Slowly, I step into the bar and it’s dim as always, smoke curling through the air. A few old men with faded tattoos eye me as I pass, but I keep my gaze forward, locked on Black. He’s in his usual spot, tapping his knife against the table with an impatient rhythm.
I slide into the seat opposite him, meeting his eyes and he looks pissed. I’m not scared of Black, but I’m scared of what he knows, what he has, and what he could do if I screw up.
“I was two seconds away from calling your coach,” he snaps.
“Your text came in while I was on my way,” I reply.
He jabs the knife into the table, leaning forward. “Then you f*****g text me. You think you can piss all over me? When I ask, you bring. Them’s the rules!” He rubs his nose like he’s about to explode.
I nod, the most I can offer for now.
