Page 52 of All He Takes
The bar was full at this hour, just the way he liked it; it made it easier for him to blend in as he sat alone at a table at the back, cradling a glass of scotch. The lights dimmed and the air was smoky and stunk of beer. Trumpets and saxophones played from behind a cordoned-off stage, occasionally letting out a crooning sound that oozed across the room with stunning accuracy. People laughed and talked loudly, glasses clanging together in a rambunctious manner.
There were women here too. So many of them. Most of them too old for his liking. He never chose a subject that looked a day over twenty-five.
There was a brunette with jet black hair sitting at the bar, her back to him. Her long, smooth hair fell in waves, down to her shoulders. There wasn't too much he could see, but he knew what he liked. She wore a red dress that stood out in the crowd, her body curved in just the right way. He'd noticed her when he walked in, but had chosen to wait for the right moment to approach her. He didn't want to look too eager. No need to scare her off. He sipped his drink and tried to compose words in his head, but he had no idea what he was going to say. She turned around and he saw a flash of her face. No... not good enough. She was no model.
His father always had beautiful women as the subject of his photos, and people had adored his work. He clenched his fists. Why did they like his father's work so much, but not appreciate his?
Why was his father so much better?
He felt it wasn't the quality of the work, but rather the nature of an ever-shifting world. Everything was digital now. Back then, people still had an appreciation for classic, vintage photos, but now everything was so fake.
But he wasn't fake. If they wouldn't acknowledge his work, then he would force them to see it.
He smiled against his drink, scanning for another girl to take home. He wanted a brunette... a beautiful brunette, like his mother. His mother was his father's most beloved centerpiece. He took so many photos of her, many of which ended up in magazines.
But his work could be better. He just needed to find the right model. There had to be someone worthy in this bar, somewhere.
He watched a brunette at the bar, and when she turned around, he almost dropped his drink. She was beautiful; her hair was as dark as his, her eyes blue. She was petite, almost child-like. His heart was racing, his palms sweating. She looked young, but there was a hint of maturity in her face. She was the one. He had to have her.
He got up from his table and headed towards her. She was sitting alone. A few men had approached her, but she seemed reluctant to talk to them. He saw an opportunity and took it. The bar was crowded, but he found an empty spot next to her.
"Hi," he said to her, "can I buy you a drink?"
She looked at him for a moment, hesitantly.
"Okay..." she said, and gave him an odd look.
He ordered a drink for her and one for himself. He placed hers in front of her and took a seat. He was trying to think of something to say, but it was hard with her staring at him the way she was.
"What's your name?" he asked.
"Sam."
"I'm Henry." He stuck out his hand to shake hers, and she reluctantly took it. He knew he wasn't the best-looking guy--women had never been too favorable toward him, but he also knew that a nice smile and an offer to buy them a drink could get their attention. They liked confidence, above all else.
And then, when she least expected it, he'd threaten her with a knife and pull her out of the bar, then take her home to immortalize her in a photo.
She'd be so lucky.
"Are you here with anyone?" he asked her as they tried their drinks.
"Yeah." She smiled. "A few friends. I'm celebrating my birthday tonight, so they insisted I come out and have some fun. But they're not here yet."
He reached across the table and grabbed her small hand. "Happy birthday, Sam."
"Thank you." She had a beautiful smile.
"Do you want to dance?" he suddenly asked.
"Oh, no--"
"You don't have to; I just want to get out of here for a minute." He stood up and pulled her hand, trying to be gentle, but firm. He didn't want to scare her.
He led her away from the bar, towards the dance floor. The music was much louder, and the smell of sweat and alcohol was even stronger. He kept pulling her further away from the dance floor and towards the exit at the back, but she kept resisting.
"No, I don’t want to dance," she said. "I'm just going to go back over there now."
But he had her. The music was loud. Even if she tried to scream, they were right by the speakers. No one would hear.
