Back at it with BDRD. Took me a long while because I wasn't feeling inspired to do anything honestly. The story is all laid down and visualized in my head, but I'm a visual person and not really a writer. So I'm at a snail pace. Anyway the next chapter will be entirely from Jackie's POV <3
Scene : Jackie tries to party the night away, after V's '' rejection'' . Doesn't go as planned, or exactly as planned : bar fight XD
Miguel shows up around midnight. The eldest of the Rivera brothers. They all snuffed it in that Maelstrom gig, about ten years ago. All but Miguel. He's clanking his boots on the chipped old floor, golden shirt stretching around his chromed arms, the holsters always on display, the moustache oiled. Permanent lopsided smile. He slaps Jackie on the back when he's mid-poker game. The card between his teeth falls to the ground, his game open. Jackie groans, stands up, and takes the man in a big embrace, the other cards spraying at his feet. High card. He was losing anyway.
"What's the golden boy of Heywood doing here?" Miguel barks. Jackie tries not to wince from the chromed fingers digging into his bad shoulder.
"Here from time to time. What'd you been missing for a minute?"
Miguel's smile deepens, revealing golden teeth. He puffs his chest, looking around as he sits down and splays his booted legs on the cluttered low table, the golden tips reflecting the light of the strobes, painting it liquid iridescence. He looks around as if he owns the place. Nods as he sees the bartenders behind the bar and the waitresses beelining the tables. Maybe he does. Jackie doesn't know anymore.
"Business, choom. What else keeps a man away from his lane?"
"Ey, you a patron now? Bought the club or what?" Jackie starts conversationally, eyes on his cards as he idly shuffles them.
Miguel laughs. "Nah, but kinda."
The waitress arrives at once, forcing a smile as she pours Miguel a drink Jackie didn't remember he asked for.
"What do you mean, kinda?"
Roberto, a short, laid-back man with a red face from a lifelong drinking, intervenes. "Miguel means he's digging his way up. He no longer swings with the boys. He's a man now."
All the enigmatic shit starts to grate on Jackie's nerves. Damn, he's here just to have a good time. Where are the girls anyway? The air is thick, the music too loud, his collar too tight. He tugs at it.
"So, you're a solo now. How's the streets?" Miguel goes on, leaning back, arms crossed. Jackie doesn't pin the moment the tone shifted.
"Bustling. Big fish eating small fish. And I'm no longer a small one." Jackie replies with a hint of irritation he doesn't know where it comes from. He straightens, trying as much as he can to hide his injured man's stance. His arm screams. He smiles through it. Deeper in the club, he watches the working girls roaming the tables and being blatantly grabbed by lewd hands. He shuffles. He doesn't remember this establishment offering that kind of service before—not to this clientele, anyway.
"Huh. Tell me more. Una buena historia pa' contar."
"You know, live for yourself, work for yourself—it's the only way." Jackie replies evasively.
Miguel eyes him, tilting his head. His smile doesn't reach his eyes. "That right? And here I thought you were still running errands for that corpo princess of yours."
Jackie's jaw tightens. He forces a laugh. "She's not a corpo. And she ain't my boss."
"No?" Miguel's voice drops, almost casual. "Funny. Word on the street says different. Says she's got you on a leash. Walking you around like a dog who forgot he used to bite."
Jackie's fingers curl around his glass.
"Who's spreading that word, Miguel?"
"Just talk, choom. You know how it is." Miguel shrugs, spreading his hands like he's innocent. "People see you with her. See you playing nice. Following her lead. They start wondering if the old Jackie Welles is still in there somewhere."
The table goes quiet. Roberto's card hovers mid-air. Even the background noise seems to dip for a second, replaced by whispers and tight breathing.
Jackie sets his glass down.
"You got something to say to me, Miguel? Or you just running your mouth for the crowd?"
Miguel holds his gaze. Then he laughs—big and loud, slapping the table. "Ay, relax, hermano. I'm just fucking with you. You know I got love for you."
The tension breaks, but it doesn't dissolve. It settles into the cracks, waiting.
"So, since you're a new big fish yourself—couple months ago, six storage buildings blasted all at the same time. Boom boom. Six times. Six bars without supplies. Next month, All Food comes sauntering their big balls in, claiming the owners can't afford repairs. So they buy five. Five bars close doors." Jackie hold his fingers relaunches the conversation after he downs his drink, an itch somewhere to start something.
"So what's the word around? Why Heywood boys sucking Heywood dry?"
"Who's telling you it's a Heywood boy?"
"Business." Miguel sips his tequila, adjusts his holster. Deep in the bar, a girl screams. Laughter follows. Jackie cranes his neck looking for the source, uncomfortable.
Roberto speaks again, the card in his hand wet and chewed at the edges. "ROYAL FLUSH!"
"Official news: a general grid error." Jackie raises his voice over the futility of the game.
"Didn't know solos play detective now."
"Nah, we don't. But we watch and connect the dots. Base skill in this line of job."
"Well, I say you watch a little too close where you shouldn't."
"¿Eso es amenaza, o qué?"
"Play," screams Roberto, "ain't here to yap at each other like dogs."
Miguel's eyes stay on Jackie. He leans forward, voice dropping low enough, close enough Jackie feels the alcohol stench fanning his nostrils "Nah, seems like this one got his leash a bit loose. Ey, where that mistress of yours not around keeping your leash nice and tight?"
The round around bursts in laughter. Jackie's face goes blank. Then he's on his feet in a split second. A swing of his good arm and his knuckles hit Miguel's plated gold jaw in a cracking sound. It's not that hard—his balance is off, he's tipsy himself, in pain, and angry. His head's boiling, his eyes fog.
Before the other guy can reply, a feminine voice cuts through, loud and final.
"Come on, boys. Call it a night. Would ya?"
The woman saunters Jackie's way, green hair swaying behind her. He stares at it, the contours of her face blurring, through the Latino bass ringing in his ears, through pain, humiliation and defeat.
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