Excerpt:

I can feel her glaze over as the words leave my mouth. Let's face it, here we are at a fancy party, glamorous people all around, and I was lucky to even get to talk to her. Tall, curvy, with dark brown hair, eyes so deep you could forget yourself in them, and a killer smile. It was the smile that drew me in, it really was. And look at me - short, dumpy, hair like someone pulled the straw from a month-old scarecrow just to make a wig, and thick, coke bottle glasses. No, the years had not been kind to me, and the fact that she let me buy her a drink would normally convince anyone that some higher power was smiling down on me.
As usual, they would be wrong.
Really, it's not my scene at all. A New Years' loft party in New York, with all sorts of famous people invited - politicians, actors, models. Finger foods, aperitifs, you get the idea. Really high class sort of place for the really surface kinds of people. I'd watched her from across the room all night, watching her devour some of the younger males in the pack solely with her eyes. It was almost midnight when I'd sidled over, drink in hand to introduce myself. She'd just been dancing with a cluster of the previously mentioned alpha males when they'd gone off in a pack to try and be the one to bring her a refreshment. Of course, I'd been two-fisting the damn things all night, waiting for my opportunity, and so when I came up behind her as she sat on a pristine white couch, flute in hand and murmured, "Champagne?", she's of course assumed I was one of her boys and turned to accept without so much as a glance. Once she laid eyes on me, her pretty, slender face registered shock, dismay, and reluctant acceptance all in the space of a moment. A real class act.
I sat next to her, and we'd made chitchat, and I kept my eye on the pack, hoping they wouldn't return too soon and eclipse my moment. When she asked perfunctorily about what I did, it was with a slight smile that I responded, "I'm in Accounts."
Which is where you, dear reader, came in.
The people around us began the count. "Ten!" they called in unison, and the girl stood and turned away, seizing her chance to free the attention she'd wasted on me. She craned her neck, trying to see which of the men would return in time for their midnight kiss.
"Accounts is fascinating work," I continued as I rose, reaching one hand into my coat. The crowd had reached seven and showed no signs of stopping, the ball steadily descending all glittering lights on the giant flat screen that dominated the main wall, blocking the view. I gripped the knife carefully, all too aware of the thorns on the pommel. "You get to meet so many fancy people," I said, as much to cover my nervousness as anything. If things went wrong, this would be the moment, and the voices currently chanting 'three' would turn to screams if I didn't time it just right.
Something in my voice must have wavered, as she turned, lightning fast, eyes wider than they should be. We froze for a moment, each held in the others' eyes, my pale blue widening with tension and adrenaline, hers blackening with the quickening of her blood.
"Zero!"
The party screamed around us as the host plunged us all into darkness, killing the lights as the New Year began, to better hide the trysts and liaisons between the rich and powerful and the young and pretty . I pulled the dagger in the dark, feeling the bodies around me jostle and move, just seeing the girl by her silhouette against the glow of the distant television. I plunged forward, driving the blade under the ribcage and then twisting up, just as I'd been taught. There was a gasp, a last hissing of air between her teeth, and then I felt the form give way with the moment, body and clothes crumbling as the weight of years caught up to their owner.
The lights snapped on and at my feet lay a pile of dust and ash. I quickly slipped the dagger back into its sheath, while everyone's eyes were still on their partners. I used my foot to scuff as much of her remains under the couch we stood next to, it's edges darkened by some of its recent occupant and her untimely release. An excellent evening's work, really.
When I turned to go I found myself surrounded by the young louts she'd been stalking.
"What happened to Teresa?" the largest of the group demanded, flexing to his maximum width and looming over me.
"Ah," was my witty and brilliant response. Some of the others of our little group constantly tell of the bon mots they drop at a moment like this, the witticisms and quips that spring so readily forth from their minds. I rather suspect that it's a front; I suspect that they're every bit a flummoxed as I at such a moment. Still, it's nice to dream. Later on, when I recounted the stories to the others I told them I said, "Someone swept her away," but I assume they know I was lying. It's just not in my nature.
The young man was less than impressed by my lack of wit. He stepped forward, closing the distance between us, and then leaned close to me. "You scaring away our girl, you little shit?" he growled in a low, quiet voice, and then shoved me.
I could feel the thorns bite my chest under my clothes, just as he felt them puncture his hand. He pulled back with a startled yelp, looking at the fresh pearls of blood on his palm in pain and confusion. I could see the wheels turning in what passed for his brain, and what's more, I needed to deal with the sting as quickly as possible. I'd intended to dump the second champagne flute in the potted plant by the door, same as I'd done to all the others throughout the night once they'd lost their fizz, but time was not nor had it ever been a friend.
My hand shot forward, launching the contents into the startled man's face. I assumed the slightly lesser giant on his left would be the first to react, and he did not disappoint. Almost as fast as I had attack he was lunging forward, grinning at the thought of me as the evening's entertainment. I flicked the glass into the open air, watched it shatter as his face collided with it, bringing him up short.
Unfortunately, unless you counted the dagger, I was out of weapons, and I didn't think I could get away with stabbing the luckless fools I had just saved. "They would have died anyways," is not a compelling legal defense. I threw myself backward at the couch, hitting it hard enough to topple it backwards and rolled to my feet a foot behind the couch, fists raised. The sudden display of dexterity had forestalled any further attempts on my person, as the youths reassessed what had looked to be easy prey.
Of course, the shattering glass and shouts had brought the attention of everyone in the room on our little tableau.
Remember what I said about me and higher powers?
Yeah, it's like that.
People were already moving to encircle us, and a few were moving to restrain the young men across from me which meant-
My elbows jabbed backwards almost of their own accord, the left cracking the nose of one of my would-be 'rescuers', the right colliding with the sternum of another hard enough to cause him to stumble backwards gasping. Before I'd even really registered what I'd done I made the only move I could, leaping back across the couch and darting between the pack of young men, all so surprised by the move that they instinctively pulled away from me.
The Office teaches us all about the prey we hunt, but when it comes to regular people like you and me they seem to forget that particular course. They seem to think that when we confront those things in the shadows that we'll always be one on one, and that there will be no witnesses or fallout from the things we do. Most of us find it's in our best interest to take a few 'extra-curricular' courses on dealing with situations just like what I was now faced with. I could see the crowd behind the group tense in fright at this charging little bull of a man, so I went with the best I could think of.
I dropped my shoulder and aimed between two of the smallest people in the line.
They flew apart at my impact like bowling pins, my momentum barely impacted by the hit. The crowd was still agog as I flew out the door and hit the stairs at a sprint. I was on the street before anyone back in the room had a glimmer of what had happened. I could tell the little fracas would be felt the next day, my joints already stiffening, but I kept a brisk sprint, slowing into a fast walk as I got out of sight of the building I had just fled.
A few more corners and I felt safe hailing a taxi. After midnight on the first of the year is a cornucopia of plenty for the taxi drivers of New York City. The streets are clogged with those stumbling out of the bars, most far too inebriated to understand or count the fares and tips they lavish on those who return them home for the evening. It was the work of a moment to flag the nearest cab and jump into the backseat. I gave the man the address, settling in. Nothing I could do about the thorns until I got back to the Office. I felt bad about the kid, but he had hit me.
"So whaddaya do, buddy?" the cabby asked me grumpily, realizing he'd gotten one of the sober ones.
"I close Accounts," I replied back, trying hard not to think how I had just encapsulated my life in three words.