It was amazing how alcohol had the power to make people think they were attractive, mused Jaxxon. Or, in this case, some sort of gift to women. Thank God there was the bar to separate her from this bald, heavy-set bloke who was so drunk that both his eyes were fighting for one corner. For the past half hour, while he swayed and slurred, he had been flirting shamelessly with her. His ‘come hither’ smile revealed a set of Nicorette stained teeth – oh wait, it wasn’t actually a full set. And ‘flirting’ wasn’t quite accurate. Not unless you considered dirty talk, sexual innuendos, and being given flashes of body parts to be flirtatious behaviour. More like sick-minded crap.

Needless to say, she wasn’t inspired to welcome him into her arms and body. Unfortunately, he just wasn’t getting the message. Even the words ‘get the fuck out of my face’ hadn’t fazed him. Jaxxon was now itching to get out of the dingy, stuffy pub – she was tired, hungry, and feeling homicidal. But she was pretty sure that Joe, the landlord of the pub, wouldn’t be too impressed if his barmaid up and left. Jaxxon cast a quick glance at her quickly aging, flabby boss only to find him smiling at her in mock sympathy.

After serving another bloke – this one was smiling shyly at her and blushing like a virgin on a first date – Jaxxon switched her attention back to the pen and clipboard in front of her, noting what needed stocking up on, and all the while wondering how she managed to attract oddballs and plonkers. Not that there was much chance of her being approached by someone who might spark her interest in here. The pub didn’t exactly appeal to the youthful. In fact, looking around at the punters, the place looked like a bloody nursing home.

The bald weirdo was now suggesting a ‘fuck festival’ with him and his five friends – all of who shared two things in common. One, they were over the age of fifty. Two, they had beer guts. She respectfully declined, but his persistence earned him a ‘sod off you sick perv’ from her. Still, he was unfazed.

Then he leaned across the bar, and by the look in his eyes, Jaxxon knew he was about to touch her. Jaxxon and ‘touch’ didn’t go well together. “Don’t dare,” she warned. He ignored that warning and abruptly reached out and squeezed her breast painfully hard. Pure reflex, she gripped the pen tightly and stabbed the web-like skin between the thumb and forefinger of his roaming hand − not enough to draw blood, but enough to wrench a cry of pain from him.

“Hurts like fuck, doesn’t it,” she said through gritted teeth. “Don’t ever touch me again.”

The creepy old sod actually grinned at her. Apparently pain made him horny. Oh great – now, in his drunken mind, she had just flirted back. No doubt he would have stayed exactly where he was, hoping for more, if his friend hadn’t dragged him away.

Joe joined Jaxxon’s side, chuckling. “Another satisfied customer.”

“He’s one sick bastard.”

“Sick bastards love you and your mean-arse streak.”

“It’s not mean to be honest and straight with people or insist on them not being perverted.”

He nodded toward a particular table not far from the bar where a pair of bashful-looking blokes sat, dressed in leather. “The two submissives are here again. They still want you to be their Dom?” Joe chuckled again.

“You enjoy all this far too much.”

“This place used to be boring ’til you started working here. It might help if you didn’t look even spicier when you’re fuming. It seems to get their blood running.”

“You say all the right things,” said Jaxxon sarcastically.

“Oi, if I gave you a compliment or any sweet words, you’d laugh in my face ‒ just like you do with all the others.”

He was right there, which, she supposed, was why she had never been with a truly decent bloke. Somehow, she always ended up with controlling, clingy weirdoes. It seemed like ‘nice’ blokes were often too intimidated by her take-no-prisoners mentality to even approach her.

At the same time as the door flew open, a gruff voice rang out, “Jaxxon!”

Sigh. She had actually expected her twat-of-a-neighbour earlier. He must have taken longer at his drug dealer’s flat than she’d anticipated. “Yes, Sean, what can I get you? Budweiser? Guinness? Cyanide?”

“Where is she?” he demanded as he stood opposite Jaxxon, panting like a Bull Mastiff.

“She?” enquired Joe.

Sean looked at him, wearing a bitter smile. “Imagine my surprise when I get back to my flat to find no Celia, and no kid. Gone. Clothes and all.”

“Good,” said Jaxxon. “All’s going to plan then.”

“You helped his woman run off?” asked Joe, not all that surprised or bothered.

Jaxxon held up her hand. “Correction: I helped a beaten, mistreated, petrified woman and a bruised, starving, frightened little girl have a new start somewhere away from this threat to their lives and sanity.”

“You interfering bitch,” growled Sean.

“What can I say – it’s a gift.”

“You put ideas in her head. Celia wouldn’t have left me like that.”

“No she wouldn’t have,” agreed Jaxxon. “She was too scared to take a piss without your say-so.”

“Where did you get the idea that you had the right to stick your nose in?”

“I’m sure Jesus said something about loving thy neighbours.”

He spread his hands over the bar, his face contorting as his anger intensified. “Where’s Celia?”

Jaxxon then noticed the tear in the arm of his jacket. She smirked. “So you tried to break into my flat and ended up being used as a chew toy.”

“That dog is a hellhound.”

“A much loved hellhound. And I better not get back to find your blood all over the carpet of my flat.” She had found the beautiful Great Dane, Bronty, about a month or so ago lying in an alleyway covered in bites and scratches. Without hesitation she took him back to her flat and got to work on his injuries. From that point on, Bronty had seemed to decide she was his, and had remained with her even once he was fully healed. Since then, her flat hadn’t been broken into even once.

The first time her flat – which was more or less one single room – had been ‘visited’, she had been both shocked and enraged. But soon she got used to these regular ‘visits’ from who appeared to be mostly drug addicts looking for money. Occasionally, they took some of her underwear, too. It was difficult to experience any anxiety over it anymore. How could she feel territorial about a place that was not ‘home’, but merely shelter? Besides, Jaxxon didn’t have much by way of possessions that she could call her own, especially not anything of worth.