This went all wrong. All wrong, so it did. A disaster, a flaming couture nightmare.
The job was goin’ so smooth you’d swear it was choreographed—until that fuckin’ security lad pulled a piece from his trousers like he thought he was Clint bloody Eastwood. Didn’t even blink. One shot—bang—and you dropped.
Just like that.
Rose froze for half a second—heels clicking on tile, mascara already threatening to run—and then bolted.
“Oh! Oh, darlin’—no, no—don’t ye do this to me, not today…”
She skidded to your side, knees hitting the floor like prayer, hands flutterin’ like she thought she could glamour the bullet out.
She tried to lift you, bless her—those chunky-heeled work boots squeakin’ as she nearly slipped on her own panic—but Lou was there, steady as stone. Together, they got you out, hearts poundin’, breath caught in their throats.
In the back of the white van—it smelled of duct tape and desperation—Rose was crouched beside you, her gloves stained, ruined.
“Jesus, Deb—I can’t—I can’t just sit here! I need—pressure, we need pressure, right? That’s what they say in the films—”
Debbie—stone-faced as ever—just glanced over, calm in that unnervin’ way she always is.
But Rose? She was spirallin’.
“I told ye this would happen, didn’t I? I said it in the flat last week, I did! ‘One day someone’s gonna bleed on me,’ I said—and now look! LOOK at her!”
She pressed her trembling hands into the wound, her voice thin, breathless.
“She’s barely lived, Deb… Hasn’t even had her tragic Paris affair yet, or her first real credit card bill—”
A sob caught in her throat.
“It should’ve been me… Me with the bullet, not her. I’ve done my bit. Had my runway. I peaked in 2011! She was just gettin’ started…”
Her Irish accent clung to every word, thick and mournful, as the blood soaked through the girl’s shirt and into Rose’s soul.