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Atlas
Behind Blue Eyes
The smokein the air is thick, but the smells of blood, sweat, and alcohol are just as strong. The combination is a heady mix, one that both excites yet dulls the senses. Around me, a cacophony of shouts gets ever louder as the two men in the centre of the room circle each other, both out for blood. The fight will likely be over in minutes.
Men crowd around them, few women in the crowd, though the ones who are, are just as hard and ruthless as their male counterparts. Adrenaline seems to course from one person to another, amplifying the energy in the room.
There was a time that I would have been in that ring, but now that I’m in my forties, I’m done with that part of this life. I can make my living, providing the venue and the bookies. My body has enough scars, and I’ve paid my dues.
I bring my cigarette up, inhaling deeply before I turn and make my way through the crowd. People part as I pass, or as they catch sight of my face, anyway. The corner of my mouth turns up. It doesn’t bother me, not anymore. My face only serves as a method to keep people away, something I have no fucking problem with.
Not that I have a problem telling them to fuck off, either.
I nod at Phil as I pass, not stopping until I’m in my office with the door shut behind me. More like a fucking closet than an office, but I don’t need much. I’m a simple fucking man. Give me my space and my smokes, and I’m happy. I stub out my smoke in the overflowing ashtray on my desk before I take a seat in my faded leather office chair.
Outside, I hear the shouts get louder and assume we have a winner. I don’t need to do anything, though. My bookies are the best, and Phil is even more intimidating than I am.
They’ll make sure the rest goes smoothly.
One of the benefits of having done this for so many years is, it really is like fucking clockwork. I’ll go through phases of having events every night, or go weeks without. Whether it’s fights, gambling, or whatever else, it doesn’t matter. My people are the best. I pull out another smoke and am about to light it when there’s a knock at my door.
My brow knits together and I slam my hand down, crushing the cigarette into the desk. Fuck. I exhale through my nose before I call out.
“Who the fuck is it?” I call out as I pull out another cigarette, bringing it up to my face to light it. The door opens and I start to stand, intent on ripping a new asshole on whoever thinks he can walk into my office. That’s before I rip Phil in two for letting them. Two figures walk in, and I freeze.
“Hello, Atlas. Long time no talk,” Elijah says as he closes the door after the massive man behind him, who I don’t recognize, steps in. My jaw ticks, the muscles across my back tight as I watch a very unwelcome guest make himself at home inmyoffice.
“Elijah.”
The dick smirks in his five-thousand dollar suit, and I have to resist pulling my .45 out of my desk drawer and shooting him where he stands. Big boy behind him crosses his arms and just glares. I ignore him and look back at Elijah.
“Just as welcoming as always, I see,” he says, pulling up the chair opposite mine. He sits down with his feet up, arms crossed behind his head.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, in no mood for his shit. Elijah’s grin grows. He’s always been a seedy and manipulative motherfucker. I know he’s in some real fucked-up circles now, and seeing him around here is not a good thing.
“What? I can’t drop in on an old friend and say hello? See how his business is doing?”
My jaw tightens, but I stay still, my eyes glaring into him.
“We aren’t friends and never were. What the fuck are you doing here, Eli?”
His good-natured expression drops.
“Well, that’s just downright rude, isn’t it? Wasn’t that rude, Oliver?”
“Rude,” the man behind him says in a low, accented voice. My jaw clenches again but I control my tick.
“Well, if we aren’t friends, then I suppose I’ll get straight to the point. You always did like the straight shooters, didn’t you?” He winks and I do my best not to react. Eli brings his feet down and reaches into his suit, pulling out a single card.
“You’re to have a special visitor next week for the fight you’re hosting,” he says as he holds the card out. When I don’t reach to take it, he throws it down on the desk. “You must have heard about what happened at Eternity?”
I don’t reply.
“Maybe you knew that the Iron Elite owned Eternity? No? I always took you for a man of information. In any case, you’ll know more about it soon enough.”
I knew that, but let him think what he will. “Who is it?” I ask, ignoring the rest. “Who is coming?”
“The Master of the West Coast,” he says nonchalantly. My eyes narrow, and I don’t reach for the card.
