Page 53 of Sacrifice
I know everyone’s watching me as I walk through; I can feel their eyes heavy on my skin. There’s no threat, just curious patrons wondering if they’ll get to see some action tonight. And they will, I hope, just not the kind they’re thinking.
“Hey.”
Both men’s heads snap up. The guy in the suit’s eyes widen and he struggles to get off the stool. “Crew Gentry?”
“I heard you wanted to talk to me.”
He nods exaggeratedly and extends a hand. “I do. Thank you for coming. I’m Brett Wiskin. This is Chuck Stells.”
I shake Brett’s hand. “What can I do for ya?”
He glances around the room. “Let’s move over to the corner for a little privacy.”
Brett and Chuck load up their shit and we make our way to the corner table where Will and I usually sit. I try to block out everything but what’s in front of me. My mind naturally wants to process everyone in this room, take inventory of who is where. That’s not to mention the fact that I’m purposefully blocking out Julia and Ever. I can’t get distracted . . . for all of our sakes.
They get their stuff situated and I begin to get impatient. I grab the salt shaker and tap it lightly on the tabletop, hoping to kick them into action.
“So, Crew, are you here often?” Brett asks finally, running a hand through his journalist hair. I’ve seen my share of these sportscasters and they’re all the same. Guys that talk because they can’t walk.
I set the shaker down. “This isn’t a date. Cut the shit and tell me what you want.”
He seems a little taken aback but recovers quickly. “First of all, this conversation is completely off the record.”
I nod.
“I saw a video online this past week. If I’m not mistaken, that video was shot inside this bar.”
I wait for him to continue. I’m still not sure what he’s after and I don’t want to play my hand too soon.
“It’s created quite a splash in the online community.”
“Has it really?” I ask, sounding purposefully disinterested.
“I’m sure you’ve seen it around.”
I shrug. “I’m not much of an ‘online community’ type of guy.”
Brett considers my statement and glances at Chuck. He’s fumbling with a camera, oblivious, it seems, to the entire conversation. That surprises me . . . the camera guys are usually the smart ones, just not good-looking enough to be infrontof the camera.
“Well, it was pretty impressive. Want to walk us through what happened?”
“I stopped a couple of bums from robbing a bar. Not much to walk you through.”
“You’re being quite humble, Crew. You threw those guys around like rag dolls. That wasn’t a bar fight. That was like something we’d see on TV.” A slow smile crosses his lips. “While we were sitting at the bar, a handful of people came in and asked the bartender if you were here.”
I raise my eyebrows and wait.This is why I’m here.
“You still fight?” Chuck asks, sitting the camera on the table.
Yahtzee.
“Only for fun.” I smirk.
“So, no sanctioned events?” Brett asks. “I’m telling you, it looks like you haven’t missed a beat since Minnesota. If you’re telling me you haven’t been training, I’ll be surprised.”
I lean forward, resting my elbows on the table. “Athletes train for anevent,Brett,” I say, boring my eyes into his. “Guys like me, we train tolive.So have I been training? Yeah.I train for fucking life.”
My tablemates watch me like I’m crazy. The fear in their eyes makes my dick hard. I love the feeling of intimidating someone, of controlling the situation.
