Between two kops

Chapter six

Steven

"Bring us another round, Mr. Dragan!" Dean Ristić yelled, throwing his gray hoodie onto a chair like it was made of solid gold.

We had practically taken over the bar, which up until a moment ago was completely empty. Victor's dad had been fighting like a lion for months to keep this place afloat. In the beginning, everything seemed great. A neat little modern bar, nice music. But then people simply stopped hanging out at neighborhood spots and started heading en masse to the city center. Nightclubs, fancy lounges, betting shops, and hookah bars.

That was when "Cezar" turned into a pure dive bar. A spot for older guys who come exclusively to knock back rakija and cheap beer. They sit in silence over a glass, staring at that single tv on the wall as if it's the only thing left in this life that still makes sense to them.

"Here's the beer, boys!" Mr. Dragan said, bringing over five mugs of cold draft. He set them down on the table one by one, carefully, as if they were fragile valuables.

Just the way I like it. Pale, crisp, with a thick layer of foam on top.

I grabbed my mug and took the first heavy gulp. The coldness slid down my throat and settled right in my stomach, mixing with the adrenaline that hadn't fully faded after Borča. I could feel my muscles slowly starting to unwind.

"Mr. Dragan, got anything to eat?" I asked, leaning over the table. My stomach was screaming for something greasy. That run had completely drained me. I don't even have the stamina for running like I used to. Or maybe I'm just aging faster than I think.

Mr. Dragan sighed and wiped his calloused hands on his apron. "Ah, nothing proper, boys. Got some leftovers from lunch, reheated bean stew, I can give you that."

I glanced over at the grill. It was already turned off, cold, and scrubbed down. It was beyond obvious that the man was planning to close up shop and go to sleep. And here we were again, barging in and extending his shift for the millionth time. f**k it.

"Man, bring it on, anything! I'm dying of hunger. My stomach is turning, bro," John chimed in, rubbing his shirt.

Mr. Dragan walked off to the kitchen without a word. He looked out for all of us like his own kids, and his mood visibly brightened the moment we packed the bar. He loved having noise in the place, even if it was just for an hour.

"Bro, do you guys know that John got left high and dry by Milica yesterday? Little girl gave him the cold shoulder real smooth," Luke Ilić threw out. John's younger brother, who was crazier than the rest of us combined.

"Ah, bro, what kind of story is that?" I asked through a laugh, spinning the mug in front of me.

John is the type who usually never gets rejected by girls. He could hook up with anyone he liked in three moves. They all fell for his charming game. But apparently, not this time. A miracle, my brother.

"Ah, get out of here, leave me alone about Milica," John waved his hand, his face already turning bright red.

"Easy, bro. We'll find you a new one, as long as you don't go hungry on us," Victor said, slapping him hard on the shoulder.

"I'd rather take our German language teacher, if you ask me," John blurted out, dead serious. Half the cafe burst out laughing at that exact moment.

"Oh, so you're into the milf vibe, huh?" Victor kept busting his balls, already half trashed from the beer.

"What can I do, bro... The woman is a total bombshell. You should see that ass... pure class, bro," John started daydreaming, while we cut him off with loud heckling.

Jokes aside, the teacher really was in brutal shape. There wasn't a single student who didn't stare at her curves and the short skirts she often wore, both at school and outside.

Dean leaned across the table. "Ah, don't listen to them, John. Steven and Victor are only chasing younger chicks around the hoods, bro."

This was actually aimed more at me than at Victor. My ex girlfriends were mostly a couple of years younger than me. What can I do, I just like younger ones, bro.

"Ah, cut the s**t," I said shortly, but I couldn't hide a smile. The beer was already gently hitting my head. I could feel it by that familiar warmth in my stomach and a slight sleepiness.

"Just straight up creeps, bro," John threw in with a laugh.

I gave him a dark look for a second, faking anger, and then all of a sudden we all cracked up even louder.

"f**k off, all of you..." I said through laughter while Victor next to me was literally choking on his. Man, what kind of drunk fools are we, seriously.

The kitchen door squeaked and Mr. Dragan appeared holding a large aluminum pot. Steam rose from it in thick clouds, carrying the homemade aroma of bean stew with smoked meat.

"Here's the bean stew, boys," he said, setting the pot down in the center of the table as carefully as if he were serving something way more precious than a simple dinner.

The smell instantly filled the whole bar. Smoked bacon, onions, potatoes, all blended with the rich flavor of cooked roux. My stomach cramped up with hunger even harder than before. I was the first to grab the wooden ladle and start scooping into my plate.

"Look at this pig," Dean commented, trying to grab the ladle before me.

I laughed. I literally scooped it up as if it were the last meal of my life. The bean stew splashed onto the plate, thick and scalding hot, with chunks of meat falling over the rim.

"Here you go," I said finally, pushing the ladle toward them only after I had piled my plate up to the absolute top.

"Look how happy we made Mr.Dragan. He's been in a great mood ever since we got here," John threw in as Mr. Dragan walked off toward the bar.

"It's good to finally see a smile on his face for a change," Victor said in a much quieter, more serious tone.

Unfortunately, his dad had barely ever been in a mood like this lately. Life was pressing down on him from all sides.

"Thank you, guys, seriously... This night means a lot to me."

For a moment, that heavy, silent brotherhood hung over the table. Even Dean lowered his spoon for a second.

"Mr. Dragan!" Dean then roared in his classic style, completely shattering that emotional moment, of course. Victor's dad immediately flew over to our table with a rag in his hands, as if we were some kind of Vip guests.

"What's up, Dean?"

"Bring us another round of beer... and sit down here with us to eat!" Dean said, slamming his palm on the table. He was already completely trashed, to put it mildly.

Mr. Dragan looked at him with raised eyebrows.

"Nah, it's fine, boys. You go ahead and eat... I've got things to do around the bar."

"Forget about work, Dad, leave it for now. We insist, it's just our crew here, don't worry about a thing," Victor chimed in, already half rising from his chair.

The old man sized us up for a few seconds, torn, and then gave a defeated yet pleased shake of his head.

"Alright, fine... You convinced me."

He brought over another round of beer, wiped his hands on his apron, and pulled up a chair with us. The mugs slammed together with a heavy clink, thick foam spilling over the edges onto our fingers, and the atmosphere in the cafe grew even more laid back.

I watched Mr. Dragan laugh from the bottom of his heart. Some people really take joy in the little things. A full table, a bit of noisy energy from us kids, and a couple extra mugs of draft. My dad never knew how to be happy like that in his entire life. Never, bro. Literally never...

"Hey, you Delije. I don't know if you heard, but Partizan just climbed into first place," a drunk neighborhood local suddenly called out. He used to be considered a die hard Partizan fan, back before age, poverty, and the pub fully caught up with him.

For a second, everything went quiet at our table, and then instantly the place erupted with whistles, flying beer caps, and equally loud laughter.

"Easy there, neighbor. Zvezda doesn't even play until tomorrow, bro. We just let you enjoy it for a bit," someone from our crew yelled back from the other end of the cafe.

The neighbor raised his bottle of Lav beer, nodding his head with an expression like he held all the secrets of the world in his pocket. Classic old timers when they delusionally think everything revolves around their words and predictions.

"As long as Vučić is around, there'll be titles for you guys. We'll see what happens after the regime falls," he said with a cynical half smile.

I felt my jaw instantly clench beneath my skin. Always the same f*****g whining. Football, politics, match fixing, and so on. Endless circles, every single day.

They're so jealous of our success that it's reached the point where every single victory of ours is automatically written off as fixed. And a loss? They treat a loss as the only reality, claiming we can't beat anyone without help from the refs and the state. Even though right now we are an institution, the most expensive and powerful team in the whole Serbian SuperLiga. The coaching staff and the guys on the pitch are tearing it up and doing their job, while everyone else just talks s**t from the sidelines, making up empty stories without a single piece of evidence...

"Alright, quiet down over there, Grobar! Don't make me kick you out of the cafe," Mr. Dragan fired back at him, half joking, of course.

We all burst out laughing again. There wasn't any real, bitter hatred there. Everyone in this neighborhood has known each other for years. We grew up on these exact same cracked streets, beat each other up behind the apartment buildings, and drank together afterward. Those taunts and jabs were purely part of the local rivalry, nothing more.

I took another long gulp of beer and leaned back in my chair, trying to shut off any serious thoughts in my head before they started ruining my night. Tonight we were the victors. That was the only thing that mattered. At least, that's what I kept telling myself to my face.

Christina

I pushed open the door, which let out a creak and a sharp little chime that rang out through the entire bar. The sound was far louder than I expected, as if I had suddenly intruded upon a silence I wasn't supposed to break. For a split second, I wanted to turn right back around and walk out. But it was too late for that. I had already stepped inside.

With slow, strictly controlled steps, I walked up to the bar, pretending not to notice anything around me. Even though my back was turned to most of the guys in the bar, I could physically feel their eyes on my skin. Heavy, curious, a few maliciously mocking. Like they had glued themselves to the back of my neck the instant I walked in.

"What can I get you, young lady?" an older man behind the bar addressed me. I assumed he worked here. His voice was calm, almost fatherly for a place like this.

His hair was completely messy, gray, and visibly worn out by years of hard labor. His red, sleepy eyes gave away a man who hadn't gotten a proper night's sleep in days. Yet, that entire exhausted picture was softened by a white apron with red checkered patterns he had on. It looked surprisingly sweet on him, giving him a warm, homelike charm.

The guys at the tables went dead silent, as if every conversation had ended the second the older man spoke to me. I could feel the air turning thick and sticky with tension. How could it not? I had practically just pulled a classic street provocation right in the middle of their bar party, completely oblivious.

It's fine, Christina. Just relax, nothing bad is going to happen. You just eat something, pay, and leave. Nothing major, right?

"I'd like to get something to eat, if the kitchen is still open," I answered quietly, politely, trying with every fiber of my being not to let my voice tremble even a little. I didn't want to draw any more attention, even though I already had all of it.

"I'm sorry, but right now I only have homemade bean stew. Not many people come around here anymore, so we don't really have a... modern menu for people like you."

For people like you. I paused for a second, the phrase ringing in my head. How exactly does he know what kind of person I am? Does it say on my forehead that I'm from a wealthy family? I looked at him closely. He didn't seem malicious, more like he had just deduced something. By my clothes? By the way I stand?

Just because I come from a wealthy family doesn't mean I don't eat the same things everyone else does. It's just that I really couldn't remember the last time I ate something so simple. Back at our place, everything has always been served on expensive porcelain, with strict rules on how to hold your back and how to hold your fork.

"That's totally fine, of course," I said with a faint smile that turned out way more genuine than I had intended.

At that moment, someone at the tables behind my back made a loud comment. I couldn't quite catch the exact words over the buzzing in my ears, but from the shift in energy, I knew with complete certainty that it was directed right at me.

"Alright, let's find a spot for you then," the older man behind the bar said calmly, picking up a clean plate.

As the polite gentleman walked away from me toward the only open table in the corner of the bar, I heard a sudden, harsh scraping of chairs against the floor. And not just one, but several of them. I spun around sharply. A few guys had already surrounded me in a semicircle, quickening their pace to block my exit and staring at me with sharp, half unhinged eyes.

They looked like pit bulls let off the leash, still dirty from some previous run. One of them nervously kicked a chair back, another demonstratively pulled up the sleeves of his black hoodie, while a third just stared at me without blinking, his face completely cold.

Well, now I'm definitely f****d, I muttered under my breath as an icy wave ran straight through my bones. I just had to be smart tonight. Out of sheer terror, I took a step back until my spine slammed against the wooden bar. I froze dead in my tracks right there.

"Well, well, look who we have here, huh?" the biggest one among them said. He had a buzz cut, a bare neck, and a small scar right above his left eyebrow.

He looked at me with a sly, filthy grin. "What's up, Grobarka?"

I had nowhere to run. The solid bar behind me, them in front. I had to stand still, swallow my own fear, and stay quiet.

"Little girl, you picked the wrong hood," the second guy next to the big one said, taking a step forward and rudely sliding his fingers through strands of my long hair, tugging it gently backward.

My heart was pounding so hard and wildly I thought everyone in the joint could hear it. My throat was bone dry. I couldn't even swallow the lump in my throat. I just stood there, utterly terrified, praying to God that someone would break this nightmare.

"Come on with us to the restroom, little girl, let us show you something," another one chimed in. Shorter, but far more agitated. He was practically vibrating, his fingers constantly twitching around his pockets like he was looking for any excuse to hit someone.

Great, now they're going to r**e me or do something even worse. f**k my life, Christina, why do you always have to wander around the city alone late at night? Nick explicitly told me to come with them... but no, I have to be stubborn, as always.

"Get the f**k off me, you creep!" I screamed out with more rage than I thought I was capable of when the shorter one tried to grab my butt with both hands at once. At the very last second, I managed to twist my hips and duck away against the bar. As expected, my resistance only drove them even crazier.

"Now I'm going to f**k you up, you trash!" the big guy spat in a chilling, cold tone as he got right in my face. The stench of beer and some strange tobacco mixed with weed hit me. You could see the tight, tense muscle flexing along his jawline. His arm shot up quickly, his right hand curling into a heavy, raw fist.

He swung his arm straight at my face. Instinctively, I shut my eyes, pulled my head down between my shoulders, and raised my shoulder blades, bracing for a violent, brutal hit. Everything around me suddenly slowed down like in a movie. I prepared myself for the pain, numb with fear, but instead of the impact and the crunch, a dull, heavy thud of colliding bones and knuckles echoed through the quiet bar.

I snapped my eyes open in absolute shock.

Someone's hand, covered in fresh scrapes across the knuckles, held his clenched fist tightly in midair, stopping it just inches from my face. Steven.

He stood directly in front of me, completely screening me with his back. Those three guys instantly shut their mouths the second he showed up. Their expressions changed in a split second. It wasn't that wild rage from a moment ago anymore, now there was something resembling ultimate caution in their eyes. Maybe even hidden fear. Who is Steven Stajić, really?

"Don't anybody dare lay a hand on her!" he roared so loudly that the glassware on the bar rattled, and the entire cafe went dead silent in a second.

Some might call this pure coincidence, but I didn't think so. Fate seemed to have deliberately brought us together once more, this time completely outside of school and any safe zone. Tonight, Steven wasn't the bitter, dark new guy from the desk next to mine who hates the whole world. Tonight, he was my guardian angel. Dropped straight from heaven to save me from this nightmare.

"Bro, why the f**k are you defending this Grobar trash?" the biggest one with the scar threw out, clenching his jaw hard, but not lowering his gaze.

"Did you forget what their scum from Misa did to Dunja last year?!"

Dunja? That name instantly set off an alarm in my head, but I had no idea who or what they were talking about specifically. Steven didn't move an inch. He remained dug in front of me like a human shield.

"We don't sink to their pathetic level. Get it, Rile? None of us has ever raised a hand against a girl, nor will we as long as I'm here. Forget about the Grobari. Let them do their thing, we do ours."

He spoke loudly, yet controlled, even though I could see the veins on his neck bulging almost to the point of bursting. His hands were clenched into heavy fists, ready to hit back if it came down to that. For a moment, I genuinely wondered if he was doing all this for me, or for some internal war of his own.

"He's right. Come on, head back to your seats, guys!" a guy from the back chimed in, backing Steven's stance.

After a few seconds of tension and sizing each other up, the guys begrudgingly backed off. They muttered a few colorful curses under their breath, but in the end, they turned around and headed back to their tables. Only then did Steven turn around toward me.

It was the first time I had seen his face this close, under this poor lighting. His eyes were totally bloodshot, full of that raw street rage that hadn't completely drained from his system yet.

"Thank you... Steven, you saved me," I uttered barely audibly, quieter than I had intended. My voice completely cracked from fear. If he hadn't shown up at that exact moment, I would probably be lying on this dirty floor right now with severe bruises across my face.

He didn't answer a thing to that. He just roughly grabbed my wrist and dragged me behind him toward the exit.

"Come on, move, right now."

He led me outside through the door whose bell chimed our exit once again, and he didn't stop walking until we were completely away from the noise and the stares through the window. Only then, in the dark of a side street, did he finally let go of my arm.

"Christina, what the f**k are you doing here?" he said, trying to make his voice sound completely calm, while those dark eyes of his scanned me once again from head to toe.

"I just wanted to get something to eat..." I muttered, looking down at my sneakers.

I really didn't have any bad intentions. Everything had just turned into a f*****g hell.

"Well, at home you have a five star restaurant. Why would mommy's princess eat in a dive bar?"

He blurted out all of a sudden, letting his pent up social rage resurface.

Now he was really getting on my nerves. He's overdoing it with his constant hatred toward all of us. What does he even care where I eat? And even less what I have back home... And that "mommy's princess" of his, ugh, how that raised my blood pressure.

"I'm not any mommy's princess," I replied insolently.

"Oh, excuse me then, queen, right?" the jerk wasn't planning on stopping. His look was pure provocation.

I don't know how, but my right hand literally flew through the air on its own. I cracked such a hard slap across his cheek that my palm hurt intensely too.

"f**k you, you jerk!" I screamed with all my strength, turned my back on him, and started walking briskly down the empty street.

I shouldn't have even come. What an i***t I am. In a single second, he transformed from a guardian angel into the biggest i***t in the world.

I hadn't even managed to take ten steps when his strong hands caught me in place, turning me back toward him.

"What do you want now, jerk?!" I yelled even louder, trying to tear myself away from his grip.

"Where are you going alone this late through the dark? Someone's going to jump you around the very first corner."

Seriously? Now all of a sudden he cares about me? When just a minute ago he was humiliating me in the worst way possible. What kind of problem does this guy actually have in his head?

"What do you care? Even if someone jumps me, why do you give a damn?!" I shot back, my voice starting to tremble uncontrollably against my will.

His gaze slid down at that moment to my arm, right where he had held my wrist tightly a moment ago.

"I didn't... grab you that hard, did I?"

I lowered my eyes to my right arm too. Under the streetlight, the redness on my pale skin was clearly visible. But he wasn't really to blame. It wasn't that tight of a grip. I'm just overly sensitive to any firm touch.

"No. It's fine... I just have sensitive skin," I said much quieter. The sudden rage inside me seemed to leak out through my fingers in a second.

"f**k it... sorry," he muttered briefly through his teeth and shoved his hands deep into his pockets. "Call your boyfriend to pick you up in his car. I'll wait here with you until he gets here."

I looked at him with a panicked flash in my eyes. My heart sped up again. "No! I can't call Nick under any circumstances. He thinks I'm asleep. Please... please don't tell him you saw me here."

If he finds out where I was and with whom, Nick will completely lose it. He'll kill me, for sure.

Steven looked at me with that same tough gaze of his, but this time without a shred of mockery. He gave a serious nod.

"Call a taxi then. Or your chauffeur. Whatever..."

He remained standing right there on the sidewalk.

He didn't head back to his buddies. He was just a few steps away from me, hands shoved in his pockets, as if he was completely indifferent to this whole situation. But in reality, he wasn't indifferent at all. Looks like he won't just leave me alone in the dark that easily. If he were indifferent, he would have left, right? So he does care, after all.

I pulled my phone out of my purse and called my chauffeur. My voice was surprisingly steady this time, very different from the madness just a moment ago. As we waited, neither of us uttered a single word. The street was completely quiet, with only the occasional distant car from the main road and a cold wind blowing my hair across my face.

A large black car turned around the corner after a few minutes and pulled up right in front of us. I walked up to the door, but before I actually sat inside, I turned around once more and looked right at him. There was no sharp rage left in his eyes. He just looked incredibly tired.

I got into the back seat without a word. The door closed, and the driver smoothly headed down the empty street.

Through those heavily tinted windows, I watched Steven Stajić remain standing alone on the sidewalk under that poor streetlight, until the dark separated us completely. And for the first time on that strange night, I truly had no idea whether I should hate him with all my heart for everything... or thank him deeply.