Chapter 2 #2
My breathing comes easier with each step toward the bar, my lungs expanding as the walls of the Blue Note replace the phantom concrete of my memories. The leather strap of my gym bag digs into my shoulder, and I drop it onto an empty stool before sliding onto another.
The polished wood of the bar cools my forearms through my long-sleeved shirt as I let my head hang forward for a moment. The tremor in my hands hasn’t disappeared, but it’s fading.
A glass of water appears before me, ice cubes clinking together. Ghost sets it down without a word, his fingers leaving no prints on the spotless surface.
“Thanks.”
Ghost’s mouth quirks up at one corner.
The cold water washes away the sour tang of panic that had coated my tongue since the gym, and I drain half the glass in long swallows, the cold shocking my system.
“Early,” Ghost says over the music.
It isn’t a question, so I don’t answer. Ghost never expects me to.
Ice clinks as I set my glass down. Condensation beads along the rim before Ghost wipes it away with one sweep of his towel. Everything about him is controlled. Contained.
I envy it.
His attention settles on me even as he readies the bar for opening, noting the tightness around my eyes, the tension in my shoulders, the curl of my left hand on the counter. He never asks what happened, but he’s there if I need an ear to listen.
My breath falls into rhythm with his polishing, each slow circle turning the cloudy glass clear. The repetition soothes something raw. One glass, then another, his quiet ritual drowning out the noise in my head.
The quieting down kit stops screaming for attention, its pull lessening in this twilight space where the worst parts of me are known and accepted.
I drain the last of the water, cold sliding down my chest, tempering the adrenaline still humming from the instructor’s hands on me. Ghost takes the empty glass, refills it, and sets it before me again in a silent instruction to stay.
My shoulders loosen by degrees. The saxophone swells before it fades, letting the piano take over, notes winding through empty tables where, later, people will come seeking connection or escape.
The door to the back room swings open on well-oiled hinges, spilling a rectangle of harsh light across the polished floor. Rowan steps through, wiping blood from his knuckles with a small white towel. His movements are unhurried as he crosses to the bar.
“Hey.” He tosses the stained cloth beneath the counter without a trace of exertion, despite the raw, red state of his hands. “You’re in early.”
I lift my glass in response, ice cubes shifting.
Rowan slides onto a stool beside mine, leaving one empty between us. His crisp white shirt remains spotless despite whatever transpired in the back room.
Without being asked, Ghost sets a tumbler of amber liquid before Rowan, the glass meeting the wood with a soft clink.
I motion toward his knuckles. “Problem solved?”
“For now.” Rowan flexes his fingers, the skin stretching tight over bruised bone. “Some people need physical reminders about payment schedules.” His mouth curves into a cold smile. “He’ll remember next time.”
I recognize the calm satisfaction of a man who’s found purpose in controlled violence. It reflects what I see in the mirror on good days, when the cutting stays in its case, and the rage finds productive outlets instead.
“In the market for work tonight?” Rowan lifts his drink. “Got a situation that needs handling.”
The phrasing is vague on purpose. In the Blue Note, words like “collection” and “enforcement” hover unspoken in the air, understood by those who need to understand.
“I can swing by after my shift at the club,” I reply.
Foundation won’t need me past ten, and the night stretches on long after I clock out. Hours I’d rather fill with action than fighting the demons in my head.
“It won’t be anything complicated.” Rowan sips his drink, his posture relaxed. “Just a statement about territorial boundaries.”
I nod, understanding the subtext. Some rival business is venturing where they shouldn’t, and a message needs to be delivered.
“Address?” I ask, finishing my water.
“I’ll text you.” He sets his glass down, turning it between his fingers.
Ghost moves between us, refilling my water and adding a splash to Rowan’s depleted whiskey. His presence flows like smoke, there and not there at the same time. He pretends not to listen while missing nothing.
“Heard about what went down at Crane’s gym,” Rowan says. “Instructor got a little handsy?”
My fingers tighten around the glass. News travels fast in our circles. “You got spies there now?”
“Everywhere, Saint.” Rowan’s expression darkens. “Want me to break some fingers?”
His protectiveness reminds me of why I trust him. Rowan operates in shades of gray, but his loyalty runs bone-deep once earned.
“Don’t worry about it,” I say, not wanting to owe Rowan when Micah will have the place shut down by dinner. “Not worth your time.”
“Man puts his hands on one of mine, it’s always worth my time,” Rowan corrects.
“It’s being taken care of,” I tell him.
“Good man.” He drains his whiskey, sets the glass down, and stands. “Speaking of, I should finish up here. Eleven-thirty work for you? Nothing that’ll keep you past one o’clock.”
“I’ll be there.”
Ghost appears with a damp cloth, wiping down the bar where Rowan’s glass sat. His mismatched eyes flick between us, cataloging the exchange with his usual silent attention.
“Put a favor in Saint’s sheet,” Rowan tells Ghost.
He reaches beneath the bar and pulls out a small leather-bound ledger, flipping it open with one hand. His pen scratches across the paper, adding another tally next to my name.
Rowan claps me on the shoulder. “Don’t forget to eat something before tonight. Can’t have you passing out from low blood sugar in the middle of a job again.”
The reference to an incident from a few months ago, where I collapsed after three days without food during a surveillance job, carries the dark humor we share. In our line of work, weaknesses become punchlines if they’re survived.
“One time,” I protest, the familiar banter easing the tightness around my ribcage.
“Once is enough to become a legend, my friend.” Rowan’s laugh trails behind him as he heads back toward the door he emerged from, vanishing into the back room.
I drain the last of my water and reach for my gym bag, no longer tempted to slice into my own body. Tonight’s work will provide an outlet for the rage always simmering beneath my skin.
“See you later,” I tell Ghost, who responds with a single blink of acknowledgment.
My boots leave faint impressions in the sticky residue of the floor as I cross to the exit and push open the heavy door. Harsh sunlight ambushes me after the Blue Note’s dim interior.
The street stretches before me, ordinary people moving through ordinary lives, unaware of what transpires in the shadows they pass by. Cars inch through late morning traffic, their metal shells gleaming under the relentless sun.
A check of my phone reveals I still have hours before my shift at Foundation starts. Time enough to shower, change, and become the version of myself the public-facing world expects to see.
Foundation is the legitimate front, where I work as security and sometimes as a bouncer when the need and mood arise. The Blue Note is my real passion, though, and I look forward to the hours after I clock out from the club.
My motorcycle waits in the narrow alley, black paint drinking in the heat. The seat burns through my sweats as I settle into place, and I relish the pain.
With a twist of the key in the ignition, the engine rumbles to life beneath me, vibrations traveling up my spine and settling in my chest. The helmet slides over my head, visor down, another barrier between me and the world.
Inside this cocoon, breathing my own recycled air, I find a different kind of calm.
I ease into traffic, weaving between cars with the ease of practice. The city blurs around me, the wind whipping around my helmet as I pick up speed on the main avenue.
Buildings fall away as I head toward the residential district where my apartment waits.
The division settles into place inside me, the Saint who almost broke in a bathroom stall tucked away, the Saint who will report for work at Foundation polished and presented, and the Saint who will meet Rowan tonight, eager for violence.
Different versions of the same fractured whole, each kept in its own world. As long as they never cross, I can keep it together.