His eyes dropped to my bouncing knee, and I stilled it.
I should have smoked some vaporleaf before coming in here. The tea was making me jittery.
“Ripped Lace’s payments have been late. They’ve promised they’ll have what they owe, plus interest, by next month. I want it tomorrow.”
The name didn’t ring any bells, so it must have been new.
“Strip club?”
Maia shook her head. “Omega.”
I grunted in understanding.
Omega bars were places where Magiks would pay omegas to sit with them and keep them company. They’d pour drinks, light their vaporleaf rolls, and just talk. Or listen, as was more often the case.
They didn’t have to do anything physical, but many of the omegas would make separate arrangements with their clients outside of work hours for extra runics.
“Okay, so why not tonight?”
“A couple of VIPs from Elmaris will be coming through tonight,” Maia explained. “We don’t want to scare them off. Plus, it means the safes should be full when you stop by tomorrow.And if they’re not, well…” She shrugged. “You might have to shake out a few pockets.”
I let out a deep sigh. This was grunt work, but I guessed that was the point. My dad wanted me to start from the bottom again. It was probably some kraken shit lesson on humility. Not that I cared too much—I wasn’t above anything that would get Sage back to me.
The only question now was, what the hell was I going to do for the next thirty-six hours?
My knee started to bounce again, and my father didn’t bother to hide his disapproval. “It seems like you have some energy to dispel. Take this time to train, drive around the city-state and get reacquainted with our territory. Or get high and jack off, I really don’t care. But you’re stressing me out with your nervous, undisciplined snarling and moping. I don’t want to see you again until tomorrow evening with the money fromRipped Lace.”
“Works for me,” I snapped, practically hopping out of my seat and bolting out the door. Half of what made me so anxious was just being in a room with that asshole, anyway.
Maia stayed behind, probably to talk about other Oniguro business I didn’t care about, and I started to head back to my room. Not that there was much to do there.
I paused on the way and sighed. Maybe Ishouldwork out. I wasn’t necessarily soft, but I’d lost a little definition in the past few years. Which wasn’t surprising, since I ate and slept like shit, and hardly had anytime to hit the gym. And wrangling bounties didn’t exactly qualify as exercise.
At the very least, it felt like something productive that would help when I finally faced off against the Premier.
I found some shorts and sneakers in my room, then headed back down to the first floor.
The gym was tucked in the east wing. There were no windows in the room, just fluorescent lights humming over concrete whilethe dull thud of flesh on leather and clanking weights echoed through the space. I breathed in deeply, the scent of iron, sweat, and stale smoke bringing me back to days spent shooting the shit with guys I’d once called friends.
I took a look around at the men already here. Some were sparring in the ring while others were lifting. Conversations dipped when I walked in, then resumed at a lower volume, curious whispers following me as I moved.
I didn’t know who any of these grunts were, but that wasn’t surprising. They typically had a very short shelf life.
I probably should have done some cardio or stretching to warm up, especially at my age, but I really just felt like hitting something. So I wrapped my hands and went straight for the heavy bag.
The first punch landed hard enough to make my shoulder bark in protest, but I welcomed the sting and the way it shook the nerves out of my arms. I hit again and again, letting the rhythm take over, my screaming thoughts quieting to a low grumble.
“Weird to see you back.”
I didn’t need to turn, because I already knew that voice.
“Not as weird as it is to see you still here,” I replied, driving my elbow into the bag and finally turning to look at him.
Toru leaned against the weight rack, arms crossed. His gaze was colder, and an old scar cut through his left eyebrow. A scar I had given him.
On accident—butterfly knives and alcohol don’t mix, apparently.
Like me, Toru had filled out, replacing the vigor and litheness of youth with a thicker chest and sharper cheeks. But the burning resentment sat heavy on his shoulders, making him look bulkier than he was.
