Forbidden Paramour

Bler Walker

The club's noise hadn't died as the crowd cramped on the dancefloor—the rhythm of their drunken movement danced with the music as they swayed their sweaty bodies. As the night turned deep, the people inside swarmed like bees rather than condensing. Watching this sea of people didn’t lift my sour mood. My thick bushy brows wrinkled in annoyance as I remembered why I was here in this Goddamn place!

I slammed the empty glass of whiskey I was holding, so strong that it almost shattered before pouring another and quickly swallowing it like someone would snatch it from me. The bitterness of it drew into my throat, but I ignored that because what I felt was even more bitter, that no matter how much liquor I drank, it wouldn't go away.

 My handsome face was crumpled with annoyance, flushed red from alcohol. Squinting my protruding blue eyes as I stared darkly at the glass of whiskey I was holding as if it was a piece of shit, putting all my frustrations into the cause of this foul mood.

I am in a famous bar somewhere in the Philippines, drowning myself in alcohol alone while ignoring the flirty caresses of the women hinting at me. I was not in the mood to f*ck anyone, so I continued drinking.

I wanted to drink until I couldn't remember what day it was today, believing that the anger inside me would go downhill through this. My FBI boss was the reason why I was enraged.  He’d f*cking fired me from my beloved job as one of the FBI's assets in the Philippines.

I had just finished my last mission when the superior informed me that I no longer had to report. I was expecting a promotion. I would eventually become an FBI agent, but that dream remained wishful thinking because it drained instantly, making me curse my superior for mistreating me.

I successfully dispatched my target on my last mission. However my superior suddenly informed me that my asset status was over for some unknown reason. The target I killed was wrong, that’s what my superior claimed. And if I don't want to be the FBI's next target, I'd better just quit. He will help me explain it to the higher-ups as long as I am gone. Like, what the hell? Someone is setting me up!

"F*ck that stupid director! I was doing my job! Damn it! Damn him to death!" I growled. My jaw tightened as I continued staring sharply at the glass of whiskey. It was as if my anger would pass if I stared at it like it was my superior's face.

I did not know how to cool myself, and the alcohol was not enough to relieve it.

My job in the FBI would save me from managing our family business. I didn't want to tie my freedom with it. I am not an office-type of guy. I am the type of guy who likes action. So I chose to be an FBI asset rather than handling my parents' business. Also, I am only twenty-two years old, too young to get serious in life. I am not yet ready to take care of our family business. My sex life would also be in prison if I were doing business.

My glass nearly shattered when I knocked it hard on the bar counter before hurrying to leave it to go to the bathroom because I could feel the call of nature.

I staggered because of the amount of alcohol I drank. As I head across the expansive dancefloor, I push everyone blocking my path, not minding the angry stares of the people dancing.

My movements were swaying back and forth between drunk bar hoppers. They were already sweating bullets while dancing on the dance floor. The potent smell of alcohol and sweat mixed, but I didn't care. I angrily tore them apart to make my way to the bathroom.

"Goddammit!" I groaned when I nearly fell to the floor while shoving the people blocking my way. 

I felt dizzy from the amount of alcohol I drank. I would have almost fallen if not for the arm that suddenly wrapped around my waist to support me. But out of drunkenness, I shook the hand that was holding me.

"Don't touch me!" I snapped. My voice was raspy. I continued to the comfort room. I did not notice that the person I had rejected had fallen to the floor. I walked straight to the bathroom and didn't care if someone crashed on the dancefloor.

I finally reached the bathroom even though I was staggering. I quickly opened one of the unoccupied cubicles, immediately released my full bladder, and felt relieved afterward.

I was washing my hands when, suddenly, the door slammed open, and someone entered. I raised my guard, even though I was drunk, thinking that the one who entered was there to stir trouble. I slightly reduced the faucet's flow without raising my head when I heard the faint click of the door being locked.

 Apart from the newcomer and me, no one else was inside the large bathroom with ten cubicles facing each other. I ignored the other party and continued to wash my hands even though my dizziness slowly intensified and I almost cracked my head. 

I was stunned to hear the sound of shoes made by the person who had just entered. I was dizzy and had a headache, but I couldn't go wrong with the sound of the stiletto approaching me.

I turned off the faucet, looked up, and stared in the mirror at the figure of the person who entered.

My eyebrows met because I wasn't mistaken in my suspicion. A woman entered—a beautiful and sexy woman. When I saw her in a purple sleeveless dress, with her eyebrows raised and staring at my reflection in the mirror, my almost drowsy body suddenly became alive. My stern-looking face became even more charismatic.