BLACK MAMBO ➝ succession

ONE: MONEY, MONEY, MONEY

all the things i could do
if i had a little money
it's a rich man's world !▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃

NEW YORK CITY, NEW YORK. PRESENT DAY— "Are we too old for this?"

Patrick Riley's voice was always just a tad too loud for Selene, as it snapped it out of whatever daydream she was in today as she spaced out in front of her mirror.

"I don't know what you're talking about, Pat." Selene hummed as she glanced at her reflection once more, dressed in her usual work attire— black baggy jeans and a black tank top, "I'm thirty, flirty, and thriving."

"Correction. You're thirty five, alone, and broke." Patrick snickered as she rolled her eyes, "That's not thriving."

"No, but it's living." She mused as she applied her lipstick, "What? You don't want to die a bartender?"

"I don't want to die, period." He squeezed her arm and proceeded to button up his flannel.

"That makes one of us." Selene's remarks often came out so casually Patrick failed to recognize how dark they were, but not this time. She rolled her eyes as he frowned at her, "I'm kidding."

"Of course you're kidding. I pray for the day you tell a funny joke each night. I guess the big guy upstairs isn't listening." Patrick gave her a shrug and plopped down on her bed, only to be met with a swift pillow to the face, "Um, ow."

"Come on. We're going to be late." Selene rolled her eyes and smoothed her clothes down one last time, letting out a snicker as she caught Patrick rolling her eyes at her, "Aren't we so lucky we live within walking distance to work?"

"Some would argue thirty minutes is not walking distance, but, whatever." Patrick snorted, "Whatever you say, Sel."

"Well, some people had to sell their car because rent went up." She hummed as she locked the door behind them and shoved her keys in her pocket, "Maybe one day we'll be pushed out of Bushwick. Maybe we'll be forced to sleep on the subway. Again."

"Can't wait." Patrick let out a laugh as he reached out to rough up her hair, earning yet another eye roll from Selene, "Love ya."

"Bite me."

Selene and Patrick had met when Selene had moved back to the city ten years ago, well, if you considered Brooklyn to be a part of the city. Selene had hit on Patrick on a night out in Hell's Kitchen, failing to realize she was indeed in Hell's Kitchen, and a straight man was rare. She was mortified. He thought it was funny. They had been inseparable ever since. Over the last ten years, Patrick and Selene had been through it all— crappy landlords, crappier boyfriends, crappy landlords who were also your boyfriend— all of that common New Yorker stuff. The two realized they were compatible when they found themselves dating the same guy. They shrugged it off, signed a lease in Brooklyn, and became each other's partner in crime.

Walking to Shorty's in a comfortable silence was one of the reasons Selene was eternally grateful for Patrick. They spent nearly every moment together— being roommates was one thing, but having the same job and being scheduled for nearly the same shifts every week was another. She loved Patrick. She didn't need to talk to him all the time, and he got that.

Thursdays were always unpredictable. The manager has began to run a thirsty Thursday happy hour special. Sometimes it was crazy, and sometimes it wasn't. Selene hated Thursdays. How are you supposed to plan out your day if you don't know what to expect?

This particular Thursday was torturous for Selene. Somebody had decided to pour their life's savings into the bar's shitty TocuhTunes, and she was forced to listen to early 2000's Eminem for the majority of her shift. Lovely. While she made an attempt to power through the pain, she had been asked to make a mojito three times (the bar does not have mint), a frozen margarita twice (the bar does not have a blender), and a Jaeger and lemonade once (that one was just fucking horrendous). No amount of Lose Yourself could save her from this. Didn't people understand dive bars anymore?

Selene felt as if she was on autopilot for most of the night, almost like bartending was a game. She's make a drink, flash a smile, and cross her hands behind her back in hopes of making good tips. It worked, sometimes. Occasionally, she would glance over at Patrick and laugh to herself. It was no secret that people flocked to Shorty's to see Patrick. He was bubbly, he was nice, and he was hot. It was almost comical how customers fawned over him. Maybe it was his sweet souther accent, or his curly brown hair, or big brown eyes, but people loved him. If she thought about it for too long, it made Selene upset. Or angry. Or sad. She couldn't tell. Maybe she just wasn't as approachable. Maybe she wasn't as good of a bartender, or, s one of her regulars had drunkenly slurred to her one night, maybe she was just "fucking old."

A familiar face in an unfamiliar suit strutting into Shorty's nearly threw Selene for a loop and broke her away from her thoughts. She bit down on her lip to conceal her laughter as one of her favorite regulars, a twenty something with the social skills of a thirteen year old boy, took a seat across from her at the bar. His usual scent of weed and old car was masked by so much cologne (or Axe body spray, Selene didn't really know the difference) that she nearly choked out his name, "Gregory." She grinned at the sheepish man who sat across from her as she poured him his usual rum and root beer (gross, but a step up from his first time at Shorty's, where he looked Patrick in the eye and ordered, "One beer, please. Cold."), "Who died?"

"What?" Greg raised an eyebrow at her and nearly choked as he took a sip of the drink in front of him, "This is really strong, Selene. I don't know if I like it."

"Well, this..." She gestured to the suit he was wearing in place of his usual basketball shorts and hoodie, "Either means somebody's dead or you got a real job. So, who died?"

"Well, um, we aren't grieving. We're celebrating." Greg nearly winced as he took another sip of his drink and choked out, "I got a real job. Sort of."

"Sort of?"

"Well, um, first, I got fired. Not because ai was high." He made an attempt to shoot her a knowing look, but she only rolled her eyes, "And then I called my mom, and then she told me I should go see my great-uncle and ask for a job, and I think I got it." He looked down at his suit, and back at Selene, who was looking over at him with furrowed eyebrows, "I mean, yeah. I think I got it."

"You think?" She cocked an eyebrow and went to top of his drink with some more root beer from the fountain soda gun, "What exactly do you do, Greg?"

"I...I don't really know. I sort of feel like somebody's bitch." He admitted, causing Selene to giggled, "Do you know, uh, what Waystar Royco is?"

Selene nearly lost control of the soda gun in her hands, nearly overflowing his cup as her eyes widened. She felt a lump form in her throat, and Greg shifted in his seat as Selene made an attempt to appear composed, "I'm sorry. I thought you said Waystar Royco."

"I did."

"Greg, I mean this respectfully. What the fuck?"

sorry the idea of greg drinking at a bar in bushwick makes me lol can you imagine
anyway next chapter will be a flashback. just picture one of those flashback montages they do on tv. ok bye love u.