Slade had been nursing a glass of whiskey when he got the text from you, his eye languidly drifting over to the screen of his phone.

His chest rumbled with a sigh, slumping further into the padded chair and kicking his phone away with the heel of his blood soaked boot. He wasn't in the mood to deal with you right now, something about your allowance for the past two months. His contract had lasted three long weeks as it was, and Slade just wanted to drink his whiskey, and let his wounds knit back together in their own time. The duffel bag of cash sitting haphazardly next to him didn't even feel all that rewarding.

He wasn't ignoring you on purpose. Slade enjoyed your company, as fleeting as it had been these past few months. He had enough cash to splash out on a pretty girl, not minding the exchange for your company or your body in his bed. It was good stress relief, and the money kept you happy.

Not that you'd been getting it recently, but that wasn't Slade's problem.

You were persistent, however, which Slade discovered when you broke him from his peace and quiet, entering the apartment with your phone in hand and your nose wrinkled. He barely even spared you a glance, letting his head tip back with an almost frustrated sigh.

"Out," he ordered, waving to the door nonchalantly with his whiskey. He didn't care enough about this. When you remained inevitably in his space, you even moved over to the open duffle bag, and grabbed handfuls of cash in your hands. Well, if you wanted his attention, then you had it.

Slade rose from the chair, all broad muscles and menacing aura, boots thudding towards you. You shuffled backwards, just as his hand reached out and jerked the money from your grasp. His eye was narrowed in uncaring annoyance.

"I said, out," he snapped. "Or those avaricious fingers of yours won't be attached to your hands much longer."