Around me, conversations resume. Pool balls crack against each other. Someone laughs at a joke I didn't hear. I've become invisible. A ghost that only exists to perform this task.
When it’s clean, I stand, legs stiff from kneeling so long. No one acknowledges the completed task. No one says "good job" or "that'll do." I exist in a vacuum of recognition.
I move to the bar, my boots leaving wet marks where bleach water dripped from the rag. The whiskey bottle sits unguarded. I pour myself two fingers into a dirty glass, aware that every movement is still being evaluated.
No one objects. No one welcomes. The amber liquid catches the dim light as I raise it to my lips.
The whiskey burns all the way down to my empty stomach. The alcohol spreads through my blood, dulling the edges of hunger and fatigue.
Across the room, Brick rises from his chair. Every eye follows him, except mine. I stare straight ahead, feeling his approach, rather than watching it.
"Kane," he says, his voice gravel and smoke.
I turn, meeting his gaze directly. "Sir."
His face gives away nothing. "You eat today?"
The question catches me off guard, but I don't let it show. "No, sir."
He nods once, like I've confirmed something important. "Diesel, get this boy some food. Can't have him passing out before we've even started."
Diesel grunts acknowledgment, disappearing into the back.
Brick doesn't move away. He stays close enough that I can smell the tobacco on his breath. "You know why you're here, son?"
"To earn my place."
"And what makes you think you deserve one?"
I don't hesitate. "I don't deserve shit. Nobody does. You earn what you get or you take it. I'm here to earn."
Something flickers across his face—not approval, exactly, but acknowledgment. "Your daddy thought the same thing."
The world stops when these words come out of Brick’s mouth. I keep my expression neutral, but my pulse kicks up. "You knew him?"
Brick's mouth twists into something that might be a smile on another man. "Oh, I knew him all right."
The room goes silent again, every ear straining to catch this exchange.
I don’t know what to say to that.
Brick studies my reaction. "You got any questions for me, Demon?"
Demon.
"No, sir. I don't have no questions. I don’t even know who that asshole was. You," I say, nodding to him. "I've known you since I was fifteen." This is the first time I've ever mentioned that day to Brick. Not even sure he remembers.
But when he smiles, I know he does. "Well. You never did say anything about that secret you stole from me. That's why you're here, Demon. That's the only reason you're here. Unlike your father, you know how to keep your fuckin' mouth shut."
I don't know what to say to this, so I figure nothin' is best. But I file it all away. It's a part of me now, this history with Brick and Brick's history with my father.
Diesel returns with a plate—beans, cornbread, some kind of meat I don't look too closely at. He sets it on the bar beside me without ceremony.
"Eat," Brick commands. "Then we talk business."
He turns away, conversation over. The others return to their activities, the momentary tension broken. I pick up the fork, suddenly aware of how hungry I actually am.
As I finish eating, I feel eyes on me again. Roach this time, watching from across the room. He nods toward a hallway I haven't been down before.
