He's a Wh0re

III

The next few days, Emmie falls into a routine. She balances work during the day and visiting Ruth in the hospital each evening. Emmie makes sure to see her friend at least every other day, knowing Ruth doesn’t have anyone else to keep her company.

One evening, Emmie enters the hospital room, a gentle smile on her face as she checks Ruth’s monitors and adjusts the blanket around her.

"How’s your back?" she asks, glancing at her friend.

Ruth sighs, her face lined with fatigue.

"The doctors scheduled my surgery on the 29th," she replies, voice thick with a mixture of anxiety and relief. "They’re going to remove the cancerous tissue. Three more days."

Emmie squeezes her hand gently, offering her a reassuring smile. "Hey, you’re tougher than you look," she says, winking playfully.

"I mean, you’ve handled me all these years, right?"

Ruth lets out a weak but genuine laugh, her face softening. "You’re just about the only one who can make me laugh right now."

"Of course, because I’m adorable," Emmie jokes, wriggling her eyebrows. "Betty White-level adorable, but you know, with better hair." She flips an imaginary strand, and Ruth laughs, her spirits lifted, if only for a moment.

Meanwhile, Abe can’t seem to shake Emmie from his mind. She stands out, but not for the usual reasons. She doesn’t try to flirt or get his attention like the other women he meets—she even avoids him. He can’t help but notice her awkward, mismatched outfits and her habit of keeping her head down when she spots him. At first, he thought she hadn’t recognized him, but the way she panics each time their eyes meet says otherwise.

One night, as he observes her from across the bar, he’s pulled from his thoughts by Ava, who tries to drape herself around him. He shakes her off, frustrated. As the bar’s owner and a porn star, women often treat him like an object, a passing fantasy. But lately, he finds himself craving something more… something he can't quite define.

Maybe it’s time for a long break, he thinks.

Emmie eventually makes her way to the bar, her mood lightened by Roy’s playful cocktail tricks. He winks as he hands her a drink, his way of showing her a bit of lighthearted hospitality. But just as she settles in, a middle-aged man with a grating laugh leans in, his hand sliding across her elbow.

"Hey, gorgeous," he slurs, his breath thick with alcohol. Emmie freezes as he mutters, "How about we enjoy a private night together? I could show you a good time."

She holds her ground, forcing herself not to react, hoping he’ll lose interest. But when he reaches for her waist, her patience snaps. In one swift move, she grabs his hand, twisting it until he yelps in pain. Roy stares, wide-eyed, as the man’s grunts of protest disappear under the music.

Emmie tightened her stance, bracing herself as the man staggered backward, clutching his nose, which was now gushing blood. His face twisted in rage, and with a growl, he reached for the nearest bottle on the counter. Emmie could see the reckless fire in his eyes as he raised it above his head, aiming to smash it down on her. She stood her ground, eyes narrowed, ready for his next move.

The bottle came down with force, but Emmie sidestepped just in time, her body moving with practiced ease. The glass shattered on the floor, splinters scattering across the bar, and in that split second of his frustration, she took her chance. With a quick jab, she landed a powerful punch to his jaw, feeling the impact reverberate through her knuckles.

He stumbled back, completely off balance, and with a thundering crash, fell into a chair, which splintered beneath his weight. The entire bar seemed to pause, eyes fixed on the scene, a mix of shock and awe on every face. Emmie exhaled, straightening herself, watching as he groaned on the ground, struggling to get up but too dazed to find his footing.

Just then, the crowd’s murmurs filled the air, a few claps breaking out, and Emmie caught sight of Abe from across the room, his gaze intense and fixed solely on her. She could feel his eyes studying her every move, and despite the chaos, a thrill shot through her. She brushed her hands together, ready to face whatever came next.

Just then, she catches sight of Abe striding over, his gaze fierce and assessing. His presence unnerves her. She’s overheard enough whispers to know he owns the bar—and that he’s not someone to cross lightly.

Abe stops in front of her, arms crossed, studying her with an intensity that makes her feel exposed. "Do you have any idea how much damage you just caused?" he says, his voice deceptively calm.

Emmie straightens, her eyes narrowing. "What? Wha-why me?!...Uhmmm two chairs, a vase, and a bottle of wine," she replies defiantly, trying to mask the anxiety simmering inside her. "How much do I owe you?" Why did this become my fault? She shakes her head.

A smirk plays on his lips as he lists the items, but when he gets to the wine—a rare Pol Roger Sir Winston Churchill—she balks. The total far exceeds what she could afford, and her mind races. "That sleazy old man should be the one to pay," she mutters, more to herself than to Abe.

But before she knows it, Abe's guards carried the old man and kicked him out of the bar.

Next day, as Abe returns to work, he can’t help but be distracted. Lexie, his co-star, is doing everything right, every move precisely choreographed for the camera. But tonight, it all feels mechanical. He realizes his thoughts keep drifting back to Emmie—her defiance, her awkward charm, the way she didn’t back down.

As they finish the scene, Abe catches a glimpse of Emmie lingering outside the set, clearly waiting for him.

She fidgets nervously but holds her ground, and he feels an odd pull toward her—something he hasn’t felt in years. She’s trying to look professional, but her nervous energy and flushed cheeks tell a different story.

He remembers the event earlier, and he knows that it was not Emmie's fault, but why didn't she say anything about it? She knows how to defend herself physically, and is that it?!

Without waiting for her to speak, he stops in front of her, close enough to see the nervous flicker in her eyes. "Back to ask for a discount?" he quips.

She bites her lip, trying to look composed. "Maybe just this once," she mutters. "I tried tracking down that jerk from the bar, but… well, no luck."

Abe raises an eyebrow. "In my business, there’s no such thing as discounts," he replies, his tone sharp.

Before Emmie can respond, her phone buzzes with a call from the director, pulling her away. Abe watches her dash down the hall, her messy ponytail bouncing as she disappears around the corner.

"Weird," he murmurs, a strange sense of intrigue taking root.