Yvonne's POV
I probably have the silliest death, you might say. I should be in the Guinness World Records for the most outrageous way to go, but what no one knows is the hidden truth behind that death.
As I slowly descended down the cliff, gravity pulling me into the watery depths below, I looked up at the smile on her face, my best friend, my supposed sister in all but blood, and I knew. This wasn't an accident.
One day ago…
La Serata Bar
La Serata Bar was my happy place, the only place where I truly felt alive. The music pulsed through the air, and the bright lights bounced off the bottles behind the bar. I loved the chaos of it all: people laughing, chatting, the clink of glasses being filled. It was always buzzing with energy, and I fed off it. I leaned over the counter, grinning at the regulars, pouring drinks like it was second nature. There was never a dull moment here. Who needed a quiet night when you could be part of the madness?
I moved around the counter, sometimes chatting with the regulars who, of course, left fat tips for me. I was talking to Mr. Biggs when a young brunette with a petite frame walked up to the counter. Her long hair cascaded around her heart-shaped face, and I couldn't help but notice how much she reminded me of myself, well, how I used to look in the past. Funny how I just described her as petite when I was also that way, three inches taller than her, maybe. She looked about five foot three.
I moved toward her as she stared at the wooden counter like it was the most fascinating thing in the world. I could tell she was the shy type.
Before I could say anything, she looked up at me, her hazel eyes locking onto mine. Damn, I loved hazel eyes. She was stunning. If I weren't on the clock, I would definitely tap that, she was exactly my type.
"Hey, bartender," she called, her voice soft and melodic, with a slight Southern drawl.
"I shook the cocktail shaker, guessing she looked like the type to take a cocktail. 'What can I get you, honey?' I said with a playful drawl, a smile curling on my lips.
But she didn't smile back. I thought she was shy at first, but when the words fell from her mouth, I couldn't have been more wrong.
"An Angel shot, please," she said, her hand trembling slightly as she glanced from it to me. The smile slipped from my face.
I stopped stirring the cocktail and moved closer. "Who?" I asked.
She licked her red lips, looking to the side before glancing back at me. My eyes followed her gaze. Then she whispered, "Blue shirt's been aggressive."
"I turned my gaze around and spotted the guy she was talking about, already moving in on another chic. I couldn't help but smile back at her, a hint of amusement in my eyes. I gave the shaker one last shake, the metallic clink filling the air, before I met her gaze and said, 'I'll take care of him.'
I poured the cocktail into a glass, sliding it toward her. "On the house."
She stared at me for a moment before taking the drink. "Thanks," she murmured, her voice low.
I watched as she made her way to a secluded spot to sit, then I bent down under the counter and pulled out my large baton.
"'Not again, Yvonne,' Derrick, one of my fellow bartenders, said, but I didn't even acknowledge him. I just smiled to myself before turning to scan the crowd for the jerk.
'Yvonne,' Derrick called again, but I was already tuning him out, my focus sharp as I searched the room.
When I finally spotted him, I called out, "Hey, blue shirt!" Some heads turned in my direction, his included. He pointed at himself, and I smiled, nodding my head.
"Yeah, you," I said, lifting the baton and resting it casually on my shoulder. "Let me talk to you."
I walked toward him, and his brow furrowed. When I stopped in front of him, his eyes dropped to the baton.
"What do…?" he started, but I yanked him by his shirt collar.
"Hey, hey, what are you doing?" he protested, but I knew he wouldn't fight back. He didn't want to cause a scene here. I knew his type.
Once we were outside, he pulled himself free from my grip and turned around. But before he could say anything, I swung the baton to his knees. The satisfying crunch echoed through the night.
"Fuck!" he screamed, drawing the attention of the bouncers, but I just smiled, and they quickly turned away.
"What the fuck is wrong with you, lady?" he yelled, sounding like a whiny brat. I couldn't help it, I laughed. No, I cackled.
"If I ever see you harassing anyone again, I'll make sure you regret it," I said, my voice low and deadly.
He glared at me, clutching his knee, but I could see the fear flickering in his eyes. He didn't want to push his luck any further. With a final angry grunt, he turned and hobbled away, his pace slow and exaggerated.
I stood there, watching him limp off, a satisfied smirk curling on my lips. No one messed with the regulars at La Serata.
Just as I was about to head inside, Jon, one of the bouncers, turned toward me. "You should've let us handle him, baby." He pulled me close, his lips crashing against mine. I grabbed his crotch, and he groaned, half in pain, half in pleasure .
"Well, as you just saw, I don't need anyone to handle anything for me," I replied, moaning when he bit down on my lip.
"But you shouldn't do it if we're not there to step in," he said, his voice low, and I flashed him a teasing smile as I looked up at him.
I knew I couldn't hold my own in hand-to-hand combat. Sure, I knew a few self-defense tricks, but nothing that could save me in a real fight. But I had something else up my sleeve.
"And that's why I take Betsy with me everywhere," I said, raising my baton for emphasis. His eyes flicked to it, and a grin tugged at his lips.
"But one day, Betsy might not be there," he warned, a teasing glint in his eyes.
Now, as I fell toward my death, I couldn't help but think, Why the hell didn't I take Betsy with me? The world around me blurred, and everything felt so unreal, like I was trapped in some twisted dream.