The Unholy Ones

2:: SELENA DEVEREAUX

The neon lights strobe erratically, pulsing to the music. Voices echo in the grand room: people cheering, others talking dirtily. Strong whiskey and tequila taints the air, the fumes so strong one could cough if they weren't regularly subjected to it.

Girls dance on platforms, vaulted high above everyone else in their towering shoes. Glitter sparkles across their faces and the lights dance over their bodies as they twist and twirl around shining poles. Men sit below them, most in awe, others completely distracted by each other. One such guest, a lean man early into his thirties, sits at the bar, phone pressed tight against his ear as he tosses back shots. He yells into the phone, then slams it onto the table with a sense of finality.

Irritated, the man reaches for more vodka, tossing a hundred dollar bill at the bartender as he pops to top off the entire bottle. Tossing it back, he eyes the lithe figure sauntering down the bar top, immense black boots clicking ominously towards him.

Slightly annoyed, but also intrigued, the man sets his bottle safely into his lap, close to the pocketed gun he carries.

The girl in the boots stops in front of him, dropping into a low squat as she peers into the man's eyes.

"You look like you could use a friend," she muses seductively, reaching out and playfully running a long finger along the man's jaw. He grabs he hand in his large fist, tightly holding it. The girl frowns.

"I don't want a dance, thank you very much," he growls, letting go of the girl's hand as her frown deepens.

"You can afford to have a little fun," she says with a quirky smile. "We all have to, from time to time." The man just stares at her, eyes dropping for a second to look at her outfit: a black bustier that hugs her beautiful, curvy figure, and...

Maybe it was the booze talking, but he wanted her, if even for only a while. But he didn't want to waste the fortune he had in his pocket, so he thought for a second before leaning forward to place a wager.

"Tell you what, princess," he says.

"Angel," she interjects with a wink, twisting on the table.

"Alright. Angel," he slurs. "I've seen several people get up on this bar top, only to fall off ever so ungracefully." He smiles, placing the vodka on the table as he digs out a wad of cash. Angel's eyes light up greedily. "If you can get off this table and impress me, I'll get you a thousand dollars. Here and now."

She smiles, reaching for the cash, but he pulls it back, cocking an eyebrow.

"I'm not your average man. I'm hard to impress."

"I'm not your average girl," Angel counters, swiping the money out of his hand, shoving down her top. "I'm better."

She stands up, evening her stance before looking down at the man. "Double my money if I do a flip."

"Done."

A devilish smile peels across her face, almost too wide. "What's your name, Mister Lone-Vodka man?"

He chuckles, then replies with confidence, and almost hurt that she doesn't know the most infamous mob boss in the city. "Estrada. Scott Estrada."

"Another thousand for two flips, Mr. Estrada?" With a drunken shrug, he digs out the requested money, a full two thousand dollars. It's not like he'd miss it; he's got nearly ten times more back at the House.

"Knock yourself out, baby." Angel's grin remains in place, but her eyes flash. Suddenly, Estrada feels as though he's being played.

"Thank you for your generosity." With a wink, she takes another step back, stiletto hitting the far back of the bartop. Tucking her chin, she smiles again, then tenses, and jumps.