Chapter 1
"There's no denying the Kravitz," Sam declared to no one in particular, cranking up the Honda's radio dial. The wind kicked his shaggy, brown bangs back as it hustled through the open windows in short, forceful bursts. Sam couldn't help but gun the engine a little more as Lenny crooned, "Go, Johnny, go....Johnny B. Goode," in his live rendition of Chuck Berry's rock 'n' roll baby.
Sam glanced at the radio clock and gave a groan that the wind carried away. He'd told Colin he would be extra early today to make up for yesterday's two-hour tardy. But anyway, yesterday hadn't been completely his fault; There was no way he could've predicted Katie would break up with him on their two-month anniversary. Nor could he have foreseen the reason why: another guy. And just when things had been getting good.
Either way, Colin would not excuse his being late today, and the digital readout next to the air vents told him he was pushing it. He increased the pressure on the gas pedal slightly, Kravitz's voice bouncing up his spine: "People passing by, you know, they'd stop and say, 'Oh my, that little country boy sure can play...'"
Seconds later when he saw the flashing red lights in his rearview mirror, he wasn't sure whether to blame the howling wind or Lenny Kravitz. The correct choice would've been himself, but Sam was too busy fuming at the speedometer showing he was doing 85 miles per hour in a 65 zone.
He pulled onto the shoulder and braked, already mentally bashing his head in for being such an idiot. No way he'd make it to the BBR on time now. Stupid speed limit. Stupid police officer. Stupid classic rock radio station.
He heard the rap of knuckles on glass before he'd even shifted the car into Park. Sam, deciding cooperation would probably get him out of here quickest, powered down his window and attempted a smile. "Hello, officer."
"License and registration."
The name plate on his uniform said Travis, but Sam was sure the officer was a suit. All work and no play, probably six months out of grad school, frustrated at not being taken seriously, trying to make as many arrests and give out as many tickets as possible so he could get moved up to the real field work. However, Sam thought it best not to mention any of this. "Yessir."
He leaned over to the glove compartment and pulled out three old fast food wrappers, a key chain from Hawaii, a pack of melted Big Red, and his cell phone charger before finding his registration. Knowing dead well that Mr. “I'm-Too-Good-For-This” Cop had already categorized him as a careless slob, Sam hurriedly pulled out his license and handed the two documents to him.
The cop took them, muttered "I'll be right back," and sauntered back to his unmarked car. Sam sat fidgeting in his seat, toying with the idea of turning back his car clock and telling Colin he didn't realize Daylight Savings Time had occurred four months ago.
The cop returned after what felt like an hour to Sam but had really only been about three hundred seconds. Though Sam could hear the boredom in his tone, Mr. Cop's arrogance cut through the air like a blade to the skin. "You were going 85 in a 65 zone."
No crap. "Yessir."
"Were you aware of this?"
Sam held back an eyeroll. "No sir."
"I'll have to give you a ticket -"
And I'll have to give you a nice kick up the -
"- and you can either give a Saturday at drivers' re-education or appear in court." He handed Sam the ticket and another half sheet of paper, waving his hand airily as he dully continued, "It's all explained on there and there's a phone number at the bottom in case of questions."
Sam gritted his teeth. "Thanks very much."
The cop began a reply but Sam had already powered his window back up and was pulling onto the highway before the cop was finished.
- - - - -
"You're late," Colin said to Sam as he rushed through the club's back entrance twenty minutes later.
"I know, I -"
"That's twice in a row."
"I didn't -"
"We do have guests, you know."
If Sam had been late a month ago, Colin wouldn't even have noticed. The only reason he'd taken such an interest in his best friend's job was because last week's board meeting suggested that guests were more liable to return if given free objects. The fact that it took a board meeting to bring this to Colin's attention spoke volumes to the rest of the staff.
"Yes, I do know we have guests, Colin," Sam replied moodily, moving past Colin to hang up his coat, "but it won't happen again."
"It better not."
Sam spun around, furious, to retort, but Colin was already gone. Muttering hateful messages under his breath, he shuffled off to the storage room. He shoved handfuls of mints into his usual basket, selecting only a few mints from the other jar and stuffing them in his pocket. While plastering his name tag on his chest, Sam thought up a couple more death threats for Colin and then moved off to his post to greet people like he'd been doing it his whole life.
- - - - -
Samia was worried.
Usually her infirmary saw five people the entire night, ten max. They'd complain of headaches, mild stomachaches, perhaps a cold. Never had she seen fifteen people complaining of sharp, jabbing pains to the stomach in one night. One intruder wasn't good, but acceptable. Two was, um, understandable but pushing it. But three? Four? Fifteen? Had Jordan taken the night off or something?
Samia stepped out of her office into the crowded waiting room. She crossed over to the closed door and poked her head out, hoping to catch Colin and ask him what the heck was going on. Instead, she saw a line of people waiting to get in, the line so long it disappeared into another hall. The minute the guests saw Samia, they began shouting to her.
"Please, my stomach -"
"Sharp pains -"
"Feel like throwing up -"
Samia had heard enough. Without trying to look too rude, she slammed the door on their relentless pleas, marched back into her office, shakily picked up her phone and dialed Colin.
- - - - -
It was eerie. That was the only word that came to Colin's mind, and that was because he hadn't seen the club this empty since its opening week when barely anyone knew it existed. Where were all the guests?
There were two sparsely-clothed girls on the dance floor, but without any crowds around, they self-consciously moved to the side. The bar had one person to serve, and he was so slumped over in his stool, he could've died and no one would know. The DJ kept spinning but he too looked up in confusion every few minutes as to why the floor was empty. Pam and Kayla had moved over to talk to the DJ. As soon as they caught Colin's eyes, they shrugged, as if to say we don't know either.
Colin took all this in in less than a minute and then jogged over to the entrance to confer with Jordan. Choosing not to forget their argument earlier, he shot Sam a wordless glance. Sam returned the glare.
"Jordan," Colin said, clapping his friend on the back. He looked past Jordan to the outside of the building, seeing a long queue of guests waiting to get in. "Jordan, how many people have come in tonight?"
"Uh..." Jordan flipped back some pages on his clipboard. "A few hundred. Why?"
"I -" Colin was spared the need to respond by his cell phone ringing. He flipped it open. "Hello?"
"Colin, it's Samia."
Samia never called his cell. He felt a little panicked to hear what she had to say. Of course, she could just be reporting the need to order more Tylenol from the pharmacy next week. "What's wrong?"
"I think I have, like, every person in the club here. All complaining of sharp pains to the stomach."
Colin understood right away and as he replied to Samia he turned his eyes to Sam. "The mint?"
"Yeah. You think the good ones and the bad ones got mixed up?"
"It's a possibility. Let me check it out." He snapped the phone shut, gave Sam the "evil eyes," and turned to Jordan. "Don't let anyone else in. We're closed for the night." Jordan nodded and began spreading the message. Colin was thankful Jordan didn't ask questions.
"Sam," Colin said coldly, "follow me."
"Where we going?"
"Storage room."
They walked to the back of the club quickly, not encountering a single person. Colin unlocked the storage room and flicked the lights on, heading to the mint shelf. Sure enough, the Good jar was full and Bad nearly empty.
They both stared at the sight in silence. Then Colin turned on Sam.
Sam's face still registered shock. "Ohmigod." He cursed.
Colin felt like he could do some cursing himself but chose to remain civil. "You idiot! How could you mix them up? You gave all our guests sick mints!"
"I – damn it, Colin, you know I didn't mean to do this! I just - I was really pissed off when I got in here and I - I must've filled my basket with the wrong jar." He looked his best friend in the eye. "I'm really sorry."
"Yeah? Tell that to the three hundred people in the infirmary!" And suddenly Colin was calm, breathing deeply yet looking determined. "Sam," he said, avoiding his friend's gaze, "Sam, you're fired."
Sam's mouth dropped open. "What?! But I - it was -"
"Two days of lateness and now this? No. I don't have a choice."
Sam opened his mouth to argue but his brown eyes gave a sudden flicker that Colin barely noticed. The only reason he did realize it for what it was was because he'd seen it only twice before and each time he'd thought the same thing: Thank god it's not being used on me.
It was the flicker of revenge.
Sam's upper lip curled into a smile. It wasn't a kind one. "So what would happen if the police found out about this?"
Colin's eyes widened with horror. "You wouldn't."
"No?" Sam raised an eyebrow.
Colin wanted to tell him that he could have his stupid job back if it meant that much to him, but that would sound too similar to pleading and Colin hadn't sunk that low (yet). So instead he sneered, "Fine." And since anything else he wanted to add would've sounded like a kindergartner's retort in a fight over the last Oreo, he turned on his heel and left.
The only question left was whether his ex-best friend would have the guts to do it.
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