Page 7 of Nick

He nods before standing. “I’ll let this one slide. See you Friday night.” His two goons follow him out the door.

What the fuck? I suspect he came here to have his men beat the crap out of me again. Shaking my head, I try to get comfortable on the hard couch and wait for my useless, boring shift to start tonight.

Tuesday afternoon as I’m cleaning up the bar, one of Patrick’s crew enters from the hallway. I don’t know his name, but he’s here every night and talks to Patrick when he enters the bar.

He takes a seat on one of the red stools in front of me and taps his knuckles on the wooden top. I look up from stacking glasses and raise a brow. “Manual labour suits you, Nick,” he smirks.

Ignoring the pathetic attempt at goading me, I continue unloading the clean crate of glasses. Both bartenders always leave a mess for me to clean up, but Decker is far worse. He leaves every dirty glass from the entire night on the counter. It took me almost an hour just to remove all the garbage and glasses today.

“I can’t believe the boss let you return after you stabbed him in the back. He doesn’t trust you and I never will. You’re a liability, and I won’t let you put him in danger. I’m his right hand, and I’ll protect him with my life.”

I internally roll my eyes. If he’s stupid enough to protect a man who would happily throw him under a bus to protect himself, then he deserves whatever he gets. I start making a list of liquor to restock after finishing the bar cleanup.

As I walk from behind the bar, the idiot grabs my arm. “Did you hear me, Nick?”

Looking down at his hand on my bicep, I meet his eyes. The cocky bastard doesn’t let go, so I rip my arm out of his grasp and continue towards the storage area. He grabs my arm again before I reach the door to the right hallway.

As I turn around, I catch a fist swinging at my face. Grabbing it, I push him against the wall. “How stupid are you?” I ask.

His response is to kick me, which isn’t effective since we're so close. “Get off me or you’ll regret it,” he spits.

Raising an eyebrow, I look at our positions. I have several inches and about 50lbs on this idiot. “Are you blind too?”

Maybe he is because he starts acting like a wild animal, so I punch him in the temple. He drops to the ground, and I walk to the storage room to get the liquor.

Once I’m done, I go to Patrick’s office. The dumbass was gone when I got back. “Who was the idiot at the bar?”

“I figured you were the one who knocked Deke out. He’s part of my crew, so back off, Nick, or there’ll be consequences.”

“I won’t allow your crew to beat me for no reason. I’ll always defend myself. Are you forgetting I have to fight every week for Artur? You wanna explain to him why I’m injured?”

Patrick gets a sour expression on his face but doesn’t comment further. I remind myself of why I'm here, putting up with this shit, but I'm already over this place.

Chapter 5

The last three months have been monotonous. Every damn day I follow Patrick around town, memorize places and people, stock the bar, stand as security and then fight on Fridays. Even exercising, which I normally enjoy, is boring as shit. Not once has the sperm donor left me at home to be picked up after dinner for my shift, like he said he would. I guess watching tv in the condo or driving around town are both equally monotonous.

I haven't seen or heard anything from the FBI either. It's possible they're around, maybe closer to Mr. Fitzgerald, but no one new has been at the bar or at the businesses we visit. Surely, they could've gotten someone hired somewhere by now.

No one trusts me here, and I’ve had to fight all the regulars on Patrick’s crew, and the asshole thinks it’s great. After the first time I knocked Deke out, he always brings a friend or two. He and his buddy crept up on me while I was stacking liquor in the storage room two weeks after our first encounter. They got in a few punches in the small room before I knocked both of them out. When I dropped off the storage key to Patrick, I told him he had a mess to clean up in the storage room and walked out.

After that, they got smarter and now come at me in groups of three or more, always on the weekends or on Mondays. My guess is that Patrick's worried about Artur's response if I show up on Fridays badly beaten, so he's instructed his crew to attack early in the week. Still, I’m bored and not getting any information on the boss or the drugs, and Patrick still hasn’t talked about the other side of the business. I've asked questions, of course, but he refuses to answer. We mostly pretend I don't know why we drive around to the same places on a rotating schedule.

Thanksgiving and Christmas came and went without celebration, except for a drug party at the condo on Christmas Eve. Fun times. I thought a lot about my family and Shortie during the holidays, hoping they've moved on with their lives by now. I hate that I missed Shortie's first Christmas in South Carolina, but with some luck, I'll be around for the rest of them.

I managed to get a key to the condo building one morning just after the new year, when I was leaving the gym. The front desk attendant was assisting a tenant with her groceries, and I noticed she left her key in the front door. Slipping by, I quickly grabbed it and returned to the condo.

Cash hasn’t left his room that I’ve seen yet. He gets food delivered three times a day, and I figured out he has a bathroom in there. Patrick and Artur are the only ones with keys still. Tonight, there’s a party after my fight at the condo, so I’m hoping I can get something figured out then. I've been stagnant for too long, and I'm not willing to just sit here any longer. Time to take some risks and figure out what the hell I need to do to take this operation down.

I intentionally lost the match tonight to a huge, bulky guy who’s had too many concussions. It was rough; I had to practically place myself in front of him to get him to hit me. The match went on for almost half an hour before he managed to hit my temple. It wasn't a hard enough hit to knock me out, so I pretended it did, and Artur was happy with my performance, so he left me alone. As long as I win or lose as he says, I only see him before my matches.

Now I’m sitting on the couch in the condo near Patrick, pretending to drink tequila. I switched it out with water hours ago, while he got high snorting coke off some teenager in only a miniskirt. Between the drugs and the tequila, he should be oblivious soon. He seems to party hard at least once a month. Most of his crew's here enjoying the drugs, alcohol, and girls.

Girls have been trying to rub on me all night, and my scowl doesn’t faze them, so I’ve physically removed them for hours now. Shortie would be useful tonight. I miss her fiercely, along with the others.

Finally, Patrick falls into a daze. As another girl tries to sit on my lap, I encourage her to go to him since the one he’s been pawing at is passed out on the floor at his feet in just her underwear. The girl is happy to oblige, and as she’s grinding on his lap, I slip my hand into his pocket and slowly pull out his keys. Stuffing them behind me, I wait until the few people that are left are asleep. Quietly, I get up, slipping the keys into my back pocket, and lift the passed out girl into my arms. Patrick stirs, looking at me with glazed eyes.

“Finally moving on, son. She’s a good lay,” he slurs.