When he stepped inside the bar, shouting filled the room. Don was halfway over a table, holding a man dressed as a Russian by the neck. He screamed in the Russian’s face, his dark mustache ruffled.
Several other theater men dressed as Spaniards lined the bar, their bodies stiff, eyes watchful. The barkeep wiped the counter, his hair and eye patch dark in the dim room. Liam spotted Thomas, who sat on the far end of the bar, a single glass of untouched whiskey in front of him, wearing the same kilt as always. Liam’s hands clenched into fists.
He stormed toward Thomas, but before he could confront his friend, several men in villager costumes hopped off their stools and pushed Liam to the center of the room.
The fighting silenced, and all heads turned toward him.
Don released the Russian. He dusted his hands off and gave Liam an extravagant bow.
“Director Reynolds greets us with his presence. Bringing us good fortune just like his parents. And all the directors before that.” Don cracked his knuckles.
Liam’s mouth turned down at the corners. “You’ve gone too far, Don. No one tells me who comes into this bar and when. I own it.”
Don crossed his arms and leaned against the nearest table. “Oh? Look who’s talking like his father. I’m sorry, my friend, but you don’t get to come in here after being gone for years and take control just because mommy and daddy ran away. You are no leader. You’re a boy. You’ve given me no choice but to take action myself. These are my cast mates—mis amigos. They don’t owe you any allegiance.” The Spaniard nodded to his men.
Liam flinched. They were his men. His friends. When did he lose their trust?
“Their contracts say differently,” Liam said and swallowed.
Don smirked. “You threaten us? And what would you do if we walked? Our productions bring in half the theater’s revenue. We bring in more money than the ballet. You’d be under before we even left the premises. Unless you want a strike?” Cheers erupted around Don.
Liam ran a hand over his face.
“Last time the deaths began, eleven men died. Eleven,” Don continued. “And they all happened to men within this theater. The directors didn’t care. The authorities didn’t care. They just let it happen. But I won’t let it happen again.”
More cheers. Don pumped his fist in the air. Boots stomped on the floor.
“Don—” Liam spoke through the roaring crowd, “Quixote—Don, that death, the other night—it wasn’t real.”
Don lowered his arm and the cheers stopped.
“Not you too.” He shot a glare at the Russian he was arguing with earlier. “Of course, you’d be as estupido as some.”
Liam glanced back at Thomas, but he sat unmoving, staring into his glass. Liam pulled up a chair and turned it backwards, parked himself in front of Don, and slammed his elbow onto the table.
“An arm wrestle, then. Winner gets respect.”
Don barked out a laugh. He nudged the men next to him, his eyes lit with amusement.
“You really are estupido.”
“Probably.”
Don was at least five inches taller than Liam and sixty pounds heavier. Not an inch of fat on either of them, but Don’s arms were bigger than Liam’s thighs. Liam eyed his friend in the corner again.
“If you win,” Liam said, “you have complete power over whether or not you choose to perform, in order to protect your castmates, and regarding any decisions involving this theater—including this bar. They will answer to you. I win and you answer to me, no questions asked. Deal?”
Don’s teeth flashed in the dimly lit room.
“Deal.”
The circular tables were moved away as the cast members surrounded the two men, costumes filling the room. Russians dressed in their red pants and black boots, Spaniards with their feathered hats and swords, an Arabian-looking man wearing a turban in the corner. Thomas didn’t move from his spot at the bar.
“Not too late to back out,” Don said, his teeth flashing. “Once we lost respect for your father, he never regained it.”
Liam locked eyes with Don. “I’ll take my chances.”
They clasped hands, and the struggle began. Veins bulged in the Don’s neck. Liam’s sinewy arms and long deft fingers tightened as the rock of a man pushed downward. Shouts erupted. Sweat clung to the sides of Liam’s neck, dampening his collar. Don merely grinned, his eyes twinkling.
“Thomas?” Liam called, voice straining. “Thomas!”
The kilted man didn’t move.
“Get over here, you fool. Tell them the truth.”
Nothing.
“Come on,” Liam said through clenched teeth. “I’m going to lose this. Tell them the truth before I beat your head in.”
Thomas finally spun on the stool. “I’m the one who should beat your head in.”
Don pushed Liam’s arm down a notch. More hoots and hollers from the crowd.
“Me? Why?”
“Because you’re too daft to see when you’re wrong. Always have been, always will be.”
“Good heavens, man. Give up your pride. Admit your prank went too far and we can move on. Why do you think I’m doing this?”
Liam grunted as his arm dropped closer to the table. “Tell them it was a hoax!”
Thomas pushed himself from the stool. “It wasn’t a hoax.”
“Stop. Lying.”
Another grunt.
“If you had any sense, you’d know I would never play a joke on the poor lad like that,” Thomas said. “I had a fake mugging set up. The man in the alley was dead. I had nothing to do with it. But if I have to prove it to you, then fine.”
Thomas motioned to the barkeep. “Give me a whiskey. A real whiskey.”
The barkeep lifted a brow.
“Thomas… what are you doing, man?”
He shrugged. “I’m nineteen. It’s legal here.”
“No.” Liam’s hand slipped. “We took an oath. Not like our fathers, remember?”
Thomas barked out a laugh. “That oath we made when we were seven?”
Don shoved again and Liam fought back, sweat dripping from his nut-brown curls.
“If I’ve lost my best friend’s trust, then what good is an oath?” Thomas turned the glass in his hands. “Besides, it’s always about you and I’m sick of it. You befriended Stewart, a poor violinist, to further your musical career. Did you pay him? No. You went off to boarding school without messaging me, your best friend, for two years. Did you ever apologize? No. You come marching in to take over this theater, thinking only of yourself and your financial future. Have you thought how it might affect the rest of us? No.” He jumped off his stool and kicked it. It crashed to the floor. “Don is right. If these murders start happening again, I’m not going to leave it in your hands to keep us protected.”
The Scot raised the glass to his lips.
“Thomas, stop!”
Don slammed Liam’s arm onto the table. The men around him roared. Liam tore across the room toward his friend, tripping over a couple chairs. Thomas tilted his head back and swallowed.
He grimaced. “Well, there’s that.”
“Thomas.”
Liam fell back against the wall.