look at that every day?

Walking up to the bar, I admire the outside under the surrounding, newer establishments’ neon lights. Hateful Harry’s is definitely an older business, and the outside looks a little worse for wear. The colors have faded, some of the window decals are peeling off, it doesn’t have some large flashing sign on the front, and the front door looks like it’s been caved in once or twice.

The inside doesn’t look much better. The paint is chipped and lost some of it’s color, the old nautical décor on the walls is crooked and has some dust and cobwebs attached, and the tables look like they could have been taken off of an actual ship. But, this is one of our favorite places to go. The waitresses are nice, most of their food is pretty good, and they have an excellent drink selection. My favorite is their key lime pie shooter, and Ser and I have a habit of downing a few every time we’re here.

We seat ourselves at a booth on the outside wall, away from the crowded space in the middle with all of the pool tables surrounding the stage. Sometimes they have live bands that still perform here, but we tend to avoid those nights as much as possible due to the large crowds.

“I’m so ready for these shitty onion rings.” She says with her perky tone and flops down into the booth lazily.

“They’re not even that bad Ser, and you love coming here.” I sit, a tad more gracefully than she does.

“I do love coming here, but the onion rings are disgusting. I’ve seen less grease on a mechanics hands.” She holds up her hands and wiggles her fingers to gesture.

“Then why do we order them?”

“Because the hot bartender told me to buy them whenever I want to fuck.” She winks at me and bites her lip. I wince.

“Oh God, is this your bathroom guy?”

“Absolutely, it is.” I roll my eyes.

“Can we go out somewhere once without you tracking down a nightly fuck?”

“Says the one who’s getting dicked down at least once a night.” I move my head side to side, unable to deny her statement.

“Fair enough.” She tilts her head to the side, and looks me up and down as she crosses her arms.

“How is stalker boy, by the way?”

“I told you, Ser, his name is Damien.” She rolls her eyes, her playful and frisky demeanor now vanished.

“Yeah, yeah. So?” I huff out in frustration.

“It’s fine, I guess.”

“He hasn’t hurt you right?” She narrows her eyes, as if she’s trying to judge if I would lie to her or not.

“No Ser, for the last time, he has not hurt me.” I shouldn’t get so aggravated with her questions. She’s the sane one right now, and her questions are justifiable. However, I just don't see Damien hurting me. He may stretch my muscles like Mr. Fantastic, but that’s totally different than him abusing me.

“Well, I have to make sure! I haven’t seen you in person in almost a week! It’s not every day your best friend is fucking a murderous vigilante.”

“Yeah, but that’s not all he is.” She tilts her head slightly more and widens her eyes at me.

“Oh, is someone starting to like him?”

“No!” She tilts her head to the other side and raises an eyebrow. “I don’t know, maybe.”

“Ashia!” She practically yells.

“What Serena?!” I lower my voice as I look around, hearing the loud volume of my own voice. “Yes, he’s a stalker. Yes, he’s a murderer. And yes, he’s a vigilante. I haven’t forgotten all of that. But he’s also nice, funny, and surprisingly sweet. Plus, he hasn’t forced me to do anything, which is a nice change of pace.” She straightens her head and leans into the table.

“Maybe he hasn’t forced you because you’re so compliant.” She bats her eyelashes, driving her attitude home.

“Says the one who’s getting ready to go fuck a bartender in the bathroom because you order the number two appetizer in the country. Do you even know his name?”

“Hey, don’t judge me.” She rears back, as if I've insulted her, and I immediately feel guilty.

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