Page 27 of The Bad Brother

F OR THE FOURTH THURSDAY IN A ROW, I cross the bridge into Barrett after a long shift at the hospital to find the bar’s parking lot more than half full.

And just like every other Thursday, when I come through the door, it’s to find the place practically empty.

Sera behind the bar. Austin posted up in front of the door that leads to the basement, the floorboards beneath my feet vibrating with the sound of excited blood-thirsty people that are undoubtedly crowded into it.

When Sera sees me, she gives me a wide friendly smile. “What’s up, Doc?”

Smiling back because it’s the friendliest greeting I’ve had all day, I make my way to the bar. Sliding myself onto an empty stool, I let out a tired sigh. “Do I want to know what’s going on downstairs?”

“Probably not.” Her smile dims a little. “But if you work the emergency department at the hospital, I’m sure you already know.”

She’s right. Tonight, I set a dislocated shoulder, wrapped three sets of broken ribs, called for a plastic surgery consult on a nose that was bubbling blood, and splinted a broken hand that looked like it’d been fed through a meat grinder.

I know what goes on in the basement. I just don’t understand why.

Looking around the almost empty bar, I lean in. “So, how does it work?” I ask quietly because if I don’t have any chance of stopping it, I may as well understand it. “People just come here and fight in the basement?”

For a moment, Sera doesn’t answer me. Just gives me a long look like she’s trying to decide if she can trust me with her family’s secrets.

Finally, she sighs. “Sometimes.” Nodding, she pulls a pint glass from the rack and fills it with ice.

“If someone’s got a score to settle and they want to do it in front of God and everybody, they’ll come to Jen and ask him to sanction the fight.

” Aiming her gun over the rim of the glass, she fills it with club soda before pulling a bottle of Tito’s from the well and showing it to me.

I shake my head. I’m punch drunk enough as it is.

Add a shot of vodka and I’d pass out on the bar.

Dropping the bottle back into the well, she adds a lime wedge to the glass and sets it in front of me. “But that doesn’t happen very often.”

When it’s obvious she isn’t going to elaborate on her own, I ask. “Why doesn’t it happen very often?”

Pulling a straw from her apron pocket, she offers it to me. “Because no one wants to have to pay the price for working out their grievances in his bar.”

Taking the straw, I unwrap it slowly. “What’s the price? ”

“Jen fights the last man standing.” Sera gives me a tight smile. “Are you hungry?” she asks, moving down the bar. “The kitchen is open. I can?—”

“No.” I shake my head on a smile. “Thank you, I ate at the hospital.” Ignoring her obvious attempt at closing the subject, I keep pressing. “Is that what’s happening tonight?”

She gives me another long pause. So long I’m sure she’s going to walk away and ignore my question altogether.

Finally, she shakes her head. “No. Tonight is regular business—sort of.” Before I can ask, she explains.

“We have a usual round of guys who come through here looking to make extra cash. They pay an entrance fee and there’s a $10 cover for spectators.

Last man standing gets the purse and 50% of the door.

Second place gets 25%. Third gets 10%. Cade is house champion—he never loses.

People who come here to fight know they’re battling it out for second and third. ”

I think about the tattooed bartender who’s usually here, in one way or another.

Working the bar. Taking deliveries. Helping his son with his homework.

As a felon, what he’s doing could put him back in prison if he were to get caught.

As Sera’s brother, I understand her reluctance to tell me what’s happening downstairs.

I think about all the men I pieced back together tonight.

“Cade’s down there, fighting for money?”

“No,” Sera says, giving me a tight head shake. “Jen is.”

AFTER THE REQUISITE THIRTY MINUTES of friendly small talk with Sera, I called it a night, thanked her for the club soda, grabbed my duffle and headed upstairs.

In desperate need of a hot shower, I decide to risk it, reasoning that Jensen is too busy sending people to the hospital to worry about messing with me at the moment.

Out of the shower, I throw on a pair of sleep shorts and a loose cotton shirt before heading back downstairs for a cup of chamomile tea. Thirty minutes ago, I was ready to pass out on the bar and now, I’m wide awake. Too anxious and wound up to sleep.

Because you know Jensen is downstairs fighting anyone stupid enough to get in the ring with him.

I don’t know much about boxing but if the way he was knocking that punching bag around is any indication, Jensen knows what he’s doing when it comes to fighting.

Telling myself I’m not worried, that I’m irritated that I had to spend the majority of my shift tending to his victims, I snatch the tea kettle off the back burner of the stove and carry it to the sink.

Filling it with hot water, I set it back on the burner and turn it on high before rescuing my duffle from the couch where I dropped it on my way upstairs.

Carrying it to the kitchen, I set it on the counter and unzip it, pulling out a few more cup o’noodles and a container of easy mac that only requires water from the tap and a microwave to cook. Juggling my bounty, I open the pantry and nearly drop my haul.

The pantry is full.

And I don’t mean just full.

I mean stuffed. More of the organic canned soups I ate when I first moved in. No less than four different types of crackers. Pasta and jarred sauce. Boxed rice. Packaged snacks. It literally looks like someone walked into a grocery store and said, I’ll take six of everything .

Setting my pilfered soups on the island because there’s no room for them, I reach out and open the fridge.

Same thing.

Stuffed with eggs and cheese. Milk and butter. Fresh fruits and vegetables. Condiments and yogurt. Opening the freezer, I find the same thing. Ready-made meals alongside steaks wrapped in butcher paper. Several containers of ice cream and frozen pizzas.

Letting the freezer swing closed, I race upstairs and into the bathroom.

Checking the shower, I find the toiletry items I’d taken from the hospital supply closet are gone, replaced with brand-name products.

I’d been so tired and worried about what Jensen was doing in the basement that I hadn’t even noticed.

Heart hammering in my chest because I know who , I just don’t understand why, I let out a soft, wobbly sigh just as my tea kettle starts to whistle, the sound of it snapping me out of my reverie just as the front door bursts open downstairs and somebody shouts my name.

“ Sloane !”

It’s River, the frantic hysteria in her voice pulling me to the railing that surrounds the sleep loft. Peering over it, I feel the air rush from my lungs like someone just punched me in the stomach.

Cade and Austin are standing in my living room, dragging a pale-looking Jensen between them, wearing nothing but a pair of loose track pants and blood.

Lots and lots of blood.