Dark Corners - Twelve Tales of Terror by Michael Bray

‘A’ word. The one that people like her always
insisted they would never become. She had a definite need for it now.
It took her to a warm, fuzzy place, and allowed her to at least
tolerate the mess her life had become. The heroin was for later, back
in her damp, cold flat, where she could finally drop the act that she
was as happy and content as everyone else. She opened the small wrap
of cocaine and arranged it into two neat lines on the counter top.
Then, holding one nostril closed with her finger, she snorted it up,
blinking as the numbing electricity overcame her. It was less than
she would usually take, but it would be enough to see her through
until her shift finished at three. Only then could she ready herself
for the main event—the bliss of her beloved heroin. It was the
one constant in her life that never seemed to let her down; the best
relationship she ever had. Straightening her hair and making sure she
hadn’t left any evidence behind, she headed back to work,
feeling more confident for the shift ahead—even though the need
for smack was already tugging at her guts.
    Back in the bar, the band was just finishing their cover
of Roy Orbison’s “Pretty Woman,” and Tina thought
they were doing a decent job of it. She watched the locals dancing as
the band surged towards the song’s finale, and felt embarrassed
for them. They looked ridiculous enough when they were sober, but add
alcohol and jerky dance moves into the mix, and you were in for quite
a sight. Fortunately, she had mastered the art of keeping a straight
face long ago.
    Her eyes drifted to the strange man at the bar, and
unsurprisingly, he was looking right back at her. She couldn’t
read his expression, but she also could not deny that she was
attracted to him. He was by far the pick of the bunch here in
Oakville—the land where mullets and beer bellies were king. As
she crossed the room towards the bar area, she could feel the men
leering at her with their half-drunken, glassy-eyed stares. The room
was suddenly too hot and the air too thick, and as she reached the
bar, she exhaled deeply. She watched the band finish their set to
drunken whoops and scattered applause while she collected herself.
    “ You
look like you could use a drink,” a voice spoke from behind
her. It was smooth, deep and confident, and she knew it belonged to
him—to the man in the Crème suit. He was looking at her,
watching intently, and she felt her heart skip with giddy excitement.
There was something in his eyes, a deep, animalistic intensity that
both scared and aroused her.
    “ I
could, but I don’t think my boss would approve of me drinking
on the job.”
    She half expected a cheesy line or clumsy response here,
but the man only nodded, still watching her as he swirled the dregs
of his vodka around in its glass. She looked at his hands, his
fingers long and thin, his nails manicured. She imagined him touching
her with them, running them over her body—she blinked, pushing
the thought aside.
    “ I
haven’t seen you in here before,” she said, regaining her
composure.
    “ Yes
you have,” he replied as he drained his glass and set it down.
“You’ve seen me watching you.”
    She smiled at him nervously, but his face remained
neutral, his eyes intense and locked on hers.
    “ You
certainly don’t sugar coat it, do you?” she said,
flashing a smile at him.
    “ When
I see something I want, I take it. It is the only way. Tell me your
name.”
    She felt herself blush with embarrassment as she looked
at him. It wasn’t a request. It was a demand.
    “ Tina.
My name is Tina,” she said softly, trying to keep her voice
from trembling.
    “ I
am Monde... Tell me, why do you work here, in a place like this?”
he asked, cocking his head at the room that no longer seemed to exist
for Tina.
    “ It’s
not by choice, believe me, but the bills won’t pay themselves.”
    “ You
are far too beautiful to work in a shithole like this.”
    “ I
don’t know about