(Kyle)
It’s Friday night. After a long week of rehearsing with Malory and dealing with school, all I want to do is crawl into bed and make a cocoon out of my blanket with myself inside of it.
But no.
Instead, I’m here in the lounge with Ace.
“Nine o’clock sharp,” he says; his voice slow and stern. “Sharp. If you throw off my plan, you know what happens.”
“Yes, sir,” I say.
I’m sweating in this all-black get up, but I can’t do anything about it.
“And you know what I’m about to tell you,” he says, pointing his index at me while swaying his glass of whiskey around a bit, “Don’t come back here until you’ve properly completed the transaction.”
“I won’t, sir,” I say. I raise my wrist to check the watch on my hand. “I should head out. It’s already eight o’clock.”
“Right,” he says, nodding.
He stares down at my feet and back up to my face.
I don’t dare to look into his eyes.
I don’t dare to look right at him.
There’s a long pause as he sips his whiskey. I nod and turn to leave the room. He grunts. The next thing I feel is his whiskey glass hitting my back, the liquid soaking my black T-shirt and dripping onto the floor as the glass falls and shatters.
“I’m getting real fucking sick of looking at you,” Ace says.