Rook

The lobby was dimly lit, a narrow corridor with two doors . . . one leading to the men’s toilet, the other back to the main bar. The low ceiling and dark timber floor made the space feel even more cramped, and the air carried a thick mix of stale beer, cheap aftershave, and something damp that clung to the walls.

Ellen stood in front of the cork-board, scanning the mess of business cards, flyers, and crumpled brochures. The board was overstuffed, layers of paper pinned in a chaotic mess, some curling at the edges, others barely holding on by rusted push-pins. She recognised the usual suspects . . . taxi services, dodgy locksmiths, takeaway menus . . . but among them were the sleazier ads.

Escort services. Private massages. Girls to your door, any time of night.

The cards were glossy, some laminated, most featuring faceless silhouettes of women in suggestive poses, their contact details printed in neon colours. She ignored them, rifling through the clutter, searching for something useful. It took a moment, but she finally found a small stack of cheap hotel numbers buried beneath a gaudy limo service flyer. The top card was slightly bent, the ink smudged, but it would do. She plucked it free, tucking it into her palm, fingers curling around it like something solid in an otherwise unstable night.

As soon as she pulled it loose, the toilet door swung open, and a man stepped out.

One of the band members.

The one Tracy had been flirting with earlier.

He looked even worse up close . . . sickly thin, with sharp, birdlike movements. His skin stretched tight over his ribs, every breath making his bony chest expand and contract in a way that looked unnatural. His leather trousers clung to his legs, stiff and creaking as he moved, and the heavy steel-toed boots on his feet looked oversized for his narrow frame. He was shirtless, revealing a mess of tattooed arms, a tangled collage of inked images that had no real theme. It reminded Ellen of a doodle pad, random swirls, unfinished words, symbols that meant something to someone, but not to each other.

But there was one exception.

A chess rook, inked neatly just above his navel. Unlike the others, this one was precise. Intentional.

His deep-set eyes landed on her. He saw the hotel card in her hand. And grinned.

“Looking for a place to stay?” His voice was rough, like a man who had smoked through every bad decision he’d ever made.

Ellen froze. She knew his sort. Knew exactly what he was implying.

Still, she kept her face neutral. Non-confrontational. “Yeah,” she muttered, shifting her weight. “For the night.”

His smirk widened as he tilted his head, looking her over in the way men do when they think you’re an easy target. Then, with mock generosity, he spread his arms.

“Well, sweetheart, you don’t need a hotel. My place is open. No charge.”

His tone was crude, but it was the confidence that made it worse. He wasn’t attractive . . . far from it. His movements were jerky and restless, like he was balancing on stilts, constantly adjusting to keep from falling. His cheekbones were too sharp, his nails chipped and painted black.

And yet . . . there was something about him.

Something about men in bands.

They always carried themselves like they were desirable.

It was almost hypnotic. Not enough to make Ellen feel anything but uncomfortable.

She shook her head. “No thanks.”

His smirk didn’t falter. “Your loss,” he said, shrugging. “I’ll be taking someone home regardless. Always do.” He clicked his tongue. “Shame, though. Could’ve been you.”

Ellen didn’t respond. He turned toward the door, boots thudding against the timber floor. Then . . . just as he reached the threshold . . . he spun back around.

And stuck out his tongue.

It surpassed his chin. Insanely long. The gesture was clearly meant to be sexual, but it only made Ellen’s stomach turn. Her revulsion deepened when she noticed something thick and yellowish-white on his tongue.

What the hell?

Did he even brush his teeth?

A slow, smug wink. Then he was gone, disappearing into the bar like he had never even been there.

Ellen exhaled, her shoulders slumping. She glanced down at the hotel card in her fingers, rubbing her thumb over the ink. Somewhere private. Somewhere stable. Somewhere that wasn’t this.

She pulled out her phone, fingers trembling slightly as she dialled. The line rang. A voice answered.

“Hi,” she murmured. “I’d like to book a room, please.”