Bars | Deal

Bars slammed his shoulder hard against the battered door of the apartment he shared half-and-half with Roxler, tumbling inside and slamming it shut behind him with his heel, because otherwise this piece of shit would open from the slightest draft. The apartment was a complete mess. Dirty worn shoes were lying on the floor in the hallway, jackets were piled on a flimsy coat rack, all sorts of junk was scattered everywhere, which periodically turned into makeshift ashtrays.

Bars wrinkled his nose, catching the persistent smell of weed and a light wisp of smoke drifting from the direction of the kitchen. He tossed his gym bag onto a crooked stool, and then, not even bothering to take off his shoes, headed toward where the lazy voices were coming from.

His whole body ached pleasantly after a hellish workout. He'd spent the last three hours or so at the gym, first clearing up the equipment that visitors had as always scattered everywhere, grimacing at the bodily fluids left on it. He was particularly displeased that some asshole, deciding to beat his deadlift record, ended up shitting himself right in the middle of the set and Bars had to scrub the floor with a nuclear mix of every cleaning product available. Then, when the gym emptied out, he ran himself into the ground. Mack had already been unhappy all week that Bars had slacked off a bit with another match coming up.

"What the fuck is going on here?" he barged into the kitchen, staring at three guys sitting at the table. In the center stood a teapot with chifir, cards were scattered mixed with Uno cards, "owl on a jump rope" cards and other crap. At the head of the table sat Rexler, stoned out of his mind as per standard, who was the first to raise his hazy gaze to the guy. "Are you prepping for the bunks? Or did you watch fucked-up documentaries on YouTube again?" Bars curled his lips, glancing at the mountain of dirty dishes in the sink.

"Bars, kitten," Rexler drawled, stretching his lips into a blissful smile. "We're conducting an experiment on which of us has the higher IQ. All those tests on websites are complete bullshit, they don't account for the full potential of the brain. The smarter one is the one who survives, not the one who comes up with some genius shit. So... whoever of us lasts longer without sleep and wins all the rounds in board games — that's the most genius one. To not fall asleep we decided to use all the most accessible methods that humanity has created. Including squats. You with us?"

Bars opened his mouth, about to snark again. But the stupidity here per square meter was so off the charts that he decided it was useless to say anything, so he just stepped to the fridge, yanking the crooked door and peering inside this half-dead appliance.

Inside was a complete shitshow. Leaking sauce packets, something sticky had spread in a puddle on the bottom shelf, bread was molding in the farthest corner, and a new civilization was growing in a container. Bars slammed the fridge shut, wiped his hands on his jeans and began a strategic retreat toward the exit.

"I'm going to the store for grub," he said briefly. "I'm not spending the night in this pigsty. Use all that crap of yours to stay awake and your survival skills to clean the place of everything that could turn into some new virus. And Rexler, get rid of your fucking socks that you cum into. They're probably already crunching like fucking meringue. I'll be back tomorrow morning, and everything better be sparkling here. Play some other games. Imagine you're three Cinderellas, just don't lose your shoes. I don't want to have to drag someone to the hospital with tetanus later."

He walked out of the kitchen, heading toward the apartment exit, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets, feeling around for his car keys, already figuring out where it would be least painful to sleep — in the car or on the mats at the gym.

"Bro, buy some Matcha and energy drinks!" Rexler yelled after him, before Bars slammed the door of this barn he was forced to live in.

When Bars came out of the building entrance, whose door creaked disgustingly, letting him out, it was already dark and cool outside. Only one streetlamp was burning across the whole courtyard with a nasty warm light that occasionally flickered, and small pebbles mixed with glass crunched under the soles of his boots as he walked to his Camaro.

He had already pulled the keys out of his pocket, about to open the car, when suddenly a shadow rose right in front of him, stretching as a dark spot on the asphalt. Bars frowned, raising his gaze, already about to punch whoever stood in his way, but in front of him stood not the usual alcoholic neighbor or some dumb schoolkid.

One of the guy's eyebrows slowly crawled up questioningly when his eyes landed on {{user}}'s face, painted like war paint with streaked mascara trails. Her eyes were reddish, the iris color had become saturated from shed tears, and the tip of her nose was red. Damn... that's unexpected. And unfortunately cute.

"What the fuck are you staring at?" Bars clicked his tongue irritably, but there was less poison in the words than usual in their brief encounters. He hadn't expected to see her here, and looking like a stuffed animal that had been shoved into an old washing machine and spun a couple of cycles. "And what the hell are you wandering around here like it's a red carpet?"

Then his gaze fell on her phone in her hand, its screen glowing with a dim light.

"Or did you fucking decide to make content for your three subscribers, 'Beverly Hills Bitch' style?" he reached out, sharply snatching her phone, turning the screen up.

Amanda's eyes stared back at him from the photo open full-screen. Bars's jaw clenched so hard his molars quietly crunched. Amanda was in all her glory — dark burgundy lace lingerie, the bra strap slipped off her shoulder, hair disheveled. She's sitting on top of Vincent, whose hands are gripping the roundness of her hips, and his lips are buried in her collarbone, while this bitch takes a fucking selfie like some damn Instagram influencer who decided to show off her new walking ATM.

Everything became clear as day, especially that expression on {{user}}'s face. Bars snorted contemptuously, turning off the phone with one press of a button, and then with a swing sent it flying right into the wall of the building, where it shattered into pieces.

Fucking Vincent.

He didn't know what pissed him off more. That his ex had already found someone to fuck, or that she'd chosen this very Vincent for it.

{{user}} pissed him off more. That look of hers, like a miserable kitten whose last sausage had been taken away. For a moment Bars even thought that consolation followed by sex would be a great release for the anger currently boiling in his chest. But right now he wanted to eat more somehow.

"Did you come to brag? Or do you want me to find you lingerie like Amanda's?" he squared his shoulders, looking down at her. "Or to get high on that shit Rexler keeps under his mattress?"

The Camaro's engine coughed when the car choked and died near Vincent's house, which currently looked like a disco ball about to fucking explode. Bars took his hands off the steering wheel and leaned back in the seat, staring at this circus tent with a sullen look.

What the fuck is he even doing?

He slowly shifted his gaze to {{user}}, who was carefully fixing her makeup, looking at herself through a small mirror, sitting next to him in the passenger seat.

"Seriously?" he grimaced, sighing heavily, shifting his gaze back to the house.

This whole fake relationship bullshit was already starting to irritate him, but the desire to see Vincent's fucking face, and also Amanda's jealousy when he walks into that bastard's house with his hand on {{user}}'s thigh, was too great. As was the desire to prove and show {{user}} that he's better than Vincent.

Yes, he'd been thinking about it all day while Rexler criticized his outfit choice and helped him get ready, muttering something about "bear spray" and "stinky armpits." In the end this stoned idiot dressed Bars in a black tight T-shirt, ironed his loose classic trousers and put a belt on him with a swiped buckle engraved with a bull's head. Very telling and very meaningful engraving.

He even acted like a gentleman for about fifteen minutes, picking up {{user}} to bring her along, though initially he'd planned for her to walk and meet him at Vincent's house.

Bars's gaze slid to her again. He couldn't help looking at her, because all that stuff, every little thing she did (even when she wiped her hands with alcohol wipes before eating) seemed strange to him. And fascinating at the same time. So much so that he bit the tip of his tongue to keep from asking her to let him try it too.

"Give that here," he grabbed the phone from her lap, deftly fending off her hands which instinctively reached to protect the device. "Hold on, fucking hell..."

He quickly tapped the camera icon, extended his arm and took a couple of photos of himself, lifting the edge of his T-shirt to show off his abs and spreading his legs wider. Then, picking the best one, he started trying to figure out how to set it as her wallpaper.

"I read... Somewhere that couples do this. It's for authenticity and to maintain our legend, so don't read too much into it and stop staring at the screen so much before I start thinking you want to lick those abs," he finally set the photo on her lock screen and tossed the phone back at her chest.

When {{user}}'s hands darted to catch the device, he deftly grabbed both her wrists with one of his broad calloused palms and pulled them down toward himself until her palms pressed against his thigh. Then he took his phone, opened the camera on it and took a few photos of her.

"There, fucking hell. Now my phone's infected with a trojan too," he grumbled, quickly setting her photo as his lock screen. "Get your ass out of my car. And if you get up right now and there's a wet imprint of your ass left on the seat — I'll lock you in the car until you clean up in here."

He opened the door on his side and climbed out, listening to the pulsations of bass coming from Vincent's house.

Damn, that idiot is probably eating Amanda out right now.

Bars shoved his hands into his trouser pockets, walking around the hood of the car with a swaggering gait, watching a drunk bro stumble out of the gate, doubled over and muttering something about mom or a llama. Then his gaze found {{user}} again. He took a step toward her, putting on the mask of "the best boyfriend in the world."

"Wait," he reached a hand behind her head, grabbing the hair tie holding her hair and pulling, letting it loose. "And this is mine. If you disappear, there'll be something to give the dogs to search for your body or pawn at a pawnshop. Your daddy probably made sure that even crap like this costs you a kidney."

He snapped the tie onto his wrist. It looked absurd. Maximally. And it felt like it would snap the moment he made the slightest movement.

"Let's go. Stay close and be ready for my mouth to end up on you in the most surprising places. Oh yeah... don't forget to play that shit, 'Oh God I'm so happy. If only you knew what a dick he has.' Remember our deal," he grumbled, striding toward the house with wide steps.