18: Tyler

The bar is only moderately filled when I walk in. I can feel my back sweating under my coat, and a little panicky jump in my chest. All eyes are glued to the large flat-screen TVs, watching the football game. I glance at it briefly and then shake my head, looking away. The sounds of glasses clanking together and people conversing fill the room. My eyes search the room as I shrug off my coat, hooking it over one arm.

    My eyes catch the bartender's and the tall man looks back at me with a shake of his head and a small smile. I walk over and put my coat on the back of the stool before sitting on it. Brad wipes down a pint glass and places it on the counter behind him with the rest. Everyone else at the bar is preoccupied so Brad walks over to me and leans forward.

    "What are you doing here, kid?" he asks.

    His dark skin shines from the glow of light glinting off his sweat.

    "You gonna get me a beer?" I ask.

    "Try again in three years," Brad scoffs. "Why are you here? Some of these guys are willing to tear your limbs off right now."

    "I need to talk to Carl," I say.

    Brad's expression turns to one of surprise and he sighs, bracing his hands on the countertop and leaning further over so no one can overhear.

    "Are you after a death wish?"

    "I need to talk to him," I say again. "Please, I need to."

    "What the hell could you possibly need to say to the guy that wants your head on a damn pike?"

    "It wasn't me."

    Brad eyes me for a moment. "You saying that a lot lately? That's how it starts. You say 'it wasn't me,' and then half way through you're switching and pleading for your fucking life."

    "It's wasn't," I glare at him. "Brad . . . just trust me. You've known me for a year now. You know you can trust me."

    "Kid, a whole raid of cops came running into this place," he says. "They only just managed to get out downstairs. Just. What if they'd found them? We'd all be out of a job. Hell, we'd all be in prison."

    "I didn't call the cops," I say. "I was at Ethan's race the whole night. I was at school during the day. Why would I try and get everyone in jail knowing that I could go down with them?"

    Brad frowns in confusion. "But you wouldn't go down with them."

    Now I'm the one confused. "What do you mean? My records . . . Carl has everyone's fights on record. He could just pull them out to the cops and have me done for."

    Brad raises his eyebrows. "Jesus. I didn't realize he records every single fight."

    I nod. "Each one. Written down and locked up in his office downstairs."

    Brad suddenly has a little glint to his eyes. "Written down?" he asks, and I nod. "So there isn't a computer copy?"

    "Not that I know of."

    "So if those records suddenly disappeared then you wouldn't have a link?" he asks. "It would just be Carl's word against yours?"

    I frown. "Brad you're not asking that I . . . "

    "Think about it," he says. "Everyone already thinks you're guilty. What's so wrong with snapping the rules a bit? Carl's downstairs. Alone."

    I look at the back of Brad's head as he walks away and gives drinks to other people. My eyes then flicker over to the door leading down to the basement. I feel like everyone is looking at me as I get up and walk over to the door. They aren't, I realize as I glance back to look at them. But the feeling is still there.

    I open the door and slip inside, shutting it behind me. It's quiet after the noisy bar. As I walk down the wooden stairs I can hear the faint ring of orchestral music playing quietly in the background. I walk towards it and end up in the middle of the large, bare space where we fight.

    Without the sweating bodies and punching fists, it just looks like a basic basement. There are crates of alcohol in the corner and large doors on the side— the emergency exit. There are a few doors here and there—some being the prep rooms we leave our stuff in before we fight and one is Carl's office.

    My eyes lock onto that one door and as I walk closer, the music gets louder.

    The door is open, just a little. I stop in front of it and reach my hand up, pressing it against the wood. The music is a symphony of violins and piano. It's calming and that in itself makes it somewhat eerie.

    I push the door forward and it swings inward, revealing Carl's office bit by bit. It's small—almost like a janitor's closet—with a large desk in the middle and shelves all along the cream-colored walls.  The floor is of the same concrete as the main area.

    Carl sits behind the desk, hunched over with his elbow up on the table. A pen is in his other hand and he is writing quickly, eyes moving just as fast as the tip of the pen. He doesn't look up as I enter and I don't know if he realizes it's me or not.

    "What do you want?" he asks, eyes still not leaving the paper.

    I take a deep breath. "I need to talk to you."

    Carl's shoulders tense and he finally drops the pen and stares at me. His face is impassive. "Tyler," he says tersely. "This is unexpected."

    "I didn't do it."

    Carl's eyes turn dark and his face stern. "This isn't the time."

    "Did you set those guys on me?"

    "What are you talking about?" he sighs.

    "Jason and Greg. Did you set them on me the other night?"

    "Oh," Carl grins. "You mean the night when you called the cops on me?"

    "I didn't do that!" I burst out.

    "Look it doesn't matter what you did and didn't do," Carl says. "Someone called the cops on me. And unless you can find another guy who's confessing then you're only one it could be."

    "Did you set them on me?" I ask again.

    "Would it ease your worry if I said no?" Carl asks. "Would it help you sleep at night knowing that the men you fight every day aren't after you on their own accord? That I set the whole thing up? That I'm the reason your face looks fucked as hell right now?"

    I continue to stare at him and he raises an eyebrow, leaning forward.

    "Why would I tell you something just to ease your worry?" he asks. "Why would I help you?"

    "So, you did set them on me," I conclude.

    "Believe what you want to," he mutters. "I've got my own agenda when it comes to you. I don't need to bother working with a bunch of stupid fighters and making them my minions."

    "Your own agenda . . . " I say quietly.

    "Give me some credit, Tyler." He glares at me. "I have a bit more finesse than sending some goons to beat you up. First strike was the money. Second was the cops. How many more until they finally just get rid of you instead of giving you a dumb scare?"

    "I'll prove that I didn't do it."

    "Make sure you're proving it to the right person," he says. "Loyalties slip away with things like this."

    I take a step back and nod, glancing at the cabinet in the corner. There it is. All the files. My file. The one thing that is keeping me linked to this place.

    I look away and Carl glances back at me.

    "I'll prove it," I say quietly.

    Carl grins and shakes his head. "I'm sure you will."

    I turn around and walk towards the door.

    "She's pretty."

    I stop at the door and grip the frame. My eyes latch onto the ground and my shoulders tense.

    "Not usually your type," he comments.

    "Don't—"

    "Remember, Tyler," he says. "My own agenda doesn't exactly use methods that you will appreciate. Decide which one you're more scared of. Being beaten by the men you work with. Or me."

    "I don't fear either of you," I spit.

    Carl hums in amusement. "You will."

    I push off from the wall and continue walking away until I'm out of the bar and in my truck. Then I drive off and I keep on driving until trees blur together and road signs become blank.

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