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It took me a minute to realize I was shaking. This wasn't the first time I had seen Uncle John lose control, but it was the first time in a while. And now I had two weeks to complete the impossible. This is probably the part where I’m supposed to cry but the tears don't come as I plant myself in front of my blank canvas. It made me wonder if I was as cold inside as him. If I too was a monster but in a different way. Forever numb to the world.
I waited until my hands stopped shaking, and then I painted.
Chapter 7
Kaleb
Uncertainty excited me. Made me feel alive. Fuck, at this point anything that made me feel alive for two seconds got a gold star from me.
Maybe that's why the club called out to me so much. It was a messed-up home pretending to be something it was not. An outlet for secrets and a shelter for liars.
Shoved between a Chipotle and a five-star plastic surgeon's office the tiny SOHO club didn't exist to outsiders. In fact, most airheads didn't even know that behind the storefront of the trendy high-end sushi bar hid one of the city's dirtiest clubs. To most self-absorbed citizens, it was simply one of New York's most Instagram-worthy food porn hot spots.
Practically invisible.
I took a sip of my latte, the gin I snuck in there this morning burning down my throat. It was only ten in the fucking morning. Shrugging, I downed the spiked coffee in one final gulp.
If I was a different man, I would probably insert a terrible dad joke here about how it was five o’clock somewhere. Too bad I didn't give a flying shit what time it was. And certainly not enough to make some mediocre dad joke before noon or before an entire personality transplant.
Besides, I was here for business.
Ok that was a lie. I was here to get shitfaced. To place too many bets on red in a vain attempt to forget about a certain blonde pixie whose words kept buzzing in my ear. But if I also happened to complete some business while here, all the more power to me, right?
Rolling the sleeves up on my black Henley tee, I tossed the remainder of my dirty latte in the trash before stepping inside. My eyes raked in the familiar sleek tables and the smell of fresh fish fills my nose.
For a Monday morning, the place was practically deserted. The glossy white tables empty except for the tasteful modern floral displays of Japanese orchids and dainty miniature fish sculptures. The restaurant was the epitome of picturesque elegance, only further proving how money could disguise everything, for better or worse.
In this instance, it was better. Better for me, anyways. After all, I was the owner of the dirty little two-faced club. Had been since the eve of my sixteenth birthday when my father thrust the underground business into my all too eager greed-driven hands. And while the business may have started with that self-absorbed ass wipe it ended with me. The club was mine and mine alone.
All of it.
Nodding towards the head chef, I made my way towards the kitchen, dodging unfinished plates and sautéing sous-chefs before coming to a stop in front of a gaudy red door. A grotesque painting of a coy beheading another coy in the same pond smeared across it. The artist must have had a twisted sense of beauty. That or a fucked-up sense of irony. For the blood spilled behind the door was nothing compared to the blood depicted on it.
It was more. Always more.
Reaching around my neck, I tugged until the golden chain snapped, the key dangling in my fingers before I twisted it in the lock. Yanking it open, I pulled back the velvet curtain, the final barrier, pausing only to fasten the chain around my neck.
Dark music filled my ears, and for the first time since I got that phone call last week, my shoulders relaxed. This was where I thrived. This was where I breathed. That fine line between what's wrong and what's undeniably toxic.
Cracking my knuckles, I entered the chaos. The smell of jasmine assaulting my nostrils. The mix of sweat and body oils defining the room's aroma. I waste no time making my way towards the back of the room. Anger was practically radiating off me like bloody red ocean waves.
I was pissed.
Had been pissed for weeks now, hell mine as well say for a lifetime and throw my nonexistent therapist a bone. Gold star for honesty. Hell, with the mood I was in, nobody better fuck with me unless they wanted a new pretty purple design in place of their right in the eye socket.
As if sensing my foul temper, the crowd parted, and I made my way across the busy gambling tables. It was bursting for a Monday, the weekend's trash lingering after the buzz of the weekend, not wanting the party to end. I couldn't care less about the remaining barnacles trying desperately to cling to any scrap of power. People always think they can change their destiny. Most of the time it just made them look sad. Pathetic. But business is business, so I let them raid my tables, drown their money.
After all, the more they lost, the more I gained. And as one of my more successful clubs, The Drunk Fish didn't disappoint. But I wasn't here to play. Not today. I was too angry. Last week's events fizzing in my blood like carbonated sprite.
I was so lost in my anger I don’t even consciously recall climbing down the back staircase until I reach the bottom, a heavy hand slapping me on my shoulder, twisting me around,
“Why the long face, daddy's boy?” The insult raked across my skin, and I turned around to find Tristan, his meaty hand gripping the collar of my shirt. His eyes were dark. Darker than usual, and his mouth was lined with a menace that only The Drunk Fish seemed to be able to draw out of him.
It was clear he’d been fighting. And from the smell of liquor on his breath along with the purple bruises on his knuckles, I’d say he’d been fighting for a few days now. Looks like daddy dearest wasn't the only parental figure to push some buttons last week.
I shoved his arm off my shoulder, not in the mood to pull Tristan out from this hole he'd crawled himself into.
“Fuck off, Tristan.”
