14 RHEA
The Camaro's engine purrs as I cruise down empty streets, my knuckles white against the steering wheel. The wad of cash burns a hole in my pocket, heavy with the weight of what I've just witnessed.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck." I drum my fingers against the wheel at a red light, even though there's no one else around at this hour.
"Underground fighting ring? What is this, some B-grade movie?"
My phone sits in the cupholder, taunting me. One call to the police and this whole thing could be over. But then what? The image of that waitress's face, beaten and bloody, flashes through my mind. I patched her up - I'm already involved.
The light turns green and I press the gas harder than necessary, the engine responding with a satisfying roar.
"They're going to get someone killed," I mutter, but even as I say it, I remember how controlled everything seemed.
Julian coaching, Tobias watching the crowd, Corey running the show like some twisted ringmaster.
I pull into my parking spot and kill the engine, sitting in darkness. The stack of bills feels like it's going to burn through my jeans. That's more money than I've made in months of babysitting.
Hell, it's more than I'd make in weeks at a regular bartending job.
"Pride aside for money," I repeat Corey's words, tasting their bitterness. "Easy for him to say when he's not the one who just had to stitch someone up on a pool table."
But I don't reach for my phone. Don't dial 911. Because underneath all the shock and moral outrage, there's something else: curiosity. And maybe, just maybe, a tiny thrill at being part of something so dangerous and different from my normal life of textbooks and licensure exams.
I grab my bag and head for the apartment stairs. "Don't mix business with pleasure," I mimic under my breath. "Yeah, right. Like that's the biggest ethical dilemma here."
I push open our apartment door, the hinges creaking in protest.
The TV casts a blue glow across our living room where Brianne sits cross-legged on the couch, spoon deep in a pint of ice cream.
"You're home late." She pauses Netflix, turning to face me. "How was work? You look like shit."
My fingers brush against the stack of bills in my pocket. The metallic taste of adrenaline still lingers on my tongue. "I?—"
The image of the waitress sprawled across the pool table flashes through my mind. The neat row of stitches I put in her shoulder.
Julian's bloody knuckles. Tobias's watchful eyes.
"It was just busy." I shrug off my jacket, avoiding Brianne's gaze.
"Corporate party or something."
"Must've been some party." She holds out her ice cream. "Want some? It's that bougie brand you like."
"I just need a shower." The dried sweat on my skin makes me feel grimy, tainted. "And sleep. Lots of sleep."
"You sure you're okay?" Brianne's dark eyes narrow. "You're doing that thing where you rub your thumb against your fingers when you're nervous."
I stop fidgeting and force a smile. "Just tired. And I probably smell like cheap beer and cheaper cologne."
"Alright." She doesn't sound convinced. "But if you want to talk..."
"Thanks, B." I head toward the bathroom, my chest tight with guilt. This is the first secret I've ever kept from her. "Save me some of that ice cream for tomorrow?"
"No promises!" she calls after me.
I stayed in the shower far too long, but fuck was it theraputic. All my thoughts about the evening bouncing off the dingy yellow walls.
I hope there’s enough hot water left for Bri to take a shower tonight.
I step out, and wrap a towel around myself. More than ready to get the hell to bed.
My phone buzzes against the bathroom tile, making me jump.
The screen lights up with a message from an unknown number: "Thank you."
My stomach does a weird flip - could be Corey checking if I'm having second thoughts about tonight. Or maybe it's Julian making sure I'm okay after watching him fight.
The phone buzzes again with another message from the same number: "For earlier."
Real helpful. My thumbs hover over the keyboard while droplets of water splash onto the screen. Better play this safe.
"Who is this?"
The response pops up quickly: "Corey. Just wanted to make sure you got home safe."
My heart does a weird flutter thing. I sink onto my bed, towel still wrapped around me. "I did. Thanks. Still processing everything."
"Understandable. You handled it well though. Most people would've run screaming."
I snort. "Who says I'm not screaming internally?"
"Fair point. But you stayed. And helped. That takes guts."
Water drips from my hair onto my pillow as I stretch out. "Or terrible judgment."
"Maybe both. You coming in tomorrow?"
My fingers hover over the keys. Should I? The money in my pocket whispers yes. "Depends. Any more surprise medical procedures in my future?"
"Won’t be a surprise anymore if it happens right? Just drinks.
Regular night hopefully."
"Regular. Right. Because that's totally what your bar is."
"You'd be surprised how normal things can get. Even with our...
extracurriculars."
I bite my lip, considering. "Promise no stitches?"
"Scout's honor. Though somehow I doubt you were ever a scout."
"Please. I got kicked out for starting an underground cookie- selling ring."
"Now that's my kind of criminal enterprise."
I laugh despite myself. "I should sleep. It's been a weird night."
"Get some rest, troublemaker. See you tomorrow?"
"Yeah," I type back. "Tomorrow."
I toss my phone aside and fall back against my pillows, staring at the ceiling. The events of the night swirl in my head - blood and betting slips and Corey's dark eyes watching me work. Sleep creeps in slowly, and my last coherent thought is wondering what other secrets that bar is hiding.