1. Chapter 1 #3
That’s unexpected. I gingerly get up and wait for the room to stop spinning before following him out.
We walk through the door at the end of the hallway and into a bar.
It’s your typical setup with a U-shaped wooden bar top, a wall of liquor and mirrors, and red stools, with wooden tables around the edge of the room.
The place is older, a cross between the old west and the 80s.
The dark wood floor is dented, scuffed, and scratched, and matches the look of the tables and chairs.
The walls have wood paneling on the bottom half, and a weird red color on top with neon signs and old posters.
Patrick grabs a beer from behind the bar and takes a drink.
A few girls are cleaning, but no one else is around.
“This is the bar. Opens at 5pm. Closes at 2am.”
Next, we enter the kitchen through a swinging door beside the liquor shelves.
There’s prep happening already, but it’s pretty clean.
I follow him back through the bar to the same hallway where he opens the steel door beside his office with a key.
“Here’s the better version of you, Nick.
Your replacement. Meet Cash.” A wiry looking guy with black-framed glasses is sitting behind a wall of monitors.
Cash doesn’t look our way, and Patrick quickly closes and relocks the door.
I’ll need to get a copy of that key. I know Cash is good, but I wonder why a hacker chose to work for a shitstain like Patrick. “Why’s he locked up?” I ask.
A swift punch to my stomach follows, causing me to lean forward. “None of your business” is his reply.
I see a bathroom, a storage room, and another office before we go outside.
I follow him to a newer blue truck in the parking lot in back.
Gingerly climbing in, I watch the town as he drives, country music blasting from the stereo.
Patrick's always been a country music fan.
I guess some things don't change. I purposely never listen to it.
Too many terrible memories. The years have dulled my reaction to the music, though.
The asshole really does look old. He doesn't look like he's 39. The sagging skin and wrinkles make him look like he's in his 50s. Whether it's from his lifestyle of drinking and drugs, or his time in prison, it makes me happy he looks like shit.
About 20 minutes later, we pull into a nice-looking condo complex, and I follow him into the building.
There’s a locked outer door he uses a key to open, and security at a desk inside.
Patrick puts on a friendly smile and waves while we walk over to the elevators.
We stop on floor 11 and get out. “Welcome home,” he mutters as he unlocks condo 1103.
It’s a newer, spacious condo from what I can see, and surprisingly clean.
Everything is white: walls, ceiling, doors, and the kitchen.
The floor looks like grey wood, but it's not real. The kitchen is to the right, with a dining room behind it, and the living room is just to the left. A hallway is past that. “How’d you afford this place?” I ask.
“It’s from Mr. Fitzgerald. Perk of the job. You get the spare room. Now sit your ass down. We need to talk.”
I get as comfortable as I can on the sofa, dropping my duffle bag on the floor, and look over at him.
“That was a mild introduction to this world,” he says, circling his finger towards me.
“Mr. Fitzgerald runs a tight ship. No mistakes. We don’t trust you, so you’ll know only what I tell you.
Don’t ask questions unless you want the shit kicked out of you.
You’ll be in the underground fighting rings, and you’ll win or lose as you’re told.
For now, you’ll be working at the bar outside the fights until you earn my trust. I own you now unless you want your precious family harmed,” he smiles.
“What’s the rest?”
Patrick chuckles. “Can’t say you don’t know me, son. You work for me, not Fitzgerald. He’ll get what’s coming to him. I have a plan, and you’ll help me when the time is right. Any wrong move and your family pays.”
Prison didn’t stop his ego. He still thinks he deserves everything other people have. He might save me some time if he screws up himself, and I can just watch his downfall, but I still need to speak to Cash while I wait. The bastard won’t help me with that though. “Who’s Artur?”
“Fitzgerald’s man. We’re always monitored by cameras and audio. This condo is the only place that’s safe.”
Nodding that I heard him, I look around the place. “Where’s my room? I need sleep.”
Patrick stands and walks down the hall, so I grab my duffel bag to follow.
He enters the first bedroom, takes my bag from me, unzips it and dumps the contents onto the bed.
The asshole rifles through my belongings and confiscates my burner phone and the cash that was inside.
He's begun his little power plays. Fucking great.
At least most of the cash I brought is on me instead of in the bag.
I know his games, so I left just enough money so he wouldn't ask questions.
I grab a hot shower with the provided soap, pop some pain meds from the medicine cabinet, and collapse onto the bed to rest.