later, and KJ and I shoot the shit in the lobby, eating handfuls of broken
cashews from a twenty-five cent machine as we watch the T.V.
A news brief flashes across the
screen. The local news is still talking about the man from last night. KJ’s
lips tighten and he clears his throat, slapping a hand across his forehead as
if he’s stressed about the whole thing.
For whatever reason, this really
seems to bother him.
I mean. I get it. It’s wrong.
But KJ acts like it’s a personal
thing. It really bothers him.
His eyes dart around the room,
left then right. His mouth parts like he wants to say something but he’s
afraid.
“What?” I scratch my brow.
“What’s wrong?”
“I think it was Kyle.”
“Kyle what?”
“I think Kyle kicked that guy’s
ass?”
A laugh bursts through my lips,
and I try not to spew chewed cashews all over his shirt. “No fucking way.
Kyle’s a string bean. Thinks he’s big. He doesn’t have shit.”
KJ doesn’t laugh. His eyes hold
mine, refusing to let go as if he’s silently pleading for me to take him
seriously. “Nah. I’m not joking. He likes to pick off random drunk people
stumbling outside the bar after closing time. When no one’s looking, he beats
the shit out of them for sport. Thinks it’s
hilarious.”
“How many times has he done
this?” I’m not sure why that’s my first question. It seems like the least important
one to ask, but there’s plenty more where that came from. My blood heats
beneath my skin, flushing my face as I drag in a slow breath. “How has he never
been caught? And how do you know for sure?”
“I know,” KJ says, his eyes shifting to either sides of me. “Trust me. Anyway, he doesn’t
get caught because no one’s around, and the victims are too drunk to remember
who the hell beat ‘em up. They’ve got no recollection the next morning. Usually
wake up in a hospital. This is the sixth or seventh one in the last few years.
He’s like a fucking serial killer. Every six months. Boom. Like fucking clockwork.”
I’m not a man who’s afraid of
much, but damn if KJ didn’t just give me the chills.
“Drunks are idiots,” I say,
shaking my head. “Always starting fights. Running their mouths. Bar fights are
as common as mosquitos in the summer, especially in small towns.”
“I’ve seen him do it.” KJ leans
forward, scanning the space in search of his brother.
“Why haven’t you gone to the
police?”
“I mean, I didn’t see it, see
it,” he corrects himself. “I’ve seen the evidence. The locations. The
timelines. Everything adds up. One night he came home, his fists covered in
blood. And I found a bloody rag behind the bench in his truck a couple months
ago. It was the night after some young kid got beat up outside a bar in Campus
Town.”
I spy Kyle over in the second
bay, standing under a hoisted car and checking his phone.
“If he’s such an experienced
fighter, why doesn’t he do these basement brawls?” I ask.
“He’s not stupid enough to,” KJ
says. “No offense.”
“I’m not stupid, KJ. Just trying
to make a little money so I can get my own place. Not everyone can work for
Daddy for twenty bucks an hour.”
The bells on the door jingle,
ushering in a new customer. KJ scrambles for the cash register to greet them,
and I stride out to the garage to pull their car in.
Kyle tucks his phone
into his back pocket the second I pass him.
“Don’t work too hard there,” I
mutter.
He scoffs, a smug smirk on his
blockheaded face. “What would you know about working? You’ve been back in the
real world a hot minute now.”
I could punch him.
But I don’t.
“Where’d you go last night?” I
ask.
“The fuck do you mean where’d I
go? What are you? My bitch girlfriend or something?”
“After the fights. Where’d you
go?”
“Bars close, Titan. You know
that. I counted the money and went home.”
I lay a paper mat inside the
driver’s floorboard of a shiny white BMW and pull it
cashews from a twenty-five cent machine as we watch the T.V.
A news brief flashes across the
screen. The local news is still talking about the man from last night. KJ’s
lips tighten and he clears his throat, slapping a hand across his forehead as
if he’s stressed about the whole thing.
For whatever reason, this really
seems to bother him.
I mean. I get it. It’s wrong.
But KJ acts like it’s a personal
thing. It really bothers him.
His eyes dart around the room,
left then right. His mouth parts like he wants to say something but he’s
afraid.
“What?” I scratch my brow.
“What’s wrong?”
“I think it was Kyle.”
“Kyle what?”
“I think Kyle kicked that guy’s
ass?”
A laugh bursts through my lips,
and I try not to spew chewed cashews all over his shirt. “No fucking way.
Kyle’s a string bean. Thinks he’s big. He doesn’t have shit.”
KJ doesn’t laugh. His eyes hold
mine, refusing to let go as if he’s silently pleading for me to take him
seriously. “Nah. I’m not joking. He likes to pick off random drunk people
stumbling outside the bar after closing time. When no one’s looking, he beats
the shit out of them for sport. Thinks it’s
hilarious.”
“How many times has he done
this?” I’m not sure why that’s my first question. It seems like the least important
one to ask, but there’s plenty more where that came from. My blood heats
beneath my skin, flushing my face as I drag in a slow breath. “How has he never
been caught? And how do you know for sure?”
“I know,” KJ says, his eyes shifting to either sides of me. “Trust me. Anyway, he doesn’t
get caught because no one’s around, and the victims are too drunk to remember
who the hell beat ‘em up. They’ve got no recollection the next morning. Usually
wake up in a hospital. This is the sixth or seventh one in the last few years.
He’s like a fucking serial killer. Every six months. Boom. Like fucking clockwork.”
I’m not a man who’s afraid of
much, but damn if KJ didn’t just give me the chills.
“Drunks are idiots,” I say,
shaking my head. “Always starting fights. Running their mouths. Bar fights are
as common as mosquitos in the summer, especially in small towns.”
“I’ve seen him do it.” KJ leans
forward, scanning the space in search of his brother.
“Why haven’t you gone to the
police?”
“I mean, I didn’t see it, see
it,” he corrects himself. “I’ve seen the evidence. The locations. The
timelines. Everything adds up. One night he came home, his fists covered in
blood. And I found a bloody rag behind the bench in his truck a couple months
ago. It was the night after some young kid got beat up outside a bar in Campus
Town.”
I spy Kyle over in the second
bay, standing under a hoisted car and checking his phone.
“If he’s such an experienced
fighter, why doesn’t he do these basement brawls?” I ask.
“He’s not stupid enough to,” KJ
says. “No offense.”
“I’m not stupid, KJ. Just trying
to make a little money so I can get my own place. Not everyone can work for
Daddy for twenty bucks an hour.”
The bells on the door jingle,
ushering in a new customer. KJ scrambles for the cash register to greet them,
and I stride out to the garage to pull their car in.
Kyle tucks his phone
into his back pocket the second I pass him.
“Don’t work too hard there,” I
mutter.
He scoffs, a smug smirk on his
blockheaded face. “What would you know about working? You’ve been back in the
real world a hot minute now.”
I could punch him.
But I don’t.
“Where’d you go last night?” I
ask.
“The fuck do you mean where’d I
go? What are you? My bitch girlfriend or something?”
“After the fights. Where’d you
go?”
“Bars close, Titan. You know
that. I counted the money and went home.”
I lay a paper mat inside the
driver’s floorboard of a shiny white BMW and pull it
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