Page 3 of Nick

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.

Chapter 2

The next morning, I wake with pain everywhere. Fucking fantastic. Hissing, I get out of bed and take a better look at the bathroom. Looks like it’s well stocked. Grabbing the basket of first-aid supplies from the vanity, I clean my cuts and wrap my ribs and wrist. Popping more pain meds, I get dressed and make my way to the kitchen.

The condo is silent, so the asshole must still be sleeping. I scramble some eggs and make a coffee for myself. I quietly rummaged through the kitchen drawers, but find nothing interesting. Moving through the dining room and living room, the only things I come across are knives and drugs. No keys, no papers, and nothing personal. It seems Patrick's gotten a little smarter. Most of the evidence I found as a kid was in our shitty apartment. He didn't have the brains to keep business and personal separate back then. He must keep everything in his office at the bar now.

Deciding to give my body a break, I take a seat on the couch and turn on the television. I think about leaving the condo building, but my body is already banged up enough, so I decide to behave.

Patrick stumbles out of his room after 11am and walks right past me to the coffeemaker. He never did function in the mornings until he had caffeine. Staying seated, I watch the local news as I wait for him to join me.

After he pours a second cup, he takes a seat across from me. “You’re up early.”

All I give him is a nod in response.

“You’re still talkative,” he chuckles. “Here’s the deal. You can use the facilities in this building, but don't leave. I’ll give you a key to this condo, but not the front door. No phone, no vehicle. You’ll come to work with me and leave when I do, and your first fight will be in two weeks on Friday night. Until then, you do what I tell you to do.”

Rolling my eyes, I tune back into the tv. Patrick cooks himself some food, then tells me it’s time to leave. He chucks a single key at me, and then I follow him back downstairs to his truck.

I’m silent as he drives us back to the bar. Following him to his office, the lights are already on inside. He flops down into the seat behind his desk as if he’s exhausted. A double life will do that to you. “You’ll be unloading the bar inventory arriving today. Store the liquor in the other basement under the kitchen, second door on the right,” he says, throwing another key at me. “That’s the key to the storage room. I expect it back as soon as you’re done. Johnny will have the order list in the kitchen. The bar is a clean front for operations, and most of the staff are unaware of what happens back here, and you’ll keep it that way.”

A bulky dude in black jeans and a black tee knocking on the door interrupts us. “Take Nick with you, Hank. He’ll be helping at the bar,” Patrick tells him.

Hank looks me up and down before he walks out. I follow behind and out the same door we came through. On the far right is a set of banged-up steel doors that Hank props open with rocks. Peering inside, I see another hall off the kitchen and an office with an enormous man sitting behind a desk. He looks up and motions me towards him. “Are you Nick?”

Nodding, I step through the doorway.

“I’m Johnny.” He passes me a clipboard with an inventory list. “That’s everything that should arrive today. Patrick said you’re a bartender, so you can handle the liquor and help Hank with the kitchen inventory.”

Bartender, I’ll have to add that to my resume. Patrick wasted no time in starting a lie about me. I walk back out and hand Hank the kitchen list, and he motions for me to follow again, so I do. He grabs one of the two rolling carts near the cooler in the kitchen, so I do the same. A truck is waiting when we get back outside, so we load the carts with produce and meat as he checks off his list. There's quite a lot of food, so the bar must be popular.