Hey! It's been a few weeks since my last upload, I know. *stares at the wall* I was struggling with a bit of self doubt and just all round imposter syndrome but, I pressed on. And I've more than made up for my absence-this chapter is pretty long. *winks* Enjoy!

The bar was hundreds of conversations told in loud voices, all of them competing with the offensive reggae music that dominated the atmosphere. The crowd was young, students from university and middle-aged loonies for the most part. Chicago winded his way through the warm bodies to order a drink, nearly balking at the stagnant stench of cigarettes hidden within the collaboration of mephitic odors. A sharp smell of drink wafted towards him, like black plumes bellowing from the windows of a burning house. There was even a hint of sick tainting the mutated fragrance of the bar.

It almost made him turn back from whence he came, but he pressed on. Like a man on a mission.

He released a slow breath as he spotted the muted colors of the bottles standing on glittering onyx shelves. Slumping on the high stool adjacent to the bar, he braced both hands effortlessly on the black counter. The bartender, a bald, skinny teenager with far too many tattoos quirked up an eyebrow.

Chicago flicked a finger towards the shelves. "Whiskey. Two shots."

The boy tilted his head to the left as he wiped invisible dirt off of the counter. "You're a new face."

Chicago nodded stiffly.

"Waiting for someone?"

"Yes."

The boy smiled, revealing hideous silver teeth. "A ladies' man, eh?"

"Just get me the whiskey, boy."

A frown immediately replaced the professional smile the boy had worn all night as he gazed at the disagreeable fellow. His eyes grew dark, lids sagging and his face hung loose and long.

"Not much of a talker, are you."

Chicago watched him resume scrubbing the glass of the chiller cabinet, recently re-stuffed with those stupid garish Alco-pops all the teens were slurping faster than Coca-Cola these days. His actions were tense, as if he'd somehow taken offence.

Unbothered, Chicago veered his attention elsewhere, hoping to find one person in particular. Coming up with nothing, he gritted his teeth as a tidal wave of self disgust flowed within him. It was not a feeling he was unfamiliar with. Every now and again, it carried a subtle reminder that he was not the protector he thought himself to be. Not by a long shot. Sloane's demise had told him that much.

Unbidden, images wantonly slid through the barriers of his mind of a woman with midnight eyes, hair the color of ravens and the most beautiful smile formed around plush lips. There was always an honest smile within those lips. Lips that never spoke an unkind word to anyone. Lips that held beauty not because of how they looked, but because of the softness of their association with the words they spoke.

An unbearable ache akin to suffocation welled up inside him. His eyelids shut so tightly they began to fidget and shudder from the bullish force, as if the very corner of his eyes were being pricked with a needle. With painful concentration, he willed the haunted memories away with as much a sound as his hushed agony.

The bartender chose that opportunity to slam his drinks in front of him. Chicago dived in, downing the two shots in a flash.

"Another."

The boy had rolled his black sleeves further up his arms, and he was smiling sweetly. A smile that was not only unusual but also sinister and triumphant. Chicago assessed his countenance, watching as the boy's eyes glinted when they landed on the glasses. They had that same sickly glow when they met his.

Realization dawned in an instant, and Chicago slowly balled his hands into fists.

"What's your name, boy?"

"Trevor."

"And how old are you, Trevor?"

Trevor folded his arms. "Eighteen."

Chicago nodded. "Old enough to rot in jail."

Confusion marred his features and Chicago noticed how his chin butted up in a defensive position.

"Jail?" Trevor repeated, his black shirt shining under the luminescent light of the bar. "Why would I rot in jail?"

Chicago tenaciously began to crack his knuckles. He was well aware of what that did to people who knew they had been caught. And Trevor was certainly no exception. In fact, Chicago would be surprised if he didn't crack under pressure right damn now.

Sure enough, the defensive chin Trevor so stupidly adorned became tense in a matter of seconds. "Wh- what are you going to do?"

"Wrong question. The better one would be; what am I not going to do. And that, my dear boy, depends on how long it takes for my patience to run out before I have you thrown in jail for spiking my drink."

Trevor took a small step back. His lower lip trembled, and his folded arms slacked a little. "I - I didn't—"

"Choose your next words wisely. What did you put in my drink?"

Trevor gulped. "Nothing! I swear! A- a little bit of ecstasy, but it was nothing."

Chicago snarled.

"I meant no harm! I just - I just wanted to cheer you up a little. We do it all the time here to customers who - uh, seem like they need it."

"What did you mean when you said it was nothing?"

Trevor's voice was barely a whisper. "I-it- it was not enough. To cause any harm."

"And I'm supposed to take your word for it?"

"N- yes, Sir."

That was not reassuring, but the boy seemed genuine enough. He was still just another teenager who thought he knew what was best for himself—and for his clients, apparently. Fortunately for Chicago, drugs did not have much of an effect on him. He'd tried, and failed during those dark times years ago. There was the basic effects—drowsiness, a loose tongue, fatigue—but never that numbness that he desired. It turned out he had a strong resistance and tolerance to drugs. Had something to do with genetics. He'd also been a sickly child—so eventually, his body had gotten used to all the drug medications.

But this did not mean Chicago wasn't going to put the fear of God into the bartender.

He leaned in, every movement an unspoken threat, every exhale a warning. "If I start to feel the tiniest bit drowsy, you know where you're sleeping tonight. It's cold, and dark, and full of criminals who'd love to get a piece of young meat like yourself. " He tsked. "For future reference, never roofie someone without their consent. Good intentions never stopped anyone from getting electrocuted to death."

Trevor's eyes widened to huge saucers, and he visibly trembled. His face was as white as sheets and his greenish blue veins popped out from his sleeveless arms. Clutching tightly at his shirt, he nodded and scurried away from Chicago like he was the plague.

Said plague went back to scouting his surroundings. Conversations swirled in a dirty cloud of smoke as vibes flowed like a virus. There were establishments that were more like restaurants now—all clean with waiting staff. Not here. Not at the "Bear and Dance." It was clearly a den of debauchery, alcoholism and the great unwashed of the town. No-one possibly came to this place with anything wholesome in mind.

A shrill cackle to his left brought his attention from the delinquent crowd. There were about four girls seated in a booth. Chicago had a feeling if he hadn't heard them laugh, he still would've spotted them. They seemed so out of touch with a place such as this. In no way did they belong here. Two were blondes, the other two were a brunette and a black woman. They had ordered a round of neat spirits and were in the process of making a toast.

Chicago surveyed their appearance and clicked his tongue. They each wore nothing but a chemise in variant colors. The one in blue chemise had a spilt reaching her waist.

Maybe he was wrong. Maybe they did belong here.

This was one of those rare moments where Chicago found himself feeling grateful that Shanya wasn't indecent with her clothing choice. He wasn't sure he could manage that in this life or the next. Still, he watched the loose girls as they prattled on, glasses in the air. There was a lot Chicago prided himself on, but on the top of that list was his excellent hearing skills. Not much got by him if he really wanted to listen in.

"Lyra. You're the best worst friend I've—we've ever had. We love you and we wish you all the happiness in the world."

The girl's blonde hair was about as natural as Hardin's British accent—both strained credibility. The coiffured golden strands turned a dull brown at the roots, though if they matched her brows and lashes you'd never know it. Chicago had never seen a face so heavily made up, especially on one so young. Her appearance was a stark difference from the one to whom the statement was directed—Lyra. The girl was blonde from root to tip. Her hair was poker straight and pulled back into a low pony-tail. She also seemed older, more grounded.

"Not all the happiness in the world, " Lyra teased. "What would you guys be left with?"

"Shh," the fake blonde hissed. "We're making a toast here. Emma, your turn."

The black girl—Emma—cleared her throat and shifted in her seat. She had afro hair with a kind of artisanal topography that invited the sensual touch. From where Chicago sat, he could just about make out her perfectly laid edges, her sharp mouth, and her willful expression. There was something about her that steered up painful memories. Something that drove a spear in his gut. He knew what that something was. She was yet another reminder of his Sloane.

"Lyra, may your beauty never fade within, and may your brilliant aura attract only good things."

The fake blonde jerked with laughter, causing the shorter strands of her hair to hang forward, hiding her eyes. "Geez Em, since when did you become Edgar Allen Poe?"

Emma rolled her eyes. "Shh, Oli. We're making a toast here."

"I'm surprised she even knows Edgar Allen Poe," the brunette chuckled. She was stunning. Her skin was tanned and rich. There was a warmth her dark brown hair brought to her features, a simple frame for that intelligent smile. She wore little make-up and had emerging laugh lines—which was already telling of her character. But Chicago had a vague feeling that to be taken seriously, she didn't have to be their equal. She had to be better and beyond reproach. Among the four, she was the most unsuitable for this place.

"Okay, seriously guys. We've been holding our glasses up for hours. My hands are aching," Oli grumbled.

After a chorus of agreements, three of the four girls squealed 'Happy birthday, Lyra!' and finally, all four clinked their glasses. Suddenly, they didn't seem so young anymore. There was an air of class and sophistication hanging over their figures, and in their easy-going camaraderie, Chicago got the distinct impression that there was more to them than meets the eye.

"Remind me never to go on a birthday outing with you three," Lyra said after downing her drink. "Jane, simply count me out the next time around."

Jane—the stunning brunette—scoffed and raised her hands slightly above her slender shoulders. Like her position in this place, her name was very unsuitable for one so good-looking.

"Well, God forbid you have someone who cares for you and is willing to give you the best day of your life."

Lyra giggled. "Speaking of best days, I haven't laid eyes on you in weeks. You're always holed up in that torture room you call your 'writing space.' When was the last time you traveled?"

Lyra had to be the oldest. The way she carried herself... like she was more experienced, more matured. There was a vibe of level-headedness emanating from her, only one with the lowest of EQs would miss it.

"Well, I travel in other ways when I write," Jane replied.

"Really, like where?" Oli chirped. This one, Chicago pegged as flighty and promiscuous. A lot like his sister.

"Everywhere... and nowhere."

All her friends rolled their eyes, mumbling something incoherent. Suddenly, Oli leaned forward, staring Jane in the face. "Jane Elizabeth Boden, when was the last time you had sex?"

Jane bristled, and Chicago noticed a vague red hue creep into her cheeks. Then she laughed, and Chicago stared. The laugh—the laugh was in her eyes, in the way her face changed into a vision of relaxed joy and unrestrained mirth. Yet truly, it wasn't in her face either. Her laugh came from within like it was just the way she was wired. People like her simply had more flexible brains, like all that humor bubbling around in her was like yoga for the synapses. It was the kind of real, self-tormenting laugh that was enough to transport him far away from his worries and the tension in his veins.

"Gosh, I can't remember," she breathed finally. "Actually, I don't even think I've kissed anyone in a while. I need to kiss people. Preferably men."

"Well, you're in luck," Oli declared. "Lots of men here to choose from."

After a quick assessment of their surroundings, Emma and Lyra nodded their heads in agreement, while silently waiting for Jane to concede.

"You're all gross," Jane jeered. "And when did this become about me? This is about Lyra. Stop acting like sex-crazed adults and dote on her instead."

"Speaking of sex-crazed," Lyra said, leaning in. "Jerry has been a little hands-on ever since he returned from his trip to Africa. Not that I'm complaining. Just saying. I've had all the doting I need."

Emma whistled, and snapped her fingers repeatedly. "Sis gats it all."

An unabashed Lyra reached out her hands and touched each of her friends'. "I don't need to have it all, I just need you guys. Well, you and a nice dick."

The girls all laughed, and Chicago was just about ready to tune them out when Emma interjected.

"Girls, see that dark, attractive, brooding man in the black jacket?"

Chicago froze as he felt all four pairs of eyes land on him. The air suddenly became so brittle it could snap, and if it didn't, he might. He gave nothing away though as he stretched his thick legs and faced the chiller cabinet.

"Yeah, what about him?" Lyra asked.

"He's been looking in this direction for a hot minute. I think he fancies one of us."

"I call dibs," Oli announced.

"You're always calling dibs," Lyra argued. "This one's Jane's."

Jane made a disapproving sound. "No way. He's a stranger."

"A hot stranger."

There was a pause, and Chicago suspected Jane was trying to assess him, to see if he was worthy of her. A growl escaped his lips. He hated being treated like a prized mule. This wasn't the first time he'd been ogled at by the weaker sex, and it didn't feel any better.

"I'm pretty sure I'm not his type," Jane insisted.

"Only one way to find out. Besides, didn't you say you needed to kiss people? Men, preferably?"

This time, the pause dragged on for minutes.

"Alright, screw it." He heard a rustling sound and a few squeals of delight and approval, followed by a "please, act normal" and "don't talk too much."

"Maybe you guys wanna go then?" Jane hissed back.

Chicago sat perfectly still watching Jane approach him from his peripheral vision. He was the picture of obliviousness and indifference. Although he probably would've smiled if the situation wasn't so awkward.

She finally took a stool next to his and ordered a drink. The tinkle of glass on glass as she mixed her cocktail was lost under the jazz notes that jumped and danced in the smoky bar. Her red chemise hung from her shoulders, hugging her form as she stared at the swirling liquor. Her wide lips puckered ever so slightly, and when she raised her made-up eyes at Chicago, he knew the game had really begun.

She fixed him in a look that would make any man other than him shrivel. He met her gaze with the smile of one who knew the upper hand was his and placed his empty glasses on the counter. She folded one leg over the other, dangling her black high heel, showing more leg; yet her face stayed aloof, disinterested. It was a film noir "standoff" of sexual power...

Until she spoke.

"Hi!"

Chicago winced. He had forgotten the unnatural amount of energy she possessed from the small assessment he had glimpsed earlier.

"Hello," he greeted back.

"I'm Jane."

He simply nodded.

"You?"

"Michael."

He caught himself abruptly. Why did he say that? No one knew his middle name except his family. And Sloane. Why the blazes had he told this hyperactive toddler?

"Nice to meet you, Michael."

Chicago briefly considered moving his seat farther away from her.

"So here's the thing, Mike. Can I call you Mike?"

He sneered.

"My friends think I need a little action in my life and have singled you out to be the lucky guy. If you assure me you're not married, or engaged, or a rapist, or a serial killer, or a pedophile... if you're not a criminal in any sort of way—cause really, you're way too attractive to be one. Then again, I have seen some pretty gorgeous criminals so, where am I going with this? " She laughed at her own foolishness.

With every word that came from her mouth, Chicago was that much closer to exiting the bar.

"Anyway, do you want to kiss me?"

Chicago raised an eyebrow. He hadn't expected her to be so direct and honest about her intentions, instead of masking it all in seductive looks and smiles. And he was weirded out by her ramblings and lack of a switch button, or a filter. Someone like her wouldn't last a day in court, or in any sort of trial whatsoever. In fact, Chicago was willing to bet his last nickel she couldn't pull a poker face if her life depended on it.

"No."

Jane titled her head. "No, you're not married, or engaged, or a rapist, or a serial killer, or a pedophile, or no, you don't want to kiss me?"

"Look, you don't have to do this."

"Do what?"

"Trade your body for a bit of companionship."

Jane visibly flinched, her wide lips thinning into a frown. "You don't know anything about me."

"I didn't mean to offend you—"

"Didn't you? Gee, thanks."

It was such an unusual reaction from one so bubbly that Chicago just stared. She got up hastily from her seat, but instead of returning to her expectant group of friends, Jane walked towards the other direction, heading for the ladies room.

Chicago returned his gaze to her friends who were watching him quizzically while engaging in hush tones. Glancing at his watch, he scowled at the realization that it was past ten. He'd been here for an hour plus, and there was still no sign of that bastard.

A commotion had him snapping his head towards the direction Jane had veered to. A blonde guy had Jane pinned against the wall, and his mouth smashed against hers in the most degrading way possible as he brought his hands up her thighs. A frightened Jane squirmed under his touch, trying to fend him off.

A stilling kind of anger rippled through Chicago like a torrent, as hot as any dragon had ever flamed. More so when he recognized the blonde dude as the same bastard who'd harassed his little sister. The very scum of the earth he had come to this bar to accost. He had thought of nothing else since learning of his behavior towards Shanya. In no less than two weeks, he'd tracked Christian down to this dump—his apparent happy place every Friday night.

Chicago rose from the high stool and in five quick steps, he was on the scene. There were no holes barred when he went in for the attack.

* * * *

He yanked Christian back with a volcanic force.

"Hey—" Christian winded in alarm, but Chicago brought his hardened fist down on his face. He went in for another but Christian recovered quickly and deflected, sending one of his own. Blood pooled in both their mouths as they stumbled apart, fists clenched, a confused expression on Christian's face while Chicago exuded an animosity that was like acid—burning, slicing, potent.

Christian registered his dangerous countenance and raised a hand up weakly. "Look man, we were just having a bit of fun. I didn't know she was your girl. She came onto me."

Chicago growled as he advanced closer. "Did my sister come onto you too?"

Something flickered in Christian's face, something close to recognition as his eyes widened. His countenance however, shifted from heightened alarm to mild indifference.

"Oh, that. I can explain." He stumbled a little in his steps, and Chicago realized the bastard was drunk. A hush had fallen in their side of the bar, but Chicago paid no heed to the hungry gazes of the spectators.

"You tried to rape her."

"Hey man, I was only doing as you asked."

Chicago's jaws clenched and unclenched. "I told you to scare her. Not get into her panties."

Christian shrugged. "Potato, Potahto. Besides, it's not my fault you weren't more specific about how you wanted it carried out." He stumbled again as he clumsily adjusted his silk shirt. "What's it matter now, anyway? You got what you wanted. She's going to tender in her resignation soon so really, what harm have I done?"

Chicago didn't hesitate as he went in for another attack. He rained blows onto Christian as if he meant to smash him into the very earth. He hardly noticed the excited crowd that had gathered, or Jane's piercing screams telling him to stop as he just hit, and hit, and hit. His arms grew tired with each impact, his knuckles sore.

There was a huge rustle as the bouncers separated the two even as Chicago fought to resume his battering.

"If I ever see you again, you're dead."

A bloodied Christian rose up slowly from the ground, volcanic fury flaring in his eyes as he wiped the blood away from the sides of his mouth with his thumb, and spat out blood. He stared at it, and then with the stealth of a tiger, faced Chicago.

"You're gonna regret that."

Chicago shrugged the muscular men off of him and dusted himself. "It'll be a frigid day in hell."

Christian snarled as he meandered his way through the crowd, shoving away anyone who stood in his way. Chicago watched him leave, barely able to calm himself. Shanya had been incredibly stupid leaving the house like that. Venturing into a world filled with vicious people like Christian Pierce. He couldn't trust her with anything. Not even with herself.

But he'd done this to Shanya. In hopes of getting her to return home, he'd gone too far. Nevertheless, regret was useless now. He just had to do better next time.

"Thank you," a soft voice spoke from beside him.

Jane. He had completely forgotten about her.

"Yeah." He brushed past her and headed towards the door as the satisfied crowd parted for him. To his chagrin, she followed behind him.

"Do you have a problem with women? Or you just don't like talking to them?"

"I'm talking to you right now, aren't I?"

"Yes. Monosyllabically."

"No offense, but I don't know you—as you so kindly pointed out. There's nothing to say."

"But you helped me back there."

"No one stands by and watches a woman get assaulted unless they are a defective moron."

"And what would you call a person who sends a rapist to scare his sister?"

Chicago stopped walking abruptly, causing Jane to bump right into him. Anger the likes of which he'd never known rippled through him. "Don't talk to me about my sister. It's none of your business."

Jane flinched. "Sorry I- I was just curious about what could've possibly led you to—"

Chicago walked away briskly, but she pressed on. "Can I at least get you a drink as a thank you?"

"No."

"Can I dress your wounds?"

"No."

"I can help, I used to work as a doctor's assistant for a few months so I know a thing or two about—"

"Look," Chicago stopped again, pinning her with a death glare. "I'm sure you think this is charming, but I advise you to stop. Desperate and needy is not a good look on a woman."

With that, he walked off and out of the damning bar.

A/n: I struggled with this chapter you guys, sheesh. Spent weeks trying to perfect it and I'm still not sure it's all that. *cries soulfully* I hope I was able to at least give you guys a feel of who Chicago is as a person.

In the meantime, color in that star button, will you?