Betrayed by My Own Companion

01

Cheyenne

I sighed in relief as I walked off campus, pulling on my sunglasses and letting my hair fall out of its braid. The day had been long-three lectures back to back, plus a group project that went absolutely nowhere. My scalp ached from how tight the braid had been, so I ran my fingers through my hair, fluffing it out around my shoulders. It felt good to be free of the classroom, even if just for a little while. The late afternoon sun warmed my face as I adjusted my messenger bag and headed over to a bench near the sidewalk.

I sat down, stretching my legs out in front of me and leaning back, letting my back crack a little with a satisfying pop. The weight of the day started to melt away as I sank into the bench, my shoulders relaxing. I closed my eyes for a moment, just enjoying the quiet hum of campus life starting to settle down. Most students were still in class, and the foot traffic had slowed to a peaceful trickle.

Owen was supposed to pick me up today. I'd gotten out earlier than usual, which meant I had about ten or fifteen minutes to kill. I pulled out my phone and scrolled mindlessly through social media, occasionally liking a meme or skipping over someone's drama post. Typical stuff.

Then I felt the bench shift slightly.

Someone had sat down next to me. I glanced to my left out of curiosity-and froze for a second. A guy. Maybe around my age, maybe a little older. He had dark hair, tousled like he didn't care about appearances, and eyes that were staring at me just a little too hard. Not in a flirtatious way, not even in a curious way-just intense. Focused.

It gave me the creeps.

I turned to face him more directly and slipped off my sunglasses. "Why are you looking at me like that?" I asked, voice flat.

The guy blinked, as if snapping out of a trance, then smiled. Grinned, really. Like he'd just heard the punchline of some private joke. The corners of his mouth lifted wide and I swear, for a split second, he looked like he might try to hug me. He actually leaned forward like he was going to-what the hell?

I shot up before he could even try. My instincts were screaming at me, and I wasn't about to ignore them. I took a step away from the bench, keeping my eyes on him the whole time. He didn't follow immediately, but his smile faltered and he suddenly looked very... focused. Like something important just clicked into place in his brain.

He stood up slowly, took a step toward me. I didn't back away-I didn't want to show fear-but I subtly shifted my weight, ready to move if I had to.

"Hey, can I talk to you?" he asked, reaching out and grabbing my arm.

His hand was warm. Not just normal warm-weirdly warm. Like a heating pad, or fresh-baked bread pulled from the oven. It sent a strange jolt through me and my stomach turned. That was enough. I yanked my arm back with a sharp motion.

Just then, a loud honk snapped through the air. I looked up in time to see Owen's familiar blue Honda idling by the curb, his arm waving out the driver's side window. My heart practically leapt in relief. Without a second thought, I grabbed my bag and dashed toward the car, flinging the strap through the open back window before sliding into the front seat.

"Go," I said, glancing behind me.

Owen didn't need to be told twice. He pulled away from the curb with a grin and a wave to no one in particular.

"Who was that guy?" Owen asked once we turned the corner.

I kept my eyes on the side mirror, watching as the strange guy walked away... straight into a car waiting nearby. He got in the backseat with two others, and he was gesturing with his hands, talking quickly, excitedly.

"I really don't know," I muttered. "He just sat next to me and was looking at me creepily."

Owen burst out laughing, and I glared at him. "I could've been raped!"

"I know you," he replied through his laughter. "You would've just screamed 'fire' and gotten everybody looking over, made him run off like a coward."

I scowled at him, but I couldn't help the smile twitching at the corner of my lips. "You know me so well."

"I do," he said, smirking as we pulled up to the club, where I bartended most evenings. "I love you, and I'll see you after work!"

I leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. "Yeah, I'll meet you back at the apartment. Love you too."

He pulled away, off to his shift at Red Lobster-yes, the seafood place. He was a waiter there and honestly not bad at it. Customers loved his "boy-next-door" charm.

I turned toward the club and let out a breath. Still shaken from the weird guy, I paused just outside the back entrance and leaned against the brick wall, trying to collect myself. There was something about that guy that didn't sit right with me. The way he looked at me like he knew me. Like he was searching for something. The heat of his hand still lingered faintly on my skin.

It wasn't just creepy-it was... familiar? And that was even more unsettling.

I shook it off and headed inside, punching in for my shift. The manager, Kelly, gave me a wave from across the room and I tossed my bag into the employee cubby and slid behind the bar. The club was quiet now-it wouldn't get busy until around nine-but I started prepping for the evening rush.

As I wiped down the counter, I couldn't help but glance out toward the front doors every so often. Part of me expected that guy to come back, like some bad movie scene. But nothing happened. Just the normal stream of regulars trickling in.

Still, that feeling wouldn't leave me.

Like something had changed. Like something had started.

And I wasn't ready for it.

02

I turned around and walked into the club. We still had an hour until opening, so it didn't smell too much of alcohol-yet. That would change fast once the night really got going. The place was dimly lit as usual, the colorful lights slowly rotating through their programmed cycle above the empty dance floor.

I waved at the DJ. "Hey Kev!"

"Yo, Chey! How's it hangin'?" he called back, flashing me his classic goofy grin.

I just rolled my eyes. Kev always tried to act like some ultra-cool party god, but in reality, he was just super cheesy. Still, he kept the music lit and the energy high, so I couldn't really complain.

I made my way to the back, slipping into the employees' lounge-slash-locker room. It smelled like body spray and sweat with a faint trace of cheap soap. I opened my locker and pulled out my uniform: short black shorts-not quite booty shorts, but close-and an oversized white tank top with a big pair of red lips printed across the chest. Classic.

I quickly changed in the employees-only bathroom, then side fishtail braided my hair, tugging a few strands loose in the front so it looked effortless. I stepped into the club again, this time fully in bartender mode, and slid behind the bar with a grin. This was my domain, and once the music started pumping, it'd come alive.

I loved this job. Not because it was glamorous or easy-although it was kinda easy once you got the hang of it-but because the tips were insane. People either loved me or were too drunk to care how much cash they were handing over. Either way, I won.

About thirty minutes later, the lights had dimmed to "party mode," the bass had kicked up, and the club doors officially opened. It didn't take long for the place to go from zero to chaotic. A steady stream of people funneled in, and the music pulsed like a second heartbeat.

It wasn't long before the bar got slammed. People lined up, waving cash or shouting drink orders over each other. It was a loud, moving pile of craziness-but I thrived in it. Give me ten drunk guys, three girls demanding tequila shots, and a broken blender, and I could still run that bar with one hand.

I moved fast, filling orders like muscle memory. It was an easy job once you knew how to understand drunk people and knew what drink was what. I was already getting a ton of tips and we were only 45 minutes into my shift.

"Two Jack and Cokes, and a tequila sunrise!" one girl yelled over the bass.

"Coming up!" I shouted back, spinning bottles like a pro. The tips clinked into the jar like music to my ears.

I handed a slurring girl her shots and turned to the next person in line-and of course, just my luck, it was the creep from the bench.

Great.

I kept my voice chipper and professional. "What can I get ya?"

"You," he told me with a slow, sleazy smile that made my skin crawl.

Ugh. Predictable.

I rolled my eyes. I had literally renamed one of our house shots to "You" specifically for this reason. Guys thought they were so original, but I was already ten steps ahead of them.

"One 'You' coming right up!" I chirped, turning away before he could say anything else.

I mixed the right blend of peach schnapps, vodka, and cranberry juice-sweet enough to pass for flirtatious but strong enough to make a point-and slid it across the counter. "That'll be five bucks."

He gave me a crumpled five, and I dropped it into the register without another word. I turned quickly to the next person in line, a tall guy ordering a whole tray of drinks. I liked those customers-the ones who made it easy. No small talk, no weird vibes. Just drinks and tips.

As I worked on his tray, the bass thudded so hard through the walls that I could feel it in my chest. The strobe lights flickered as people danced, laughed, and yelled over the music. Everything was right on track for a typical Friday night-until I heard a collective gasp from the crowd.

Now, in a club, a gasp almost always means one thing.

I spun around just in time to see the tray-ordering guy on the floor, and the creepy dude from earlier on top of him, punching him over and over.

"Sh*t," I muttered.

I vaulted over the bar, landing lightly on my feet despite the slick floor, and rushed into the fray. People were backing away, forming a ring around the fight. I pushed through, grabbed the creep by the collar, and yanked him off.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" I snapped, dragging him toward the front.

He struggled for a second, but I had adrenaline and rage on my side. I shoved him into the hands of one of our bouncers, Big Nate, who immediately locked him in a hold and started escorting him out.

I rushed back to the guy who'd been attacked. He was groaning, blood dripping from his nose and a split lip forming.

"Hey, hey," I said, kneeling beside him. "You okay?"

"Yeah... I think so," he muttered, trying to sit up.

One of our other bartenders brought over a cold rag and a small first aid kit from the back. We weren't medics, but we knew how to stop a nosebleed and clean up a busted lip. Occupational hazards in this business.

"You want us to call an ambulance?" I asked.

He shook his head. "Nah. Just... give me a sec."

He leaned back against the wall, catching his breath.

I stood and looked around. People were already going back to dancing like nothing had happened. Typical club crowd. I glanced at the bar. The drinks were half-made, the crowd was building again, and the tips weren't going to earn themselves.

"Let me know if you change your mind," I said before jogging back behind the bar.

Kev caught my eye and gave me a thumbs-up from the DJ booth. He must've seen the whole thing.

Back at the bar, things picked up immediately. One girl complimented my "badass bouncer move," and two guys tipped me extra just for "handling the drama like a queen."

I winked and flipped a bottle dramatically as I made their drinks. "Just another night at the office."

By midnight, the club was packed, the music was blaring, and I was back in the groove. The creep was gone, the guy he attacked was still nursing a swollen jaw in the corner, and I was flying through orders like a machine.

There was something about this place-about the rhythm, the lights, the people-that made me feel like I was in control, even when chaos hit. The club was messy, unpredictable, and loud as hell, but it was my kind of chaos.

And I wouldn't trade it for anything.

03

Two guys rushed past me, making a beeline for the stranger lying on the floor, and I dropped down beside him. The DJ, who had seen the whole thing go down, tossed me the first aid kit he kept behind his booth. I caught it with one hand and popped it open, pulling out a clean rag to hand to the guy, motioning for him to hold it to his nose.

He winced but took it, pressing it to his face. I crouched beside him, working quickly. His nose was definitely bleeding, but not broken, which was a relief. The cuts on his cheek and brow looked like they'd been caused by a ring-probably someone wearing it on their dominant hand who swung hard. I dabbed at the blood carefully, trying not to make it worse, and stuck a couple of band-aids over the cuts once they stopped bleeding.

"You okay?" I asked softly, mostly to see if he was conscious enough to respond. He nodded, which I took as good enough.

By the time I was done, his nose had stopped gushing, and his breathing had evened out. We helped him up and pointed him toward the bathroom to clean up the rest of the mess. I tossed the bloody rag in the trash, wiped my hands on a spare towel, and headed back to the bar.

Once I stepped behind the counter again, it was like flipping a switch. The music was loud, people were dancing, drinking, shouting over the beat. I slipped right back into bartender mode, making drinks, sliding beers across the counter, tossing in casual smiles and witty remarks where they fit. That whole fight had shaken the room for maybe five minutes-after that, the crowd moved on like it never happened.

The rest of the night flew by. A few more orders, a few more shots. Someone tipped big and the group cheered. At some point, someone asked for a weird drink I didn't know how to make, but I googled it under the bar and figured it out on the fly. That kind of night.

Before I even realized how late it had gotten, the lights flickered once to signal last call. I let out a breath and started cleaning up, gathering glasses, wiping counters, and loading the dishwasher.

Closing time hit fast after that. The DJ cut the music, and the bouncers started herding people toward the exit. I slipped into the staff room and changed into my normal clothes-a pair of soft gray leggings, a loose navy blue tank top, and my favorite giant red sweatshirt that swallowed me whole. Comfortable, warm, and very "don't talk to me, I'm off the clock."

I slung my messenger bag over my shoulder and fished out my phone to text Owen.

Just left. See you soon.

Sliding my phone back into my pocket, I stepped out through the front door and waved to the owner, who was still at the counter counting the till.

"Night!" I called.

He grunted something back without looking up.

Outside, the air was cool and still smelled faintly like beer and fried food from nearby bars and food trucks. But it was quiet enough. I loved this part of the night-when everything started to wind down, but the city still felt alive.

Streetlights cast soft yellow glows over the pavement, and traffic was still humming along, but it wasn't chaotic. Taxis still prowled the roads, and some tourists milled around in restaurants or stumbled out of clubs nearby. But the sidewalks were mostly clear. Just a few people here and there.

I started walking, headphones in my pocket, but I didn't bother putting them on. I liked the sounds of the city at night. The faint buzz of neon signs, the occasional horn, the shuffle of someone's footsteps far off-it was oddly soothing. Peaceful.

I reached a crosswalk and stopped, leaning against the pole while I waited for the light to change. My bag sat comfortably against my hip, and I yawned, blinking sleepily. The little glowing figure switched from red to white, and I started to step off the curb.

Then suddenly-an arm snaked around my waist. Another hand clamped over my mouth.

Panic exploded in my chest.

A low voice whispered in my ear, calm but cold.

"Don't make any sudden moves and I won't hurt you."

Markus

"Don't make any sudden moves and I won't hurt you," I said low in her ear, my grip firm around her waist. Not that I ever planned on hurting her-but she didn't know that. I had to get her to the car without causing a scene.

She stiffened immediately, just like I figured she would. I started pulling her backward, toward the alley where the car was waiting, but she didn't come quietly.

She kicked back hard, elbowed me in the stomach, and twisted in my arms. Then-before I could stop her-she wrapped her legs around the traffic pole like a damn tree frog.

I cursed under my breath. She was small, but strong. And clearly not the kind of girl who went down without a fight.

"Jason! Get out here and help me!" I snapped.

The back door of the car flew open and Jason rushed over, his footsteps pounding against the pavement. He dropped down and grabbed her ankles, trying to pry them free from the pole. She thrashed wildly, grunting against my hand, and for a second, I almost lost my grip.

"Come on, Chey," I muttered under my breath. "You're making this harder than it needs to be."

Jason finally managed to get her legs loose, and I wasted no time. I pulled her away from the pole and backed up toward the open trunk. She tried to twist again, but I had her now. I shoved her gently-but firmly-into the trunk. She shouted against my hand and kicked once more, but I slammed the trunk shut before she could get out.

Silence fell like a weight.

Jason looked at me, breathing hard. "Damn. She's got fire."

I nodded, rubbing my ribs where she'd elbowed me. "Yeah. She's gonna be a handful."

We got in the car, Jason driving while I sat in the back seat, catching my breath and making sure everything had gone smooth. There was no crowd. No one had screamed. Just like we planned.

Still, something twisted in my chest. I hadn't expected to feel that... weird about this.

But Chey wasn't just another girl. And this wasn't just another mission.

Not anymore.