Sharon beats Johhny.

John pulled into Livingston Walk, the vintage Jag gleaming like a prop from a Bond film among the economy cars, rusted wrecks on bricks, and battered white vans. The neighborhood reeked of urban decay, a hostile backdrop that made his luxury car look obscene, a taunt to the locals who watched from darkened windows. Sharon told him where to stop, and she got out, telling him she'd only be a minute. He waited with the engine idling, feeling the weight of a thousand hostile eyes on him. He nervously tucked his now-shrinking cock back into his trousers and pulled up the zip.

Some ten minutes later, Sharon emerged transformed. She'd changed into a long black leather coat that fell to her boots—a vintage longline style that echoed the Third Reich, Black gloves, high-heeled boots that disappeared under the hem, her mousy hair now loose and brushed to a shine. She looked nothing like the PA he'd hired; she looked like a femme fatale in full plumage, the kind of woman who could wear leather with the authority of a film star. Over her shoulder, she carried a holdall, the type that might contain anything from cash to a body.

She walked to the Jag and waited by the passenger door, her back to him, the leather coat gleaming under the streetlights like oil on water. John rolled his eyes—a reflex, a habit, the last gesture of a man who still thought he had the upper hand—and went to open it for her. She didn't even glance at him as she brushed past, her hip bumping his with deliberate indifference, and folded herself into the leather seat. The holdall went on her lap. She didn't thank him.

He got back in, slammed his door, and gunned the engine hard enough to make the Jag snarl. He wanted out of Livingston Walk, out of this postcode, out of this entire fucking scenario. The car shot forward, tires chirping on the tarmac.

Twenty minutes of silence later, twenty minutes of her hand resting on his thigh, not moving, just claiming, they were pulling into a private lane off Ashford Road. A quick right, and the headlights swept across the facade of his house: a large two-story detached built to look like a converted barn, all weathered timber and expensive fakery.

He killed the engine. For a moment, they sat in the dark, the ticking of the cooling engine the only sound.

"Key," she said, not a question.

John pulled it from his pocket and held it out. She didn't take it.

"You're going to open the door for me, Johnny. And then you're going to carry my bag."

He stared at her, the key biting into his palm. "Sharon"

"if you make me ask twice, I'll slap you again. Harder."

John got out of the car, walked to her door, and opened it. He took the holdall, which was heavier than it looked, and led her up the path to his own front door, fumbling the key in the lock like a stranger in his own life.

She walked in first, her boots clicking on the limestone tiles. "Nice place. Smells like loneliness and expensive aftershave.”

He closed the door behind them, the click of the latch sounding like a cell door locking.

She prowled the lobby like a predator mapping territory, then into the kitchen, opening cupboards, picking up books, reading spines with the tip of a gloved finger. John followed a few steps behind, his heart hammering against his ribs so hard he was sure she could hear it. Every nerve in his body screamed that this was wrong, that he was walking into a trap he couldn't see.

"Sharon," he said, louder than he meant to, his voice cracking with panic. "What is it you want from me?"

She turned and looked him up and down like he was a piece of meat at market—assessing the cut, finding it adequate but overpriced. "I think I'd like a drink. Brandy. The good shit, not that bollocks you give your clients."

"Then can we talk?" he asked, desperation making his voice tight. She kept moving the goalposts.

"Oh, yeah, we'll talk, alright. Now get me a fucking drink."

"Jesus," he thought, his hands shaking so badly he nearly dropped the bottle.

He poured each of them a glass of his prized Hardy Noces de Diamant Cognac, the bottle worth more than her monthly salary, and handed her a tulip glass. He imagined it would be wasted on her, but she held it up to the light, checking the hue and clarity like a connoisseur, then gave it a gentle sniff that made her nostrils flare. She looked at him, held up the glass, and said, "*À votre santé*," before taking a small sip that barely wet her lips.

This girl was a mystery, revealing itself in small, devastating parts—and each revelation made his blood run colder.

"Mmm, very nice," she said quietly, putting the glass down on a small side table.

She went to the holdall, unzipped it slowly—the sound of the teeth parting like a zipper on his soul—and pulled something out before turning to face him. He watched, his breath caught in his throat.

She was holding a gun and pointing it straight at him. He'd never seen a real gun before, only on TV, but there was no mistaking the black hole of the barrel staring at his chest. His bowels turned to water.

"Sharon, what the fuck?" The words came out as a shout, but his voice broke like a boy's.

"Strip," was her reply. Flat, calm, utterly certain.

"What—you can't be serious—what the fuck are you doing?"

"I am very serious. Strip. Now."

She cocked the gun with a loud click that echoed in his marble hallway. The sound made his balls tighten. He put his brandy down, his hand shaking so badly the glass chattered against the table. Then he stood and faced her, the gun a dark star pulling him into orbit.

He hesitated, just a moment, searching her face for mercy and finding none. Then he unbuttoned his jacket with fingers that felt like sausages. The shirt came next, his cufflinks scattering across the floor like dropped coins. He stripped down to his Versace boxer-briefs, his hand automatically covering his cock.

She wagged the gun, a slight movement that spoke volumes. "All of it."

He slowly pulled them down, his cock springing free, semi-hard and betraying him. Sharon looked him over with the clinical eye of a butcher assessing a carcass. He wasn't in bad shape. Good muscle tone, obviously worked out. That was good. He was going to need his stamina.

"Turn around. Hands behind your back."

He did as he was told, his arse clenching in anticipation of what he didn't know. He heard more rummaging in the holdall, then the gentle click of metal on metal. She was right behind him, her breath warm on his shoulder, the scent of leather and cheap perfume overwhelming. She took one wrist, snapped handcuffs around it—cold, unforgiving steel—then quickly around the other. He automatically tried to pull his arms apart, but there was no give. None at all.

"Good boy," she whispered, her gloved hand sliding down his spine to squeeze his arse. "Now the real fun begins. Get on your knees.”

He looked over his shoulder and saw she still had the gun in her hand, pointed straight at him. The barrel was a black eye staring into his soul. Knowing he had no real choice, his legs gave out. He fell to his knees with a choked groan as they hit the hard marble floor, pain shooting up his thighs. Behind him, more metal on metal, then cold steel snapped around his ankles—leg cuffs, hobbling him completely. He was trussed, immobile, utterly at her mercy.

She walked around in front of him, slow and deliberate, her boots clicking on the floor. She was enjoying this; he could see it in the curl of her lips, the predatory gleam in her eyes. The gun never wavered.

She reached into her pocket and pulled out a silver cigarette case. Flipped it open with one hand, her eyes never leaving his. Took a cigarette between her lips. Then she lifted the gun, pointed it directly at his forehead, and pulled the trigger.

John's heart stopped. Time stopped. He squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the blast, the impact, the nothingness. His bowels clenched. His mind screamed.

There was no gunshot. No pain. Just a loud click.

He opened his eyes slowly, terrified of what he'd see. Sharon was lighting her cigarette with the small flame from the gun-shaped lighter, her expression one of pure amusement.

"Gotcha," she said, exhaling smoke into his face.