16 RHEA
Saturday has come again, far too soon and the energy in this underground room crackles like static electricity against my skin.
I lean against the bar, watching two men circle each other in the ring.
Their muscles glisten under the harsh lights, every movement calculated and precise.
The crowd's roaring drowns out the clinking of glasses behind me.
Word is Carla is feeling better, however she’s taking a “mental hiatus.” Can’t say I blame her.
"Vodka soda, sweetheart," a man in an expensive suit calls out.
His Rolex catches the light as he waves a hundred-dollar bill.
"Coming right up." I mix his drink, my eyes darting between the glass and the fight. The shorter fighter lands a brutal hook, and the crowd erupts.
"First time working one of these?" A woman in a designer dress slides onto a barstool, her diamond earrings worth more than my car.
"That obvious?"
"You keep flinching at the hits." She smirks. "Don't worry, you'll get used to it."
I'm not sure I want to get used to it, but damn if the atmosphere isn't intoxicating. The raw intensity, the primal energy - it's like nothing I've experienced before. Even the air feels charged.
"Ten grand on Nunez!" someone shouts.
"Match that for Cash"
Money changes hands faster than I can pour drinks. These people probably spend more on bets than I make in a year. The thought should disgust me, but instead, I find myself watching with growing fascination.
"Another round for the winner's corner!" Julian calls out from ringside. His fighter just landed a devastating combination.
"Never pictured myself bartending an underground fight club," I mutter, lining up shots.
"Honey, you're doing better than the slutty redhead already," the woman with the diamonds says. "At least you're not sleeping with half the fighters."
I snort, remembering Carla's bruised face. "Yeah, I'll stick to serving drinks."
But even as I say it, my pulse quickens watching the fighters.
Maybe I am a little psychotic. Then again, looking around at these adrenaline-junkie rich folks throwing away thousands like confetti, I'm in good company.
T he final fight ends with a controversial decision. I'm wiping down glasses when the first punch flies - not in the ring, but between two suits arguing over their bets.
"That was a fucking robbery!" A bald man in pinstripes hurls his whiskey glass against the wall. The shattering sound makes me duck behind the bar.
"Your boy got his ass handed to him!" Another man shoves Pinstripes, sending him crashing into a table of drinks.
The room erupts. Designer dresses and thousand-dollar suits blur into a violent mass. Someone's Rolex catches my cheek as they reach across the bar, grabbing bottles to use as weapons.
"Get down!" Julian vaults over the bar, pushing me beneath the counter. Glass rains down around us as bottles explode overhead.
"Stay here," he orders, then springs into action.
Tobias emerges from the crowd, one man under each arm as he physically separates them. Julian weaves through the chaos, his fighter's reflexes letting him dodge and redirect the drunken brawlers.
"My fucking Cartier!" A woman screams as her bracelet snaps.
Corey's voice cuts through the mayhem: "That's enough!"
The sharp crack of a gunshot freezes everyone mid-swing. I peek over the bar to see Corey, arm raised toward the ceiling, smoke curling from his pistol.
"Everyone out. Now." His voice is ice cold.
The crowd scrambles for the exit like rats fleeing a sinking ship, leaving behind a wasteland of broken glass and spilled liquor. The sharp scent of alcohol burns my nostrils as I survey the damage.
"You okay?" Julian offers me his hand, pulling me up from behind the bar.
"Yeah, just..." I gesture at the destruction. "Is it always like this?"
"Only when people forget the rules." Corey's jaw tightens as he holsters his weapon. "Clean up can wait until tomorrow. Let's get you out of here."
The cool night air hits my face as I push through the back door, my boots crunching on broken glass.
Corey stands guard from the door, his hand on his weapon.
My hands still shake from the brawl, and the sharp smell of whiskey clings to my clothes.
The parking lot's empty except for Betty, gleaming under the streetlight like a faithful friend.
The closer I get I notice something white fluttering under my windshield wiper. Probably another flyer for that sketchy mechanic down the street. I reach for it, but the words make my blood run cold: "Welcome to the dark side new girl. Tread lightly."
The paper trembles in my hand. Block letters, printer paper, nothing distinctive. My fingers trace the edge where it's been roughly torn.
I look back towards the entrance but Corey is already back inside.
My phone's in my pocket, I could call him. He'd want to know about this. But what would that mean? More violence? More secrets?
Putting him in jeporady? .
"Fuck that," I mutter, crumpling the note and shoving it in my pocket. I didn't survive four years of college and a mountain of debt to let some coward with a printer intimidate me.
I slide into the driver's seat, jamming the key into the ignition.
The engine roars to life, drowning out the voice in my head telling me I'm in way over my head. The Camaro’s headlights cut through the darkness as I peel out of the lot, leaving the chaos of tonight behind.
Betty's engine purrs as I navigate the empty streets, my mind still racing from the note. A quick glance in my rearview mirror reveals headlights - not unusual at this hour, but something feels off. The car behind me matches my every turn.
"You're being paranoid," I mutter, making a right onto Oak Street instead of my usual route home. The headlights follow.
My heartbeat quickens. The car behind me - some dark sedan - suddenly accelerates, then brakes hard, the headlights flooding my mirrors with blinding light.
"What the fuck?" I grip the steering wheel tighter as the sedan swerves into the opposite lane, then back behind me.
My phone sits in the cupholder. One call to Corey or Julian could end this, but that would mean admitting I need their help. The sedan rams my bumper, making me jerk forward.
"Oh hell no." I downshift, the engine roaring as I push the gas pedal to the floor. The Camero responds like she knows we're in danger, surging forward.
The sedan matches my speed, weaving back and forth behind me. My palms are slick with sweat on the wheel as I take the next turn too fast, tires squealing.
"Come on, baby, don't fail me now." I pat the dashboard, scanning for somewhere populated. The streets are deserted at this hour - just me, my car, and whoever's trying to run me off the road.
The sedan rams me again, harder this time. Metal crunches. My teeth rattle with the impact. I fishtail, but I manage to keep control.
My phone tumbles to the floor as I swerve to avoid another hit. I can't reach it without taking my eyes off the road. The sedan's headlights disappear for a moment, then reappear in the lane beside me.
For the first time, I catch a glimpse of the driver through their tinted windows. They're wearing a mask.
It slams into my side again, metal screaming as my tires lose traction. My car spins, the world blurring into streaks of streetlight. I wrestle with the steering wheel, but momentum carries me onto the shoulder. Gravel sprays as I fight for control.
The car slides sideways, then drops into a shallow ditch. The impact rattles my teeth. A loud pop follows, and the car tilts - flat tire.
"Fuck!" I slam my palms against the steering wheel. The sedan's taillights disappear around a corner, leaving me stranded in darkness.
My hands shake as I reach for my phone on the floorboard. Pride wars with self-preservation as I scroll through my contacts. The threatening note burns in my pocket, and now this? Not a coincidence.
I hit Corey's number before I can talk myself out of it.