Cat & Mouse Cabaret

Chapter Four~Tatum

Listen to Bleed Out by Isak Danielson for the full experience!!!

Present

I rear back with all my might and smash the glass against the wall. The bottle doesn't just break.

It detonates.

Glass shatters against the brick wall behind Shaw in a violent, glittering spray, shards scattering across the rooftop like they've been waiting for an excuse to escape gravity. For a second, the world feels suspended—quiet, sharp, dangerous.

Then the sound catches up.

A crack. A scatter. The distant echo of something expensive dying an unnecessary death.

The something expensive being Shaw's Blanton France Conquet La Maison Du Whisky Single Barrel.

Shaw doesn't move. That's the first sign I might've gone a little too far. But in my defense he is being a total jackass. Not was. Is. I said what I said.

He knew it and boy, so did I.

Dominic was weeks away from assigning him what the family called Operation: No Weakness. And from what Shaw had told me it wasn't a thing until his mom was murdered.

He just stands there, staring at the slow drip of amber sliding down the wall, his jaw tightening ever so slightly. Not explosive anger. Not loud.

Worse. Controlled. Measured.

The kind that simmers.

"...You're unbelievablllllle," he slurs finally.

I lean back against the railing like I didn't just commit a felony against his favorite liquor.

"I prefer consistent."

His eyes drag to me. "You just threw eighteen hundred dollars at a wall."

I shrug. "It didn't argue back."

"That's not the point." He bites back seeming to sober up... just a tad.

"That's exactly the point. Maybe next time I say to listen to me you will."

He exhales through his nose, dragging a hand down his face like he's deciding whether to laugh or throw me off the roof.

"You have a problem."

"You have bad taste."

"It was a limited edition! The last bottle online they won't have anymore available for months!"

"It was chosen by someone with limited personality," I shoot back. "I improved both situations."

That does it.

He laughs. Short. Sharp. Against his will.

"God, you're exhausting." He says in between chuckles, running his hands down his face.

"And yet," I push off the railing, brushing imaginary dust from my hands, "you keep me around."

"That's because no one else would put up with you."

"That sounds like a challenge." I grin.

"No it was definitely a warning." He smirks.

That smirk that makes me want to reach over and touch his lips... to feel them on mi—

Tatum Elizabeth!

No, ma'am!

He is your best friend... on top of that he is an assignment! He shouldn't even be your best friend!

I shove my internal, judgy, stick-in-the mud back in her room and I grin harder.

He shakes his head again, already turning toward the stairwell.

"Come on," he mutters. "Shots. Before I decide you owe me a more expensive replacement."

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We take the stairs.

Not because we have to—but because Shaw insisted he needed the exercise and air.

I can tell.

He's still irritated. Not at the bottle. Not really.

At me. At whatever argument we just danced around without actually finishing.

That's how we work. We don't resolve things. We just... survive them.

The music gets louder the lower we go, bass vibrating through the walls, bleeding into the stairwell like a heartbeat. By the time we reach the bottom, the Cabaret is already in full swing.

And it hits me all at once. Heat. Noise. Bodies packed too close together. Laughter that's just a little too loud. Smiles that don't quite reach eyes. Money being spent like it falls from the sky.

Home.

I don't slow down as I step inside.

Neither does Shaw.

But I feel it—the shift. The way the room adjusts, even subtly, when we walk in. Not fear. Not exactly. Awareness. Good.

They should be aware.

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Hank is behind the bar.

Right where I left him.

Like he's been there all night.

Like he belongs there more than anywhere else.

He's moving fast—lining up glasses, pouring shots, sliding drinks across the counter with practiced ease. There's a rhythm to him. Clean. Efficient. Comfortable.

Because men like that don't just move fast. They think even faster.

"Look at him," I mutter sorta impressed.

Shaw glances over. "Yeah."

"He's flirting again."

"He's breathing. Same thing." Shaw waves dismissively.

A group of girls crowd the bar, leaning in too close, laughing too loud. Hank doesn't encourage it—but he doesn't shut it down either.

He lets it exist. Controls it.

One of them reaches across the counter, brushing her fingers over his wrist.

I watch his reaction. Nothing. Not even a flinch.

But he shifts just enough that it doesn't happen again.

Subtle. Calculated. Uninterested.

And people wonder why I call him I.D Network handsome.

"Again?" Shaw asks.

"Again," I confirm.

Hank finishes pouring a line of shots, sliding them across the counter. The girls cheer.

He doesn't.

One of them leans forward, practically draped over the bar. "Come on," she says. "Do one with us." Practically letting her boobs touch his hand as she fake pouts.

Hank smirks faintly. "I'm working."

"So are we," she teases.

"I'm not surprised." He replies sarcastically.

That earns a laugh.

Another one nudges her friend, whispering something I don't catch—but I don't need to. I've seen this a hundred times. I'm about to step forward when something shifts.

Subtle. Wrong.

A man at the far end of the bar leans in too close to one of the younger girls. His hand slides onto her lower back, fingers pressing just enough to be intentional.

She stiffens.

He doesn't move.

I feel Shaw straighten beside me.

Hank notices too. Of course he does. He always notices.

The energy changes instantly. Hank sets the bottle down slowly.

Too slowly.

And that's how you know someone's about to regret everything.

"Take your hand off the lady," Hank says. Calm. Flat. Not loud.

The man doesn't listen. He smiles instead.

"She doesn't seem to mind." He coos disgustingly.

Wrong answer.

Hank exhales once as he wipes his hands on the towel hanging over his shoulder, with a "We tried it the easy way... you wanted the hard way" shrug.

Then steps out from behind the bar. The room doesn't go silent—but it dips.

Like the volume gets turned down just enough for people to pay attention. I lean slightly against the counter, watching. Curious.

The man stands, squaring up like this is going to be something it isn't. Hank doesn't match him.

Doesn't need to.

"Last chance," Hank says his eyes darkening.

The man laughs.

"Or what?"

Hank tilts his head. And smiles. It's not friendly. It's not angry. It's... cynical. Like he's already decided how this ends. He steps closer.

Says something too low for anyone else to hear. The effect is immediate. The man's expression drops. Color drains from every visible part of his body.

His hand disappears like it was burned off.

"Yeah," he mutters. "Alright." He backs off. Fast.

Hank watches him go for exactly two seconds. Then turns back like nothing happened.

"Water," he looks directly to the girl.

She nods quickly. "Yeah, solid idea."

"I know." And just like that—it's over. The bar breathes again.

I exhale slowly. "Well," I say.

Shaw smirks. "Told you."

"He's worse than I thought." I shake my head.

"Why haven't we hired him yet?" Shaw questions with furrowed brows.

I step forward before anyone can stop me. Not that they would.

Hank's already lining up another round of shots when I reach the bar.

Perfect timing. I wait.

Just long enough for him to reach for one. Then I reach out, snatch it from his hand—And throw it back. Clean. One motion. No hesitation.

The burn hits my throat a second later, settling warm in my chest. I don't react. I just set the glass down.

Hank finally looks at me.

"...that was so f*****g rude," he mutters in mock offense.

I frown slightly. "That's it?"

"What's it?"

"That's your reaction? I was expecting at the very least, mild outrage."

"You've done worse," he replies.

"Worse like what?" I lean against the counter.

"Turned down the best night of your life with little ol' me." He clutches his heart in feigned hurt.

"You'll survive ." I lift a brow and turn to another customer.

"I will do no such thing. I'm wasting away from lack of Tatum as we speak." He throws the back of his hand against his forehead, stumbling and I pause and turn to him.

"Since when?"

"Since you started breaking expensive things. I.e my heart!"

I smirk. "So you do care."

He narrows his eyes slightly, the teasing forgotten.

"Don't push it."

I tilt my head. "Ever think about bartending?" Changing the subject.

He blinks. "I am bartending." He gestures around him in a "duh" manner.

"No, professionally," I clarify. "With less attitude."

"That sounds God awful." He makes a face of mock disgust.

"You'd hate it," I agree. "You'd have to pretend to like people."

"I'm pretending right now." He shrugs nudging me with his shoulder.

"I noticed." I reply sarcastically.

I slip behind the bar like it was made for me. Everything falls into place instantly. Muscle memory. Control.

I grab a bottle, pour without measuring, slide a drink across the counter without looking.

A guy leans in.

"Hey, beautiful—"

"No, thanks" I cut him off.

He blinks.

"I didn't even—"

"Didn't need to." Cut off... again.

Typically when they start like that they've either had too much to drink or are about to hit me with the worst pick up line... most cases— both.

The people around him laugh.

He tries again.

"I was just going to—"

"If you're not ordering a drink, then move there's others waiting." I snap a little too harshly.

Without another word he leaves.

Hank watches, amused. "You're terrible for business."

"I'm great for efficiency."

"Same thing."

"Not even close."

Another man approaches. Confident. Too confident.

"I'll take whatever you recommend." I look at him. Then at the shelf. Then back at him.

"Water," I say.

The bar laughs again. He doesn't. "...Funny." His eyes narrow at me all confidence, gone. All manner of flirting? Also gone.

"I'm not joking." I shrug.

Shaw steps up beside the bar again, already two shots in.

"Having fun?" he asks.

"Time of my life! 'Cantcha tell?" I retort as I pour him a line of more of his favorite.

He grabs another glass. Drinks.

Watching me. Always watching.

"Try not to start a riot," he mutters.

"No promises."

He nods like he expected that. Then he reaches across the counter. Grabs my wrist. Not rough. But enough.

I pause. Look at him. The sliver of skin he's touching electrifies as I lean into him.

"I'll be outside when you're done," he whispers.

"I don't need an escort." I pull away with a glare.

"I know." He shrugs.

"Then don't wait." I reply.

He doesn't respond. Just studies me for a second longer.

Then—

He pulls me closer. Faster than I expect.

Close enough that I feel the heat of him before I process the movement.

His lips brush just beneath my ear.

And I freeze.

"I'll be seeing you in three hours," he murmurs.

My breath catches.

"Elizabetha."

That name hits differently then.

Louder. Closer. More real.

"I'll be counting down the minutes." And then he's gone.

Just like that. Walking out like he didn't just knock something loose inside me that I wasn't prepared to deal with.

The noise of the bar rushes back in. Louder than before.

Or maybe I just hear it differently now. I stand there for a second too long.

Still. Quiet. Off-balance.

Hank notices. Of course he does.

"...You good?" he asks, shooting back Shaw's other two glasses.

I blink once. Twice. Then I grab a bottle. Pour three more drinks. Shoot two back no hesitation between the first and the last then slide the other across the counter like nothing happened.

"I'm perfect," I say.

And this time—

I almost believe it.

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The last glass dries slower than the rest.

I notice things like that.

The way the water clings to the rim, catching the low amber light before sliding down in uneven streaks. The way the room feels different once it's empty—like something's been peeled back, leaving behind the bones of the place instead of the illusion.

The Cabaret without people is... honest. Quiet. Almost.

Hank's already gone. I stayed longer. I always do. Always the last to leave. Not because I have to. Because I don't like leaving first. And because if I let someone else close up nothing will be done to my standards.

I finish wiping down the counter, tossing the towel aside before reaching for my jacket. The air's cooler now, the kind that settles into your skin after hours of heat and noise.

The lights dim behind me as I head toward the exit.

One last glance.

Everything in place.

Everything squeaky clean.

Good.

I nod once and flick the lights off.

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Shaw is exactly where he said he'd be.

Leaning against the brick just outside, hands in his pockets, head tipped slightly back like he's counting something in his head.

Probably time.

Probably all the problems on his plate.

"You're late," Shaw says without looking at me.

I step up beside him. "You're early."

"I've been here three hours."

"Then that sounds like a personal problem. I told you not to wait for me."

That earns me a glance. A real one. "You make everything difficult on purpose, don't you?"

"I like to keep things interesting." I shrug elbowing him.

"For you." He snickers.

"For everyone." I snort back.

He exhales, pushing off the wall with a shake of his head.

"Come on."

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The streets are quieter this late at night... or early in the morning depends on how you look at it.

Not empty. Never empty. Just... thinner.

The city hums instead of roars, headlights cutting through the dark in long, slow passes. There's something almost peaceful about it—if you ignore everything underneath.

We walk side by side, not touching. Not close enough to.

But close enough that I feel the heat from his skin. Like a lingering touch.

"You didn't have to wait," I say again after a minute.

"I know." He mutters.

"Then why did you?"

He doesn't answer right away. Of course he doesn't.

Shaw never gives you something unless he decides you've earned it.

"Because you would've let me," he says finally.

I glance at him with a lifted brow.

"That doesn't make sense." I roll my eyes.

"It does." He nods confidently.

I huff out a quiet laugh.

"You're impossible."

"You're worse." He snaps back no hesitation.

"That's fair." I shrug with a nod.

Silence settles between us again. Not uncomfortable.

Just... there.

We turn the corner.

And that's when it happens. At first, it's just a sound.

Tires. Too fast. Too sharp. Too loud. The kind of loud that doesn't belong in a quiet street at 3 am.

I frown slightly, instinct kicking in before thought.

Shaw notices it at the same time I do. We both turn.

And everything slows down.

A black SUV.

No plates.

Windows completely blacked out.

Moving too fast.

Wrong.

Everything about it is wrong.

My stomach drops. "Shaw—" I don't finish.

Because the window drops. And the world fractures.

The first shot is deafening. Louder than it should be.

Like it rips through the air instead of traveling through it.

Then more.

Rapid. Relentless.

A machine gun.

No rhythm. No pattern.

Just destruction.

People scream. Glass shatters somewhere behind us.

I don't move fast enough.

I don't—

But Shaw does. His hand slams into my side, shoving me backward as he steps in front of me, his body blocking mine completely in one move.

"Get down—!"

The rest of his words disappear under the sound of gunfire.

Time doesn't stop. It stretches. Warps. I feel the air shift around me. The pressure.

The violence of something tearing through space where I was just standing—

And then—

Pain.

Sharp. Hot. Immediate.

It hits my shoulder like an anvil—violent, crushing, final. Knocking the breath out of me before I even understand what's happening.

I gasp. Or try to.

It doesn't come out right.

My body stumbles backward, my legs giving out in a way that doesn't make sense. The world tilts.

The sound fades in and out, like I'm underwater.

The SUV is still there. Still moving. Still firing.

And then—

It's gone. Just like that.

As fast as it came.

Leaving silence behind.

I don't hit the ground right away. At least... I don't think I do. Everything feels distant.

Muted.

Like I'm watching it happen instead of living it.

My shoulder burns.

No. That's not right.

It doesn't burn.

It pulses. Like it has its own heartbeat. Each beat heavier than the last. Too heavy.

Something's wrong.

Something's—

Tatum.

Shaw.

His voice cuts through everything. At least I think it's his voice. It's so distant, almost like he's speaking through one of those microphones at a playground. Like when we were kids.

Sharp. Panicked. Completely stricken.

I've never heard him sound like that before.

Not once.

I try to answer. I try to tell him I'm fine. That it's nothing.

That he's overreacting—

But my mouth doesn't work. My body won't listen.

I'm on the ground now. I think.

Cold pavement beneath me. Or maybe that's just how I feel. Cold.

Shaw's hands are on me. Careful.

Too careful.

Stay with me I think he's saying. Or maybe yelling. I can't tell anymore.

Hey... Hey! Look at me!

I try.

Dammit, Tatum Elizabeth open your damn eyes!

God, I'm trying.

But everything's getting... heavier. Harder.

Like I'm sinking into something I can't push back against.

Call 911, now! Call 911!

I'm right here.

I think I hear him whisper. He sounds closer now like he's right up against my ear.

I've got you.

His voice is shaking now.

Shaw doesn't shake.

That thought feels important. I latch onto it.

Hold onto it. Because everything else is slipping.

I can feel it. My fingers don't move. My legs don't respond. My chest feels tight. Too tight. Too heavy.

Like breathing is something I have to remember how to do.

...Tatum. Softer now. Closer.

Please.

That's what it sounds like.

Please.

I want to answer him.

I want to tell him—

I'm here.

I'm okay.

I'm—

But nothing comes out. Nothing moves. Nothing works.

Darkness creeps in at the edges of my vision, slow at first, then faster. Too fast.

Shaw's voice is the last thing that stays clear.

Stay with me, he says again. Desperate.

Elizabetha—stay with me.

I hear him. I hear him.

But I can't— I can't move. I can't speak.

I can't—

Darkness crashes down around me, thick, heavy, suffocating.

And then... nothing.