“It’s being taken care of,” I tell him.
“Good man.” He drains his whiskey, sets the glass down, and stands. “Speaking of, I should finish up here. Eleven-thirty work for you? Nothing that’ll keep you past one o’clock.”
“I’ll be there.”
Ghost appears with a damp cloth, wiping down the bar where Rowan’s glass sat. His mismatched eyes flick between us, cataloging the exchange with his usual silent attention.
“Put a favor in Saint’s sheet,” Rowan tells Ghost.
He reaches beneath the bar and pulls out a small leather-bound ledger, flipping it open with one hand. His pen scratches across the paper, adding another tally next to my name.
Rowan claps me on the shoulder. “Don’t forget to eat something before tonight. Can’t have you passing out from low blood sugar in the middle of a job again.”
The reference to an incident from a few months ago, where I collapsed after three days without food during a surveillance job, carries the dark humor we share. In our line of work, weaknesses become punchlines if they’re survived.
“One time,” I protest, the familiar banter easing the tightness around my ribcage.
“Once is enough to become a legend, my friend.”Rowan’s laugh trails behind him as he heads back toward the door he emerged from, vanishing into the back room.
I drain the last of my water and reach for my gym bag, no longer tempted to slice into my own body. Tonight’s work will provide an outlet for the rage always simmering beneath my skin.
“See you later,” I tell Ghost, who responds with a single blink of acknowledgment.
My boots leave faint impressions in the sticky residue of the floor as I cross to the exit and push open the heavy door. Harsh sunlight ambushes me after the Blue Note’s dim interior.
The street stretches before me, ordinary people moving through ordinary lives, unaware of what transpires in the shadows they pass by. Cars inch through late morning traffic, their metal shells gleaming under the relentless sun.
A check of my phone reveals I still have hours before my shift at Foundation starts. Time enough to shower, change, and become the version of myself the public-facing world expects to see.
Foundation is the legitimate front, where I work as security and sometimes as a bouncer when the need and mood arise. The Blue Note is my real passion,though, and I look forward to the hours after I clock out from the club.
My motorcycle waits in the narrow alley, black paint drinking in the heat. The seat burns through my sweats as I settle into place, and I relish the pain.
With a twist of the key in the ignition, the engine rumbles to life beneath me, vibrations traveling up my spine and settling in my chest. The helmet slides over my head, visor down, another barrier between me and the world. Inside this cocoon, breathing my own recycled air, I find a different kind of calm.
I ease into traffic, weaving between cars with the ease of practice. The city blurs around me, the wind whipping around my helmet as I pick up speed on the main avenue.
Buildings fall away as I head toward the residential district where my apartment waits. The division settles into place inside me, the Saint who almost broke in a bathroom stall tucked away, the Saint who will report for work at Foundation polished and presented, and the Saint who will meet Rowan tonight, eager for violence.
Different versions of the same fractured whole, each kept in its own world. As long as they never cross, I can keep it together.
3
The bass line from Foundation thrums through concrete and steel, vibrating up through the soles of my boots as I approach the service entrance.
Red neon bleeds across the pavement, wet from an afternoon drizzle, the club’s name spelled out in letters taller than I am. Cigarette smoke hangs in the rain-laden air, while the dumpsters lining the alley reek of a mixture of sweet alcohol and stale beer.
I punch my code into the staff door. The lock clicks, and I pull it open, stepping into the narrow hallway beyond.
Dim lights and floor-to-ceiling black paint hide the scuffs and stains left by years of abuse. The bassswells, no longer distant, but alive as it crawls into my chest and sets up residence beside my heartbeat.
In the security room, I pop open my locker, strip off my leather jacket, and hang it inside. The long-sleeved black shirt underneath clings to my skin, already damp with sweat from the ride over. I tug the cuffs down to cover my wrists, then slam the locker shut.
Grabbing a walkie-talkie and an earbud from the charging station, I gear up as I head out.
The dance floor opens beyond the security room, and I step through the doorway into the heart of Foundation. Purple and blue lights strobe across bodies packed shoulder to shoulder in a writhing mass.
Sweat, perfume, and the tang of alcohol stick to the back of my throat, while speakers mounted on every wall pump out electronic music that shakes the floor beneath my feet. A bartender in a tank top pours shots in rapid succession, her movements efficient as she serves a crowd three deep at the bar.
