Promises and Pomegranates by Sav R. Miller

Perching on the edge of the desk, I steeple my fingers together, watching
him struggle against his bindings. His fear would smell so sweet, if not for
the unspoken violence lighting his gaze, telling me he’s not in the least bit
sorry.
Which makes my decision a hell of a lot easier.
My phone vibrates a moment later, an incoming text from Jonas flashing
across the screen.
Jonas: Station Thirteen, at the corner of Fifth and Poplar. En route
now.
Though he hadn’t been around the bar so far this week, Jonas had still
been close by, overseeing an export of some craft beer he’s been working on
in his spare time. I’d grouped him in on the call when I dialed Elena, in case
he was closer and able to get to her quicker.
Cuffing the ends of my sleeves, I do my best to bury the blood coating
them, admiring the addition to Elena’s handiwork on Vincent; when I entered
the bar, he’d been curled into a ball on the floor while Gwen tried to wrap his
hand, which she remarked she thought was broken after giving me the
CliffsNotes of what happened.
His fingers certainly weren’t bent correctly, nor was he able to move
them when prompted; when I noticed the discarded needle across the room, a
detail Gwen left out of her account, I’d smiled at Vincent and stomped down
on top of his already mangled hand, relishing in the garbled scream that tore
from his chest.
If it wasn’t broken before, it is now.
Dragging him into Jonas’s office with the help of Blue, who finally came
back from an extended lunch, I split my knuckles wide open on his swollen
nose, using the heel of my hand to make sure that cartilage cracked, too.
While I cleaned myself up and called Elena, I had Blue strap Vincent to the
chair and gag him, waiting to hear from my wife before I proceeded.
Unfortunately for him, the end of that call probably isn’t what Vincent
was hoping for.
Blue watches from the corner of the room where he lounges on an old
leather sofa, hand wrapped around the neck of a beer bottle. Nicknamed for
the ocean-like quality of his gaze, he keeps it trained on me, silent and
waiting for more orders.
Picking my suit jacket off the coat rack by the door, I shake it free of any
debris, slipping it on over my shoulders as I take in Blue’s calm demeanor.