Line Change, page 7
When I arrive at The Crease, the bar I work at, the parking lot is empty. I’m pulling a double today since I needed last night off. That’s the rule around here. If you want a night off, trade with someone. If you call out sick, you’re fired. Gino, the owner, doesn’t mess around. Jobs on the Boardwalk are hard to come by, especially in the summer. I’m thankful Gino gave me an opportunity when I got out of the junior hockey league even though I had zero experience. He’s a former player and has a soft spot for guys like me.
Inside, the sun shines through the large window which faces the Boardwalk. There’s a view of the beach and the two tables sitting in front of the window are our most sought-after tables in the place. Can’t say I blame them. The view is amazing, especially at night when everything is lit up. We have two televisions. A massive screen in the back is currently showing the second round of a golf tournament, and there is one at the bar for the old timers who still come in to watch Monday Night Football which is currently airing the twenty-four-hour-news channel. While The Crease is trying to be hip, it has a long way to go. Gino refuses to outfit his place with more TVs. He doesn’t want to be a sports bar, but a destination place for locals and tourists to hang out.
As soon as I turn the open sign on, people start to come in. The tourist population is dwindling down now it’s September, but there are still a few stragglers. Most of the locals know me by name and come to the games to cheer on Northport. More and more people come in, and finally, an hour after opening, the early evening waitress starts her shift, which allows me to stay behind the bar.
I’m not your typical bartender. I don’t spend hours chatting with the customers. I don’t hand out sage advice, and I definitely don’t sit and listen to anyone’s sob stories. We all have them and I’ve heard them all before. Nothing bothers me more than when someone starts drinking and then spills every secret they have. Northport is a small town and I know far more than I should about its residents.
All day and into the night, there’s a steady flow of customers. Each time I take a couple bucks off the table or process a credit card with a tip, my mood becomes a bit brighter because the cash in my pocket is putting food in my niece’s mouth, clothes on her back, and it’s keeping the lights on for my mom. Someday, I won’t have to worry about a paycheck or some generous person handing me an extra five bucks because they liked how I made their Long Island Iced Teas. When I’m in the NHL, I’m buying my mom a house. Whatever I can afford, to get her out of the mobile home park and into something that’s hers. If I continue to play the way I did last year, by the end of this season I should be a high draft prospect. There isn’t a doubt in my mind I’ll leave college and play professionally. I can always finish my degree online or something.
Once the sky turns dark, the crazies come out. The party goers. The drunk-ass guys who buy rounds for the entire bar not realizing how much it’ll cost them. My favorite is when some posh kid comes to the bar and says he wants to open a tab and I ask for his credit card. They look surprised at my request for them to hand over their precious. I’m not sure what they expect when they make a request, but their expressions are always comical. While the current pretty boy digs through his thousand-dollar wallet looking for mommy or daddy’s black Amex card, I help other customers. Cash customers are my favorite.
“Hey man, what can I get you?” This dude looks like he’s been through the wringer. A black eye, his nose might be broken, and he has a fat lip.
“Bud Light.”
I grab a pint glass, clean the inside, and then pour him his beer. After setting it down in front of him, I pour him a shot of tequila because he looks like he needs something stronger.
“Thanks,” he says before downing the shot. “You should see the other guy.”
I chuckle. “In this case, I hope he’s a lot worse.”
He tries to crack a smile. “He is. I won.”
“Oh, yeah, what’s her name?” I ask, against my better judgement.
“Ben Franklin, about ten of them.”
It takes me a moment for his words to sink in and when they finally do I come to the conclusion the guy in front of me got the shit beat out of him for a thousand dollars. “You’re joking, right? You let someone punch you in the face for a grand?”
He nods and sips his pint gingerly. “Every Saturday night.”
“Where?”
He shrugs. “The location changes. Ya know, because underground fighting is illegal.”
“Sounds crazy. Aren’t you afraid you’re going to get hurt?”
Another shrug. “I’ll stop once I’m out of debt.”
Out of debt. Those words have a nice ring to them. I leave him be, and go back to the frat boy who wants to open a tab. He hands me his card and tells me no one is allowed to put anything on his tab, and then orders a gin and tonic. I almost laugh because he definitely looks like a wine spritzer sort of guy.
The street fighter waves me down and asks for another. I’m not sure if he means to do this or not, but he flashes the Benjamins he told me about. He throws a hundred down and tells me to keep the change. I don’t know how long I stare at it nestled between my fingertips. It has me completely mesmerized. I know there is a lot of things I could do for extra money, but I’m intrigued by this.
“Can you tell me more about this gig?”
He does. He fills me in on everything and sends a text to a five-digit number. He shows me his phone.
Trial fight, 3 a.m. Five for win. 1k for a knockout. You escort.
“You in?” he asks.
Without no hesitation, I nod. “Hell yeah, I’m in.”
nine
Thea
When we were younger, my mom would always have these sayings she’d use in a bid to encourage us to be good kids. Whether it was telling Jude that sitting too close to the television will ruin his eyesight or telling me if I swallowed gum it would stay in my stomach for seven years; she’d always come up with these tales. As kids, we believed her. Why wouldn’t we? When you’re six and eight-years old, you believe anything your parents tell you. Some of these were age-old sayings passed down through generations and didn’t really make sense. Some of them, I’m sure she made up. One in particular sticks in my mind now. On very cold snowy days, I used to love coming home from school and having super hot baths. The steam billowed so much, there was condensation running down the window and I couldn’t see my reflection in the mirror. She always used to tell me you can’t put the Sahara Desert in the Arctic Ocean as one will outlive the other. I guess it was her way of saying having a boiling-hot bath straight after coming inside on a freezing-cold day wasn’t good for me because I’d either remain cold, or my body would overheat. I never really understood it and I’m certain it’s one analogy she definitely made up. As far as I was concerned, as long as the bath warmed me up, everything was fine. Still, I’d always promise that next time, I’d make sure the water was cooler.
I think of the saying now and can’t help but apply it to Kyler. He’s a perfect example of the Sahara and the Arctic. Hot one minute, being social, having fun, actually talking to people at parties; and cold the next, closed off, scowling, one-word answers and sloping off suddenly. I find myself wondering what would happen if he were to mix the two, which side of him would outlive the other. Of course, the other analogy would be to say he was the master of giving people whiplash, but Kyler is far more complex. There are layers to him he’s holding on to closely, not wanting anyone to peel them back and see. There’s a vulnerability to him which I’m certain I caught a glimpse of the other night. But most of all he has an easily triggered fight or flight instinct. If he doesn’t like the way a situation is progressing, he shuts it down. It’s the only conclusion I have for him leaving the street hockey game so suddenly yesterday. We were all having a good time, getting along, and enjoying ourselves. But, as soon as the suggestion was made to carry on the party with a barbeque, he was out of there like his feet were on fire. Maybe I’m overthinking it and he’s just unsociable. Either way, I need to stop thinking about it and him. I’m not a psych student and there is no way I’m going to be able to figure him out. Kyler Rose is clearly taking up way too much of my time and it needs to stop.
Looking at my phone, I see it’s just about to turn five-thirty a.m. It’s still dark outside but I need to clear my head and an early morning run will do just the trick. I quickly change into some leggings, a sports bra with a cami over the top, and put my sneakers on before slowly walking down the stairs. I’m pretty sure I can run a few blocks and be back before the others are awake. We have plans to do a big grocery shop today before going to the movie theater to catch the latest release.
I grab my water bottle and fill it up, quickly eat a granola bar, and head toward the front door, only to stop in my tracks when I see a figure, dressed all in black with their hood up, supporting themselves against the door jamb. Kyler.
“Shit, what the hell, Kyler? Did you just get back?” I ask him and it’s only as I get closer, I realize wherever he’s been, he’s clearly had a rough night. There’s a fresh cut above his eyebrow and his eye is starting to bruise. He also has a cut on his lip, his nose looks like it’s been punched a few times, and his arm is wrapped gingerly around his torso.
“What the hell happened?” I ask again, but he shakes his head.
“I’m fine, Thea,” he says, avoiding my question. His voice is raspy either from misuse or because he’s holding back due to being in a lot of pain.
“You don’t look fine. You look as if you’re about to pass out. Let’s get you sitting down,” I tell him as I reach for his arm. He moves back slightly so he’s out of my reach, but quickly realizes without the support of the door, he’ll likely fall over. I try again and this time he lets me grab a hold of him. We walk slowly over to the dining room table in the corner of the kitchen, and I help him sit down on one of the chairs.
“Here, have this,” I say as I hold out my water bottle to him. He raises his eyebrow dubiously, no doubt wondering if it’s one of the weird protein shakes I’ve been known to keep in one of the cupboards.
“It’s water,” I reassure him. He reaches for the bottle and takes two long gulps before placing it on the table.
“Your eyebrow is bleeding.” My voice is barely a whisper. Slowly, I reach out to stop the trickle of red liquid slowly making its way down the side of his face. He quickly grabs my arm, stopping me from making contact.
“Don’t . . .” he starts to say, before pausing so he can gulp down a steadying breath. “Sorry, I mean, it’s a little sore.”
“It looks it.” I pause a beat before continuing. “Stay there, I think Jude has a first aid kit somewhere.” I move toward the cupboards under the sink and look for the green box I’m certain I’ve seen before. One thing about living with hockey players, there’s always a small stash of medical supplies to clean up the odd cut or fat lip which has been picked up on the ice. I find the box and pick it up, together with a bowl of water and some paper towels and move back to the table.
“You don’t have to patch me up, Thea. I can take care of it myself,” Kyler quietly tells me. His voice is laced with distress and a forced swallow works down his throat from the obvious pain he’s in.
“I’m sure you can, Ky, but please, let me do this? If only so I can put the first-aid training I learned in high school to good use,” I say, trying to lighten the mood. There’s a hint of a small smile on Kyler’s lips and I take it as a victory. After a moment’s hesitation he nods once.
“Okay, Nurse Thea, do your thing.”
I stand in front of him and take a cotton ball from the kit. After dipping it in the bowl of water I gently dab it on his eyebrow and clean up the blood now starting to coagulate. Kyler closes his eyes, to allow me better access and the hard set of his jaw indicates he’s biting back the sting of the water washing the wound. I repeat this a few times until I’m certain it is completely clean. There is a defined cut which I’m sure will leave a beautiful scar across his brow once healed, adding to the bad boy persona he seems to like so much.
“Looks like there might be a scar,” I murmur as I dab a small amount of Neosporin on the cut to keep it moist and prevent any infection.
“I hear girls like those,” he replies in a whisper.
I ignore his comment and move to the cut on his lip, cleaning it up in the same way I did his eyebrow. Kyler places one hand on my hip, his fingers digging into me. He pulls me closer, so I’m standing between his legs. I pause my ministrations and move my focus upward. His eyes—a light meadow-green with golden brown flecks—are following my every move, slowly drifting up from the cotton ball in my hand, up my arm, across my neck to my face. They trace every inch of me, and it’s like little pinpricks on my skin. His intense stare blazes over me with an unexpected ferociousness—it’s as if my body has suddenly come alive with each searing glance he graces me with. It’s a feeling I’ve never experienced before—insanely intimate, yet strangely exposing—and I find myself on high alert and begging for more attention. The moment is charged with static energy, and the hairs on the back of my neck are standing on end, ready to shock the next person to make contact with me. Kyler reaches up and gently tucks a wayward strand of hair behind my ear before slowly moving his hand away, lightly tracing my neck as he does. My skin ignites at his touch, leaving a frenzy of sensations in its wake. I quickly think back to my mom’s analogy—he is the Sahara and I’m the Arctic and one of us will outlive the other.
“Thea,” Kyler whispers reverently, closing his eyes once more, as if he’s committing the moment to memory. He inhales deeply and when he opens his eyes again, I can see they’ve dimmed slightly as the pain of his injuries takes over. He hisses out a breath as he clutches his side and I step back a little.
“Can you lift up your shirt?” I ask him and he does so without question. There are red marks on his ribs, and it doesn’t take a genius to work out that whatever happened, it’s caused some kind of injury. At best it’s some bruising; at worst a cracked rib. I gingerly press the skin and he hisses again, this time more sharply.
“That fucking hurts,” he says, biting his lip to prevent himself crying out in pain.
“Sorry,” I say quickly. “Your ribs look badly bruised. I can clean them up and put some ointment on to help with the bruising, but you should really have them checked out.”
Kyler is shaking his head before I finish my sentence. “No, no hospitals. I’ll be fine.”
“Ky, you may have cracked a rib—”
“No, Thea,” he interrupts vehemently. “Besides, what happened to you being a trained first aider? I’m sure you can fix me up just fine.”
I sigh and nod, before reaching into the first aid kit for some camphor. My mom always used this on any bruises myself and Jude used to get through various scrapes and falls when we were younger and swears it helps reduce the bruising better than anything else. I apply a little to Kyler’s injured ribs, rubbing each one gently until they are covered with the ointment. He watches my every move, sucking in a labored breath when I hit a particularly sore spot. This time, the goosebumps appear on Kyler as my fingers graze his skin and when he can’t take the pain any longer, he slowly takes a hold of my hand and lifts it up, causing me to look up at him. This time his eyes are no longer the meadow-green of earlier, they are wide, molten pools of black lava.
“What happened tonight, Ky?” I ask once more, hoping after trusting me enough to tend to his injuries, he’ll trust me enough with an explanation.
“Thea, please, it’s nothing for you to worry about. I don’t want to lie to you, so please don’t ask any questions.”
“Why don’t you trust me?” I ask, almost pleading with him to give me some kind of breakthrough.
“I do. More than I should,” he says quietly.
“What do you mean ‘more than I should’?”
He doesn’t answer, instead shaking his head once before slowly standing up, leaning on the table for support. I move to help him, but he steps back so he’s out of my reach, and I instantly know whatever connection we tentatively had is now lost.
“What do you want from me, Thea?” he asks, pain lacing his voice.
“I want us to be friends,” I quickly tell him.
“I can’t be friends with you,” he replies and once again, I’m left with confusion I can’t comprehend. Why not? Why does he insist on keeping his distance?
The sound of movement on the stairs causes me to step back, putting more distance between me and the tortured man standing in front of me, sadness mixing with the pain in his eyes. Whatever just happened between us, whatever connection we just shared, is dissipating before my eyes and I know Kyler will do everything he can to ensure it never returns, building those walls up again. Jude walks into the kitchen and stops suddenly when he realizes he’s not the only one awake. He looks from me to Kyler and upon seeing the state of Ky, moves quickly toward him.
“Shit, man, what the hell happened?” he asks him.
Kyler shrugs as best he can before replying, “There was a fight at work and it got out of hand. I stepped in as best I could, but pretty much got the brunt of it. Stupid kids opening a tab and drinking more than they can handle.”
I can’t believe in less than a minute, Jude managed to get more out of Kyler than I had in the space of an hour, and the frustration builds inside me. How dare he grace Jude with an explanation and me with nothing when both of our intentions were to make sure he was okay.
“You gonna be okay for practice tomorrow? Cap will be pissed if not.” Jude continues as he opens a cupboard and grabs a bowl for some cereal.
“I’ll be fine,” Kyler reassures him. “It’s nothing aspirin, ibuprofen, and a couple hours sleep won’t fix.” He turns to me before continuing. “Thanks for the help, Thea,” he says as he walks out of the kitchen without a backward glance and makes his way up the stairs, leaving Jude and I alone.
