Chapter 2: Bound and Forced to Watch
The following night was a taut wire. The air in The Lock & Key hadn’t forgotten. It hung thick with sidelong glances and hushed conversations that stopped when Casey walked by. She wore a high-necked sweater, as instructed. Matty hadn’t acknowledged it, or her, beyond grunted orders. He was a ghost of efficiency, moving behind the bar with a mechanical precision that felt more dangerous than his rage. The bruise on Casey’s wrist, a faint lavender bracelet, was hidden under her cuff.
She was restocking chillers when the front door opened, letting in a slice of chilly evening and Derek Harrison.
He didn’t swagger this time. He entered quietly, purposefully. The smug smirk on his face was new. It wasn’t the leer of a drunk, but the cold, sober calculation of a man holding a winning hand. He was flanked by two larger men whose expressions were blank as stone.
Casey’s blood went cold. She dropped a bottle of lime juice. It shattered on the floor with a sound like a gunshot.
Matty looked up from the till. His entire body went still for a fraction of a second, then he was moving, coming around the bar with that same lethal calm as the night before.
“Out,” Matty said, his voice low and final, cutting through the jukebox music. “You’re banned.”
Derek’s smirk widened. “See, that’s the thing, Matty. I don’t think I am.” He held up his phone, screen glowing. “My lawyer had a very interesting chat with your owner today. About wrongful threats, assault, loss of custom. You’re on a final warning. Touch me, and this place is mine.”
Matty’s eyes flickered to the phone, then back to Derek’s face. A war raged behind his stormy eyes. The rules, the bar, his responsibility—they were chains holding him in place. Casey saw his fists clench.
“So,” Derek continued, stepping closer, his voice a malicious purr. “We’re gonna have a little chat. In the back. All of us.”
“We have nothing to discuss,” Matty said, but the leverage was gone. The professional in him was trapped.
“Oh, I think we do.” Derek’s gaze slithered over to Casey, who stood frozen by the broken glass. “About workplace safety. And apologies.”
One of the men shifted, blocking the regulars’ view. The message was clear. Matty measured the distance, the odds. He gave a single, sharp nod. “Office. Now. Then you leave.”
The back office was a tomb of paperwork and stale coffee. The hum of the old desktop computer was obscenely loud. Derek’s two men filed in, closing the door, leaning against it. The space was suddenly, unbearably small.
“Alright,” Matty said, standing rigid behind his cluttered desk. “Talk.”
Derek didn’t talk. He moved.
It was fast, brutally efficient. He nodded to his men. They lunged. Matty was a fighter—Casey saw the instinct flare, saw him get one solid punch into the first man’s gut. But the second was on him, an arm like a steel cable locking around his throat from behind. The first recovered, driving a fist into Matty’s kidney. Matty grunted, his body buckling.
“Stop it!” Casey screamed, lunging forward.
Derek caught her by the arm, the same arm, his fingers digging into the bruise with precise cruelty. She cried out. “Watch, sweetheart,” he whispered in her ear. “This is for you.”
They forced Matty to his knees beside the heavy, old safe bolted to the floor in the corner. One man produced heavy-duty zip ties from his jacket. They wrenched Matty’s arms behind him, looping the plastic around his wrists and then through the safe’s heavy handle, pulling it viciously tight. Matty strained, the tendons in his neck cording, his teeth bared in a silent snarl. The plastic bit into his skin. He kicked out, connecting with nothing but air.
Derek let go of Casey and walked over. He stood over Matty, savoring the moment. “Told you I’d break your hands,” he said conversationally. Then he drove his foot into Matty’s ribs.
A choked gasp ripped from Matty’s throat. He slumped against the safe, breathing in ragged hitches.
“Now,” Derek said, turning. His eyes found Casey, who was pressed against the filing cabinet, her hand over her mouth. “You and me.”
“Get away from me,” she whispered, her eyes wide, darting to Matty.
“Or what? He’s gonna help you?” Derek laughed. He advanced. Casey scrambled along the wall, but there was nowhere to go. He grabbed the neck of her sweater and yanked. The sound of tearing cotton was deafening in the small room.
“Derek, don’t you touch her!” Matty’s voice was a raw, shredded thing. He wrenched against the zip ties, a violent, useless thrashing. Blood welled around the plastic at his wrists.
Derek ignored him. He backhanded Casey across the face. The shock was worse than the pain—a bright, white burst behind her eyes. She stumbled, and he caught her, shoving her backwards onto the worn, stained couch. He followed her down, his weight pinning her.
“Get off!” She fought, nails scratching at his face, but he caught her wrists and slammed them down above her head.
He leaned in close, his breath hot and sour. “Remember last night?” he hissed. “His big show? All that ‘touch her and I’ll kill you’ bullshit?” He chuckled, a low, guttural sound. “Look at him now. Just watching.”
Casey turned her head. Matty was watching. His face was a mask of pure, unadulterated agony. His eyes were locked on hers, wide with a horror that was swallowing him whole. He was pulling against the safe with such force she could hear his shoulders straining.
Derek nuzzled into her torn sweater, his mouth against her ear. “He’s gonna see everything,” he whispered, the words slithering into her. “I’m gonna ruin every part of you he’s ever thought about. And when I’m done, you’re not gonna be his sweet little bartender anymore. You’re gonna be mine. You’ll come when I call. You’ll smile for me. And he’ll get to serve us our drinks.”
His hand moved, fumbling at the waistband of her jeans.
Casey bucked, a sob tearing from her throat. “Matty!”
It wasn’t a scream for help. It was a sound of shared devastation.
On a final, horrific heave, Matty’s right hand came free. The zip tie hadn’t broken; the skin had. A slick, dark tear opened across his wrist and palm. He didn’t seem to feel it. His freed hand, dripping blood, scrabbled blindly across the desk behind him. It connected with something cold and heavy—a solid steel letter opener, tucked under an invoice.
Derek, engrossed in his work, didn’t see Matty’s arm draw back.
He didn’t see the silent, blood-slicked arc the steel made through the stale office air.
He only felt the sudden, incomprehensible impact as nine inches of solid metal pierced the side of his neck, just above his collarbone.
His body jerked. A wet, surprised gurgle escaped his lips. His hands, which had been on Casey, flew to his throat, meeting the protruding handle. His eyes bulged, wide and confused, looking down at the woman beneath him as if for an explanation.
For a second, there was perfect silence. Then a choked, bubbling sound. Derek’s weight slumped sideways, off Casey, and he crumpled to the floor between the couch and the desk, twitching.
The two men by the door stood frozen, their faces transformed from blank enforcers to masks of stunned terror. They looked from their dying employer on the floor to Matty, who was now using the blood from his torn hand to slick his other wrist, working it frantically against the remaining zip tie. His eyes were no longer on Casey. They were on the two men, and they held a promise of absolute, final violence.
One man fumbled for the door handle.
“Don’t,” Matty said. The word was quiet. It stopped them cold.
He freed his other hand, leaving a smear of crimson on the safe. He stood, a column of trembling, focused wrath. He stepped over Derek’s body, which was now still. He didn’t look at it.
Casey lay on the couch, her torn sweater askew, her lungs burning for air she couldn’t seem to draw. She stared at the water-stained ceiling tiles.
Matty reached her. He didn’t speak. With a tenderness that was shattering in its contrast, he gently pulled the torn edges of her sweater together, shielding her. His bloody hands left red streaks on the grey wool. He helped her sit up, his movements slow and deliberate, as if she were made of glass. He kept his body between her and the two men, between her and the thing on the floor.
His face was pale, grim, streaked with sweat and a fleck of someone else’s blood. But his eyes, when they finally met hers, were clear. The storm was over. What was left in its wake was a terrible, quiet certainty.
“It’s okay,” he murmured, his voice rough. He cupped her cheek, his thumb leaving a warm, sticky trace. “Look at me. Just at me.”
Behind him, one of the men was being sick in the corner. The other had his hands raised, pleading silently.
Matty paid them no mind. The world had shrunk to this stained couch, to her shattered breathing, to the metallic scent of blood that now filled the tiny room, thick as the smoke out front. The hum of the computer was gone, swallowed by a ringing silence. Outside, the oblivious bar crowd laughed on.