Chapter 10
Kismet
CORMAC
Lost in the swirling lights and pounding music, I follow closely behind Skyler as he winds through the layers of people in the underground portion of his nightclub.
Well, ours, I guess.
I might be a part-owner, but the daily life of it isn't mine to control at all. This is Skyler's baby.
I remember what it was like to have a business that consumed my every waking moment. The passion I had when I first started Balor Mead & Spirits, apparently shortly before meeting Skyler.
Would I even have the level of success I managed without him? It's seeming less and less likely the more time we spend together.
He's a fucking nutcase and endlessly annoying, but he's taken me back into this life as if pieces of my mind aren't missing. That's something I don't know how to repay, even if we were best friends before everything went to shit.
A man I haven't met yet appears at Skyler's side, a clipboard in one hand and three beers hanging from his other. Skyler doesn't break his stride, taking one for himself and one for me.
"How's it going, Mr. Fomori?" the young man asks, adjusting his glasses with the beer he still holds. "Getting back into the swing of things?"
Humming in assent, I hope Skyler will pick up enough that I do not remember this kid and save me from having to explain it.
"He's even worse than before, actually," Skyler does not save me. "His little vacation left him completely useless."
The kid looks nervously between us, his deep green eyes comically large beneath his glasses and curly brown hair.
"Well, I uhh, okay, anyway, you've got three fights on the docket for tonight.
They're getting ready right now. The announcer is going on stage in about six minutes.
And based on who is already piling inside and still waiting outside, it looks like we'll have a full house. "
"Who's fighting?" Skyler asks. "Milo? Dacre? Nobody pulled out, right?"
"Nah, they're all here. Milo against a newcomer. Dacre and his twin brother."
With a chuckle, Skyler nods, "Always a popular fight. Those two would kill each other if I let them."
"And it looks like the third fight of the night is..."
"Me," he grins, taking a swig from the bottle. "Against some asshole from across town. That's all. Me and the boss man gotta talk serious, now, Wolfy, go see what Stella and her team need help with.”
As soon as the man vanishes into the rapidly growing crowd, Skyler steers me into an alcove, opening a hidden door that lets us into what appears to be a miniature dressing room.
"That's Wolfy," he tells me. "Julian. Long story short, he got caught up with the wrong crowd until he could no longer find a job with the right one. So he's stuck with us, using his business management degree to correspond with dudes who beat the fuck out of each other for money."
"Like you, apparently," my head tilts, looking at this seemingly too-happy guy that certainly doesn't look the type to fight people for fun.
He chuckles, his grin beaming, "Nah. I don't do it for the money. This is all business. Bigger scumbags than us who think they have a right to come into our club to accuse us of fixing the fights. I offered to show them just how real they are and somebody is taking me up on it."
"Seems like a terrible idea."
"It is for him." A manic gleam fills his eyes, "I've only ever lost one fight. And luckily, my bestest buddy was there to back me up."
Something in his tone, hidden beneath the layers of psychotic playfulness, is a dark reminder of the life we really live. That beneath the criminals everyone coming here thinks we are, we are truly so much worse.
A knock at the door draws his attention away from the past and back to the here and now.
"Come in!" he shouts, sinking into one of the chairs. I lean against the wall behind him, kicking up my foot to rest my heel against the wall, silently cataloguing the entrance we came through and the one nearest me, maybe six or seven steps away to my left.
Two men step through the door one by one, wearing matching suits and headsets.
One is slightly taller than the other, though they're both tall and give off an air of authority, if not because of their stature, then because of the pistols hanging at their hips, ready to be used at any moment's notice.
“Beltran, Fomori," the one with blue eyes greets us. "All looks clear out there. The only new faces came with the fighter and they're clean."
The other has gray eyes and a brutal scar running the length of his face, down his left cheek, and he adds on, "Security upstairs is already preparing for a line down the street again. Nothing out of the ordinary for a Saturday night. No troublemakers."
"No troublemakers yet," Skyler corrects them, leaning back. "There's always a few."
He looks at me, "Is your girl coming tonight?"
“I’m not sure,” I laugh.
"What, you haven't checked her itinerary yet?"
My eyes land on him and narrow, wondering, not for the first time, if he knows that what I've done with it comes to Brigit isn't exactly dating.
Or maybe in the world we live in and the people we deal with, no one around us is afforded secrets.
Maybe Brigit's brief adventures into this place are something he believes I let her do to keep an eye on her.
Maybe it was.
Fucking hell.
Layers of secrets on top of lost memories.
My life is a labyrinth of deception and missing time. I still have little clue about who I was or who I am.
It's taken me days to clean up my home enough to make it livable.
"No, I haven't," I finally answer him just to keep him from looking too closely at what I'm not telling him.
He checks his watch.
"There's still time," he shrugs, "you could run home real quick and check. I know you don't keep that stuff here."
"No?" I raise a brow.
He stands, searching through the drawers beneath a mirror for a change of clothes. "You're a professional compartmentalizer, Fomori. Anything to do with her didn't come through those fucking doors. And for good reason."
"Then how did she get through them?" I ask.
He grins, looking up at me, "It was just meant to be, man. Kismet. The cosmos. The universe. Whatever you wanna call it, the both of you were brought here, independent of each other. Both called to the darkest parts of yourself that you can explore here."
"And you've never spoken to her?" Something wriggles up my spine, some tingling sensation I don't have much experience with. Jealousy? Possessiveness?
Holding up both hands, he shakes his head, standing to his full height. "Never. I know better than that. And, she's not really my type. I like them short, blonde, and mean as fucking hell.”
"That's really specific," I mutter.
He sighs, "Yeah, tell me about it."
"Where do I usually watch the fights from?"
"You don't," a laugh rumbles from his chest as he unbuttons his shirt. "But Leo and Tate here can show you where you watch her from."
The two large men standing side by side nod almost in unison, and I take that as my cue to leave Skyler to his preparation for the fight.
"Thanks," I tell him, not for the first time since I've been back.
He grins at me in the mirror, "You'd do the same, and more, for me.
Scope it out, and if she's not here tonight, don't feel like you need to be.
I've seen you more the last few weeks than I ever did before your brain got scrambled.
Go home. Get some rest. Check in with your doctor.
We'll swing by the distillery next week.
That's where you did all your best un-violent work. "
That, I do believe.
From what I remember of my life before everything changed, experimenting with flavors, different types of honey, different fruits, and distilling methods was my first love.
Something about the creation of mead and liquor is the only part of my past that I believe will still feel like home to me. I need to get back there to find some semblance of myself again.
She didn't come to watch the fight.
Can't say I'm surprised.
She was just here not too long ago, and I'd bet she only allows herself this vice on a rare occasion, careful not to be caught here too often.
Spilling in my front door, I'm finally not assaulted by the scent of plastic police tape. Instead, this morning's coffee colors the air, smelling more familiar than anything else.
At least it's better than the sterile, cold, medicinal smell of the fucking hospital. Anything would be better than that.
But maybe I should do something to make it a little more homey. This little townhome is so impersonal. Like a robot lived here, not a person.
The only personality that exists in this place at all is hidden behind a wall.
And the person it belongs to is an actual psychopath.
Jesus fuck, now I’m talking about myself in the third person.
I'm the psychopath it all belongs to.
So why do I feel like I'm breaking into somewhere I don't belong when I type in the code and the hidden door cracks open?
Pristinely organized. Untouched by the investigations, but filled with all the evidence they could ever need to put me away for the rest of my miserable life.
The large desktop has to have a passcode, but how the fuck am I supposed to remember it?
Leaving all thoughts behind, I run my fingers along the keys, hoping for some kind of familiarity to take over.
If this were someone else's, what would I do to try to figure it out?
What's important to this person? To me?
The date I first opened Balor.
Nope.
My birthday.
No.
BrigitDanaan.
Still no.
Fuck.
I can almost guarantee it has something to do with her.
There's nothing personal in this office that doesn't contain her face.
But I don't know her birthday or the date we met.
Should I ask Skyler?
He would probably know, but he might be busy beating the fuck out of some poor sucker right now.
If he and I are two sides of the same coin, he's the brash, flashy, in-your-face insane, while my misdeeds are best done under the cover of night.