Hunted by desire, Bound by love

Chapter 2

The Hunger returned at 9:37 PM. It announced itself not with a scream, but with a deep, twisting cramp low in Jade’s belly, as if a cold hand had reached inside her and clenched its fist. The relief from the man in the gray shirt was gone, burned away. The beast was awake again, and it was angry.

She was in her car, parked three blocks from The Sawyered Pearl. She had been sitting there for twenty minutes, her forehead resting against the steering wheel, trying to breathe. Trying to scrub the memory from her skin. The rough plaster wall. The heat of him. The way his eyes had looked into hers, seeing not just her body, but the hollow place inside it.

It was no use. The cramp tightened, a vicious knot. A familiar, aching heat began to spread through her veins, up into her chest, down her thighs. The quiet hum was now a persistent, urgent drumbeat against her skull. Feed me. Feed me now.

The System was shattered. Her roster was gone, blown apart in one hour. All that was left was the raw, ugly hunt. No plan. Just need.

She got out of the car. The night air was cool, but it did nothing to cool the fire under her skin. She walked toward the bar, her steps measured and even, her face a blank, pale mask under the streetlights. Inside, she was a wild thing in a cage, rattling the bars.

The Sawyered Pearl was the kind of place people went to be unseen. It was a cave of dark wood and old regrets. The sign above the door was faded, the pearl in the painting chipped. She pushed the heavy door open. The inside was all leather booths worn shiny in the spots where people had slid in and out for decades, and lights so dim they turned everything the color of weak tea and forgotten promises. The air was a thick soup of smells: stale beer, the sour tang of lemon-scented cleaner, the faint, sweet perfume of a woman at the end of the bar, the earthy smell of wet wool from a coat hung on a chair.

Sound wrapped around her. The low, constant mumble of conversations that didn’t want to be overheard. The clink of glass on glass. The solid thud of a bottle set on wood. The sound of someone idly shuffling a deck of cards. A laugh that sounded too sharp, then was cut off.

Jade stood just inside the door, letting her eyes adjust, letting her hunter’s instincts rise to the surface. This was her ground. Tonight, she was not a curator with a careful list. She was a scavenger, and she was starving.

She found an empty stool at the far end of the bar, near the hallway to the restrooms. It gave her a view of the whole room, and a quick escape route. She sat down, back straight, posture perfect. She placed her small black clutch on the bar. She did not look at anyone.

The bartender, a tired looking woman with a tattoo of a sparrow in flight on her wrist, wandered over. “What can I get you?”

“Ice water. In a tall glass,” Jade said. Her voice was steady. It did not sound like her voice. It sounded like a recording of a voice.

The woman nodded, unsurprised. She came back a minute later with a clear, heavy bottomed glass filled to the brim with ice and water. A thin slice of lemon floated on top. Jade hadn’t asked for lemon. She picked it out with two fingers and laid it carefully on a napkin. It left a tiny, wet yellow stain.

She wrapped her hands around the glass. It was painfully, beautifully cold. Condensation immediately beaded on the outside, tiny clear jewels that merged and grew fat, then ran in slow, crooked streams down to pool on the cardboard coaster. She watched them trace paths through the faint dust on the glass.

It looked exactly like sweat. She could feel her own sweat: a cold slickness under her arms, a single tickling drop tracing the line of her spine under her dress, a fine sheen along her hairline. The heat of The Hunger inside, the chill of pure fear outside. Her body was a battleground, and she was losing.

She took a small sip. The water was so cold it made her teeth ache. It tasted like nothing. It tasted like metal. She set the glass down and began her work.

She scanned the room, her gaze moving with a slow, practiced sweep. Every man was a possible solution, and a possible disaster. She broke them down into types. It was her only compass in the chaos.

Type A: The Easy Ones. They were usually in groups of two or three, clustered around a high-top table or leaning on the bar. They wore button-down shirts with the sleeves rolled up, or polo shirts with small logos. They laughed too loudly at each other’s jokes, their eyes constantly roaming the room, looking for a woman who would listen, who would smile, who would be impressed. They were hunters, but lazy ones. They would say yes fast. Maybe too fast. The danger was afterwards. They would want to talk. They would try to kiss her with a semblance of tenderness. They would ask for her number, her name, what she did for a living. They believed a shared drink or a physical act was the start of a story, a connection. They were clingy. They remembered faces, details. Risk: Medium. Management Required: Post-encounter disengagement.

Her eyes tagged one now. A guy in a light blue polo shirt standing by the jukebox. He was tapping the selection screen, but his head was turned, watching the room. He had a pleasant, open face. Safe. Boring. Possible.

Type B: The Skittish Ones. These were the lonely men. They sat by themselves in booths or at the very end of the bar. Sometimes with a laptop open, usually just with a phone they stared at but didn’t really see. They looked soft around the edges, tired. Their shoulders curved inward. They might be grateful for the attention, for a touch, for a few minutes of not being alone. But they were unpredictable. They might get nervous, stammer, their eyes darting like scared birds. They might see her directness as something frightening, too intense. They could bolt at the last second, leaving her stranded with the need and no outlet. Or worse, they could become emotional, tearful, wanting to confess their loneliness. Risk: High. Management Required: Calm reassurance, clear and simple instructions.

She saw one. A younger man with wire rimmed glasses in a booth by the wall. He had a paperback book open, but he hadn’t turned a page in five minutes. He was just staring at it. His fingers tapped a nervous rhythm on the table. Too jumpy. The Hunger snarled at the thought of his nervous hands.

Type C: The Aggressive Ones. They stood or sat with a posture that said they owned the space around them. They often wore dark colors, black or navy. Their gazes were not invitations; they were challenges, assessments. They watched women with a flat, cold calculation. They might say yes, but they would want control. They would dictate the terms. They might call her names, hurt her with words or hands, steal from her. They would definitely scare her. These were not options. These were men who turned women into prey, and Jade could not afford to be prey tonight. Risk: Catastrophic. Management Required: Absolute avoidance.

There. Two of them. Big men in matching leather vests playing pool under a green-shaded lamp. They moved with a heavy, deliberate grace. One laughed, a sound like gravel spilling. They didn’t look at the women in the bar; they looked through them. A cold shiver, unrelated to The Hunger, went through her. Avoid. Do not even make eye contact.

Her eyes moved from face to face, slotting each man into a mental category. Polo Shirt by jukebox: Type A. Glasses with book: Type B. Man with salt-and-pepper beard talking to bartender: maybe Type A, but older, could be more complicated. The two at pool table: Type C. Avoid, avoid, avoid.

The Hunger twisted inside her, a sharp, insistent reminder. Time was sand in an hourglass, pouring down. The drumbeat was a pounding now, in her temples, her wrists, the base of her throat. She needed to choose. Now. Her hands on the water glass had a fine, visible tremor. She clutched it harder, the cold biting into her palms.

She was going to choose the Type A by the jukebox. He was safe. He was already smiling vaguely in her direction, having caught her scan of the room. It would be simple. A few words, a nod, a walk to a nearby hotel. It would be over fast. It would be a transaction he’d probably want to repeat, would probably text her about tomorrow but she could block him. She could handle that.

Her muscles tensed, preparing to stand, to walk toward the easy, boring solution.

Then her gaze, drifting past him in one final sweep, caught on the deepest shadow in the farthest corner booth.

And stopped.