After sitting in the booth for a good hour, we finally head back to my truck. We just talked. It felt like we were only there for a few minutes. For some reason it's easy to talk to Franny. She doesn't make things complicated. What you see is what you get. No bullshit or problems or secrets.

I like that about her. It makes knowing and spending time with her something enjoyable, simple. And I've always been one for simplicity.

When we're inside my truck, I flick the radio on, not paying attention to the music that comes out. Franny sits beside me and fiddles with the little curtains, her fingers running over the floral patterns.

"So, what do I have to do?" she asks.

"My boss always goes upstairs to the bar for an hour before the first fight starts. It's nearly five now and he won't have to be down until at least six. The first fight is at seven."

"Okay, so all I have to do is watch out?" she asks.

I nod. "You can't get inside because you're underage. I can because I fight in there. They let me in without question. But Brad, the bartender, knows you're around." I catch the look she gives me. "Don't worry, he's a good guy."

"So where am I going to be?"

"Here," I say. "You're not doing anything exciting. I just need someone I trust out here when I get out."

"You don't trust Brad?"

I think for a moment. "He's a good guy and we have the same enemy . . . but that doesn't mean I trust him."

She nods her head. "Okay, so I just have to wait here the whole time."

"I'll only be about fifteen to twenty minutes," I say. "You won't even notice I'm gone."

She looks over at me as I drive. "What are you going to do?"

"Something stupid," I sigh. "Something so stupid that it might actually be smart."

"You going to elaborate or is this conversation always going to be a riddle with us?" she asks.

I take a deep breath. "Okay, well, you already know that I'm trying to get out of the fighting and the one thing linking me to it is a bunch of files. Records and dates of fights with my name and information all over it. If the cops got it then I would be in jail with the rest of them. So . . . all I need to do is get rid of the files . . . for good."

I pull out my school backpack from the backseat and place it on the seat between us.

"I'm going to bring back my files," I say. "Then I'm going to destroy them."

She looks hesitant. "How?"

"Haven't figured that out yet," I admit.

"You do realize that's illegal, too," she says. "To destroy his files."

I look at her. "But where's the proof?"

"Um, a bunch of missing files," she splutters.

"That don't have my name on it," I say. "Files are gone; I'm gone. No links, no matches and no connection. Just a big hole where I would have been."

It's silent for a moment but I can still feel her staring at me.

"Have you planned this out?" she asks.

I shrug. "Not really."

"That's reassuring," she mutters. "What if you leave fingerprints?"

"This isn't going to turn into a crime scene investigation." I roll my eyes. "But if you're so worried then there's a pair of gloves in the bottom of the glove compartment."

She lets out a sharp breath. "Tyler . . . did you really think this through? Honestly?"

"Why do you think I wasn't at school today?" I ask. "I was planning for this."

"This is ridiculous," she says. "Actually, no, it isn't. It's dangerous. Don't you think that your boss will have some backup files? Something planned, too? You can't underestimate these types of people."

I look over at her. "But if I start overestimating then I'll never have the guts to do anything. This is my one shot. It's the only option I have right now. If this works . . . then I have a chance."

"What if it goes wrong?"

I turn to the road. "I've been breaking the law for the past year now. In my head I'm already in jail. A few more years won't make a difference."

She looks away and I slow down the car as we approach the bar. It's still light outside but it's slowly beginning to darken which is making the air have a dull and lifeless tone to it. I park the truck far away from the actual bar but still in good viewing distance.

There are a few cars out and I know that Carl must be drinking by now or at least be out of the basement. I just need to be in his office for a few minutes. I cut the engine and unlatch my seatbelt. The radio falls silent and I turn to look at Franny.

"How does this work?" she asks. "I know you said you fight at the bar but how do people not know about it?"

"They have a basement, that's where it all happens. My boss, Carl, made a deal with the owner of the bar. We sell his alcohol during the fights and we can use the space. We overcharge. It's worked for years."

"And now you want that destroyed," she says.

"I want out," I say. "I don't care if that makes me selfish or immoral. I couldn't give a shit about anyone else in there. I'm here to get myself away from this place. I don't care what happens after."

She slowly nods her head, a look of determination on her face. "Then tell me what to do."

***

I walk towards the bar and glance back to see Franny leaning against my truck. Her arms are crossed over her chest and immediately by knowing she's there, I get a sense of relief. If this does turn into a complete mess, someone is outside to get me out.

I turn back and slide the leather gloves over my hands as I come up to the door, feeling my empty bag shift against my back.

The bouncer isn't here yet. He works mostly at night and on weekends, when the owner gets concerned over being done for letting underage drinkers in. I pull the door open quietly but there's no need to, as the noise from inside covers up any sound I make.

I shut it behind me and look around the room. Men and women fill up the space but I can't help notice that it's mostly men. All of the women have their arms linked around a man. I keep looking until I see the face I'm looking for.

Carl sits off to the side with a few others. He's immersed in conversation, with a beer in his hand. It's full. I smile a little, knowing I have more than enough time to get downstairs.

I walk forward and skim my side against the bar, my hip knocking against some unused stools. I look to the side and catch Brad's eye. He has a glass in one hand as he washes it. He turns a little and his arm whips out, fingers flexing subtly before he's cleaning again.

My hand quickly shoots out and grabs the key that he's thrown to me. I grip it tightly in my hand and continue walking to the door at the back, around the side of the main bar. The room is dark with dimmed lights making the corners even darker.

I easily get the key into the lock and twist it, unlocking the latch. The door falls open. I slip inside and close it gently behind me. I let out a breath and slip the key into my pocket. The lights are all on and the door to Carl's office is wide open.

I close my eyes. It seems too easy. Maybe it is. Perhaps I'm walking right into a trap. But if I don't try then I'll be waiting the rest of my life and beating myself up over the fact that I didn't give it a go. That I didn't try to fight for what I believe in.

I walk down the stairs and let my foot hit the hard concrete floor. I go straight to Carl's office and flick the light on. I rush over to the cabinet in the corner, pulling at the drawers. They all fall out, becoming a jumbled mess on the ground. I sift through the cluster of papers.

Names and numbers and dates merge together. Letters and signs all fight against each other. I run my gloved hands over them all, getting on my hands and knees and pushing through the disaster of papers.

Looking over them all, I realize it's useless. There are too many. Too many names and documents. I have no chance of finding only mine. I pull my bag off my shoulder and open it up. I grab papers in handfuls, feeling the pages crinkle under my fingers, grasping every single document my hands can touch. I go through every drawer in the cabinet and every drawer in the desk. I shove them forcefully into my bag until it's almost completely full. Taking another look around, I zip the backpack up when there are no more loose papers.

I stand up and put my bag over my shoulder, taking in the mess I have made of Carl's office. There are open doors to cabinets, his desk is a mess and it looks like the place has been robbed of everything it has.

"Fuck it," I mutter, and turn away, walking to the door without a single glance back.