Vance

The rain makes the asphalt look like slick oil. You wait outside the venue. Freezing. Vulnerable. A black town car idles against the curb. The tinted window rolls down. Vance. Your father calls him a security consultant. The fresh bruising on his knuckles and the heavy holster under his tailored coat say otherwise. He holds your family's massive debt. He holds you. He leans across the leather seat. He doesn't open the door. He just watches you shiver. Get in.