Falling for Mr. Knight

Teeth

Claire Evermore

"Screw you all!" I yelled, the words tumbling out of my mouth like an avalanche.

I couldn't believe it.

One minute, I was sitting at my sleek, modern desk, sipping on an overpriced latte, and the next, I was standing in the center of the lobby, screaming at everyone like a wild banshee.

"Screw you! And you! Screw this building and this pathetic company!"

The lobby, adorned with its marble floors and towering glass windows, fell into a stunned silence. The perfectly coiffed receptionist's eyes widened, and a janitor pushing a mop froze mid-swipe. Even the potted plants seemed to lean away from the explosion of rage that was me.

I had been fired, just like that, due to downsizing. It was like they'd taken a wrecking ball to my carefully constructed life. And I couldn't understand why of all people, it had to be me. It could have been Glenda, the dumdum who couldn't tell a spreadsheet from a spreadsheet. Or Michelle, that nosy biatch who spent more time in the boss's office than at her desk. But no, they were the boss's playthings, those insufferable sluts who'd mastered the art of office politics with their fvcking pvssies.

"Calm down, Claire, you don't need to overreact," quipped Mark as he stepped into the lobby. This asshole was probably late again. Why didn't they fire him instead?

"Fvck you too, Mark!" I yelled, turning around.

With my face flushed in humiliation and rage, I stormed out of the lobby. I could feel the weight of everyone's eyes on me. They stared, their judgment as sharp as the creases in my tailored pantsuit. I had made a fashionable exit from the building, that was for sure. If I was going down, I was going down in style.

As I stepped out into the crisp Pittsburgh air, the reality of my situation crashed over me like a tidal wave. In my trembling hands, I clutched a box containing my personal belongings. At the very top was a check, my severance pay. A measly severance pay, I thought bitterly. What can this buy? A packet of gummy bears? It was a slap in the face, a pitiful consolation prize for the years I had poured into that soul-sucking job.

My eyes stung, and I desperately tried not to cry as I hailed a cab.

Screw it, I decided. Tonight, I would spend it all in a lousy bar. Every cent of that check would go toward drowning my sorrows in cheap whiskey and even cheaper company. Because right then, all I wanted was to forget, even if just for a little while, that my world had crumbled, and I was left to pick up the pieces.

The cab came to a halt in front of a dive bar with a neon sign that flickered feebly, spelling out "Rusty Anchor." It was a place where dimness reigned supreme, where the air was heavy with the mingling scents of old wood, stale beer, and the faint promise of regret. A fitting haven for someone who'd just watched their life unravel.

I stumbled into the bar, the weight of the cardboard box in my arms a constant reminder of my newfound unemployment. It was a haven for the downtrodden and the disillusioned, a place where the broken-hearted sought reprieve in the numbing embrace of alcohol.

Setting the box on a rickety table in the corner, I slid onto a barstool with all the grace of a fallen angel. The bartender, a grizzled man with weathered skin and eyes that had seen more than their fair share of misery, gave me a knowing look.

"Whiskey, straight up," I muttered, my voice hoarse from my earlier outburst. The bartender arched an eyebrow as if silently questioning my taste for the hard stuff. But he didn't ask questions. He simply poured a shot into a tumbler and slid it over to me.

I tossed back the whiskey, the burning sensation a welcomed distraction from the ache in my chest. With each subsequent shot, the world seemed to blur around me, and the weight of my failures lifted, if only for a moment.

The bartender leaned in as he wiped a glass with a rag. "Rough day?" he asked in a gravelly voice.

I chuckled bitterly, the sound laced with the bitterness of a thousand dashed dreams. "You could say that."

He nodded."Well, here's to drownin' those sorrows," he said, raising his own glass in a toast before disappearing to serve another patron.

Hours passed in a haze of whiskey and fleeting conversations with strangers. The room became a blur of laughter, regret, and the shared understanding that life had dealt us a cruel hand. It was a place where secrets were spilled like the last drops of a bottle, and for a moment, the weight of my own burdens seemed a little lighter.

As the night wore on, the bartender cut me off, and I stumbled to my feet, unsteady but determined to make it home. The world spun as I walked out into the chilly night, the echoes of the Rusty Anchor fading behind me.

In my drunken stupor, I stumbled through the labyrinthine streets, each step feeling like dragging boots through thick mud. My mind was a swirling mess of regrets and half-forgotten dreams, my vision blurred by the haze of alcohol.

As I wandered groggily into a dark alley, my foot caught on an unseen obstacle, and I bumped into something hard.

"Oops." Giggling like a schoolgirl, I muttered apologies to the shadowy presence before me. "Sorry... sorry... I did not see you," I slurred, laughing.

When I finally mustered the coordination to look up, my bleary eyes widened with surprise. Before me stood a man who radiated an air of sophistication and danger that cut through the drunken fog in my mind. He smelled fancy, like expensive cologne and the promise of untold secrets.

Even through the shadows, I couldn't tear my gaze away from him. He was the epitome of masculinity, with sharp jaws and high cheekbones that seemed chiseled by the gods themselves.

A hiccup rose from my throat. "What is a fine man doing here in this... this alley?" I mused.

He remained silent, his dark eyes fixed on me with an intensity that sent shivers down my spine. I couldn't contain my curiosity and reached out to touch his face, tracing the contours of his strong jaw with trembling fingers.

My mind raced with wild thoughts. Is this the angel of death, come to claim my drunk ass?

"Why won't you speak, cutie pie?" I purred, a flirtatious glint in my eyes as I shamelessly shimmied my breasts at him. "Wanna have fun tonight?" Another hiccup punctuated my proposal, leaving the question hanging in the air.

I looped my arms around his neck, emboldened by the borrowed confidence of alcohol. There was a fine-looking gentleman before me, and I wasn't about to let this opportunity slip away. Gotta grab life by the horns, right?

Drawing my face closer to his, I kissed him with reckless abandon. His lips were soft, and they tasted sweet, with a hint of something metallic that I couldn't quite place. But in my inebriated state, I brushed it aside, consumed by the intoxicating sensation of our lips meeting.

He barely moved an inch, as if he was testing my resolve. Then, after a moment that felt like an eternity, he kissed me back. Lips met teeth and tongue. His arms looped around my waist, pulling me closer, and the world around us ceased to exist.

As our kiss deepened, the heat between us intensified. It was a passionate, feverish exchange of desires, fueled by the electric chemistry that had drawn us together in that dimly lit alley.

But then, just as things were escalating, he pulled away, his eyes dark and hungry. Before I could react, before I could even comprehend what was going on, he sank his teeth into my neck, and a searing pain coursed through my body.

What the hell? I gasped and my eyes flew open.

And then, the world blurred and faded into darkness.