Look, I already know what you're thinking: What. The. Fuck.

And yeah, that's what I was thinking too. I mean, I was just trying to make a few quid, you know? Find a reasonable client, show 'em a good time, and get paid. Simple, right? But no, life has a funny way of turning a good gig into a nightmare.

Here I am, gripping the wheel of a car that isn't even mine, with a beautiful girl in the backseat frantically trying to keep some bleeding gangster from dying on us. Blood was everywhere, and I mean everywhere. It looked like a fucking crime scene and—shit I guess it is one. Anyway, that's besides the point. Point is, it was seeping through the seats, the floor—hell, probably my sanity too. I didn't sign up for this shit. I should have ran when I had the chance.

The bird, who's name I still didn't know, was back there, her hands steady despite the panic in her eyes as she pressed down on his wound with whatever scraps of fabric she could find. Her steeled eyes were the very image of determination, but I could see the cracks—tiny fractures of fear and doubt. And who could blame her? This wasn't a strip club scuffle or a bad night with a drunk customer. This was life or death, and we were stuck in the middle of it.

"Step on it!"

"I'm going as fast as I can! Or do you wanna drive?" I tried to keep my voice steady as I bit back at her even though my hands still hadn't stopped shaking. "Where the hell are we even going?"

"Anywhere but here! We need to find a place to hide and get him some help."

Great. Just great. A criminal, a stripper, and a whore on the run. What could possibly go wrong? A lot, most likely. This was not how I envisioned my night going I'd made my choice so fuck it. I floored it, and we weaved through the streets as I tried to put as much distance between us and the scene of the shootout as possible.

By the time the car screeched to a halt, I was already pouring a line out across the dashboard. What? A guy can't do a little snow after witnessing a fucking bloody shootout? You go watch the bloke you were just about to shag get shot right in front of you then run away from the scene with a bleeding gangbanger and a nutcase stripper and tell me you wouldn't want something to take the edge off.

"What the fuck are you doing?" And there she was with her accusatory voice as she checked the dying criminal's pulse.

I snorted the line, shrugged and turned to look her in the eye. "What? You want some? Look, I wouldn't blame you—"

"Oh for fuck sake, just help me will you? You can get as fucking high as you want after we've stopped the bleeding, yeah?"

Shoving the goods back into my pocket, I jumped out and opened the back door—not that kind of back door, get your head out of the gutter. She was still leaning over him, her hands and clothes soaked through with his blood, but somehow he didn't quite seem dead yet. Fucking miracle there if you ask me.

I flicked my head, gesturing for her to get out of the way. "Move."

She glared at me but shifted enough for me to reach in and grab our crook, hoisting him up. His weight almost made me stumble. Blood seeped slowly onto my hands as I carried him towards the entrance. The bird followed, her eyes darting around nervously.

"Where the hell are we?" she asked.

"I'm crashing here at the moment. Don't worry, it's discreet."

We made our way up the narrow staircase, each step echoing far too loudly for comfort in the stillness of the night. I thanked God that the carpet was red, not that there seemed to be much more blood to fall. Most of it had been soaked up by his clothes and her car, whatever was left was probably the only reason he was still alive.

My heart pounded in my chest as we reached the entrance and I realised with a start that I couldn't get the door.

"Left pocket."

"What?"

I sighed and nodded towards my side. "My keys, left pocket. Unless you want to carry him inside?"

She hesitated, not that I could blame her, before reaching into my pocket to fish out my keys. Her fingers brushed against my thigh as she did so and I couldn't help but smirk. "Careful where you're touching, love. I might get ideas."

She scoffed and, with a quick turn of the key, unlocked the door and shoved it open. The apartment was a mess, not that I didn't already know that, and it reeked of stale smoke and cheap liquor, but it would keep us hidden for a while at least.

"Welcome to my humble abode," I snarked, carrying my guest inside to lay him down on the old, worn-out sofa. "Home sweet home."

"It reeks of sex in here." She covered her nose and made a beeline to crack open the window. 

"Alright, help me find something to stop the bleeding." I glanced around the room but I'd only been here a few weeks and I was high as fuck for most of it, I didn't really know where anything was other than the toilet, shower and bed. "There's gotta be some towels or something around here."

She was quick to start looking through the clutter, scrunching up her nose as she shifted through the dirty condoms and empty booze bottles. As she pulled my cupboards apart, I couldn't say I wasn't impressed by her resolve. Despite everything, she was certainly holding it together better than I was.

My hands trembled uncontrollably, the usual rush of drugs replaced by a different kind of unrest. I stared at them, flexing my fingers in a vain attempt to steady the shaking, all the while ignoring the smears of blood across my palms.

"Got some!" she exclaimed, pulling out a handful of towels from a drawer I honestly hadn't even realised was there. She hurried over and pressed them against his wound, trying to staunch the fleeting flow of blood.

I sat back, my legs finally giving out as I watched her work. She was certainly a better nurse than I was, not that I hadn't had to patch myself up before.

"What's your name anyway?"

She looked up, her dark eyes meeting mine. "Roxy. You?"

"Charlie."

"Well, Charlie, you better go find me a first aid kit or we're going to be in more trouble than we already are."

I nodded, pushing myself back up to stagger over to the bathroom. The small space was no less of a shitshow than the rest of the apartment, but I at least remembered where the first aid kit was stashed behind a stack of magazines.

"Here," I said, handing it to Roxy. She took it without a word, immediately opening it up and pulling out supplies.

"Hold him still. If he moves I might make him worse." Her voice was calm and commanding and somehow I hadn't realised just how relieved I was that someone else was taking charge. I moved to the other side of the sofa, gripping the gangster's shoulders to keep him still.

Roxy worked quickly, applying antiseptic and bandages with surprising skill. I can't say I expected a dancer to know how to stitch up a gunshot wound, or even know to check for the exit wound first, but she seemed to be doing a pretty good fucking job from where I was sitting.

"How'd you learn to do this?"

"My mum. Well, she taught me to sow. The rest I guess I got from films," she replied curtly, not taking her eyes off her work. "Life teaches you a lot of things, especially when you're used to taking care of yourself."

I hummed, understanding more than I cared to admit. The silence stretched between us as she continued to patch him up. All I could hear was the ragged breathing of our patient which, although a little unsettling, was also weirdly reassuring.

"That should hold for now," Roxy finally said, sitting back and wiping her brow. "But he's going to need proper medical attention soon."

"How soon?" I asked, worry creeping into my voice. I hadn't been in a situation like this before—fucking obviously—but I don't think it takes a genius to know that any kind of attention was the last thing we needed.

"Depends on how much blood he's lost, which looks like quite a lot. We need to keep an eye on him, make sure he doesn't go into shock."

"Great," I muttered, rubbing my temples. "Just what we needed. I need another drink, you?"

Roxy shot me a sharp look. "You want to drink? He might die and you want to drink?"

I silently met her gaze with a raise of my brow. Her shoulders rose and fell as she took a breath, getting fuck knows what off of her chest.

"Yeah," she sighed, "I'll have a drink."

Quid — one pound sterling.

Gig — a job, especially one that is temporary or freelance and performed on an informal or on-demand basis.

Bird — a girl or young woman.

Snow — cocaine.

Bloke — a man.

Shag — to have sexual intercourse (with).

Gangbanger — a member of a violent street gang.

Nutcase — a mad or foolish person.

Crook — a person who is or a criminal

Sofa — a couch. a long seat with a back and arms, for two or more people.