About fifteen people tried to buy me drinks, holding out long neck domestic beers and other shit I wouldn’t touch. I did hand two of them to my now bandaged opponent, who seemed to need them more than I did anyway. I politely declined the rest of the drinks until Dordy placed a rocks glass with a single malt scotch in front of me—neat. When I looked up at him, Dordy motioned to a guy at the end of the bar, sitting there with a similar drink. His neatly styled dark hair was slicked back over his temples, and as our eyes met, he raised his glass.
I copied his motion and sipped at the whiskey. It was top shelf—well, for this place, anyway—and went down pretty smooth. I raised an eyebrow at him before turning away and smiling seductively at a young woman in leather shorts and a tank top. When I had enough of being pawed at by various women and barraged with enough questions about my fighting style from various men, I snuck out back for a smoke.
I climbed up the half dozen stairs that brought me level to the street, jumped over the side rail at the top and into the enclosed area behind the bar. It was well past two in the morning, and the street was completely devoid of traffic. Most people in this neighborhood didn’t have cars, and those who might have been passing through had done so in the safer hours of daylight. There wasn’t much of anyone around except a small group of guys sitting on the steps of an abandoned warehouse on the other side of the street, passing a bottle in a brown paper bag back and forth between them.
Subtle, I thought with a snort and lit up my cigarette.
The back part of the bar was supposed to be used just for deliveries and taking plastic bags brimming over with bottles to the dumpster, but since it also connected to the locker room, I found it convenient to come out here to smoke, away from the crowds that gathered outside the front doors. The area was surrounded by a chain-link fence, which was not unlike the one that made up the fighting cage inside. There was a large poster on it, displaying a picture of me advertising fights twice a week.
Takedown Teague
Cage Fights
Tuesdays and Fridays 10PM
I leaned against the chain-link fence next to the poster and wrapped the fingers of one hand through the holes. I pulled against it a couple of times and listened to the rattling sound it made while I watched the fight run through my head again. I inhaled smoke and blew it out my nose, trying to mask the heavy scent of garbage, vomit, and urine in the street.
The smells brought back memories, and they weren’t pleasant ones. At the time, I didn’t care. I had other ways of masking the odors. Now I had to make do with the cigarette, and it wasn’t nearly as effective.
My earlier thought of needing to get laid came back again, but I dismissed it. I hadn’t hooked up with anyone in months, and even though my cock was starting to cringe from my hand out of sheer boredom, I really didn’t want to just randomly fuck another fangirl.
“Penny for your thoughts?”
“A C-note, maybe,” I responded to the man with the sleek black hair. I forced my muscles to relax. I was not going to let him get to me, not this time. I glanced at him briefly and then looked back to the street. The bare bulb hanging just outside the door to the bar glinted off the silver earrings in his left ear. “What brings you here, Michael?”
“Just checking up on my favorite nephew.”
“I’m your only nephew.”
“Technicalities.”
I took another long draw on my cigarette and focused on the four guys across the street with their cheap bottle of booze and ratty clothes. One of them laughed loudly and shoved the guy next to him on the shoulder, which toppled the drunk over and onto the sidewalk. They all laughed as he tried to right himself again.
“Always loved this neighborhood,” Michael said. His voice was completely flat and emotionless, but I still recognized sarcasm when I heard it.
“Well, housing is cheap,” I said with a shrug.
“You still in that dump down the block?”
“It’s convenient to work,” I retorted. “Don’t play games, Michael—what the fuck do you want?”
“Just your yearly reminder that you don’t have to live like this.” My uncle walked up behind me and placed his hand on my bare shoulder. “Just talk to him, Liam.”
“No.”
“It’s been almost ten years.”
“Fuck him,” I replied. I could feel all my muscles tense from top to bottom—my shoulders, my arms, my back, my legs—all in a ripple down my body.
“You were a kid then.”
“Old enough to be thrown out on the street, apparently.”
“He regrets that,” Michael stated.
“My ass,” I growled. “He’s pissed off he couldn’t see into the future. That’s his only regret.”
Michael went silent, but I could hear his breath as he huffed it out through his nose.