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Cutting off the flame, I lean in close, trying to understand his words.
He’s crying, sniffling and the words don’t make much sense at all.
“The Syndicate. The f-file, file. He got the file. He f-finally got it. Came t-to col-collect. The f-file. The phone.”
What the fuck?
“Th-the file, ph-phone. F-file, ph-”
While he’s had enough for now, I’m not ready to kill him yet. Jimbo is finally a broken man, so the best thing I can do is keep him alive a little bit longer. Long enough to get a coherent fucking sentence out of him.
“Good boy Jimbo,” I whisper as I set the torch down. Patting down his pants, I find a phone in his right pocket and pull it out. Straightening up, I shove it into my back pocket.
I turn around to face Riot and see him hovering a trash can in the corner.
“Fucking warned you kid,” I laugh.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m good,” he stands up straight, waiving me off with one hand and wiping his mouth with the back of the other.
“Better be. I need you to call Dr. G to patch this asshole up. I’m not ready for him to die. But he stays here, got it? No one in but me, you, or Dr. G. Okay maybe Darren when you need to sleep… but that’s it. You can go home when he’s stable.”
He nods, “Alright, got it boss.”
Spinning on one heel, I head for the steps.
“Where you headed?”
“I need to go through this fucking phone. Then I have a certain redhead that I need to pay a visit.”
Chapter thirteen
Aria
Pushing up to the tips of my toes, I stretch to reach the nearly empty bottles from the top shelf. While extending my arm above my head, a loud whimper escapes my lips and a sharp pain radiates through my side, from my ribcage, across my stomach. Quickly I drop down to my heels and clutch my side, doubling over in pain, knocking over several glasses in the process.
“Whoa, whoa! Aria, what’s going on?” Cole sets down the knife he was using to chop limes, and rushes to my side, resting one hand on my lower back, and bracing my elbow with his other hand.
“N-nothing,” I inhale sharply as I stand up. “I-I was just trying to reach the damn tequila and vodka bottles up there that are almost totally tapped. I wanted to get them replaced before we open up this evening.”
“Okay, but are you okay? You’re holding your side, it sounded like you were in pain.”
“Yeah, yeah. I’m fine, I think I just pulled something,” the lie rolls off my tongue without hesitation, falling from my lips with the earth’s gravitational pull.
It’s become so easy to lie to everyone around me these days. I’m accustomed to making excuses for the injuries. I’ve become an expert at camouflaging bruises with makeup, cancelling discolored hues with various shades of concealer. Purple is always hidden best with a nice yellow, peach when the bruise starts to darken, and red-based when it turns greenish just before healing.
Cole eyes me up and down, and I can feel his questioning glare burning my skin. I’ve known for a while that my family here at Rico’s Bar has their suspicions, but they keep their mouths closed, and I’ve grown rather attached to the dynamic. Cole tried to bring it up the other night, and I’ve played dumb ever since. I need him to keep to the dynamic we’ve all settled on.
Don’t leave me, but don’t push me either because if I have to choose, it’s going to be him. It can’t be any other way. He would never allow it.
“Well, take it easy. Here,” he gently moves me to the side, and I’m careful to avoid the shattered glass. “I’ll get the bottles down for you.” Reaching up with ease, he pulls the three bottles down from the shelf and hands them to me.
“Thanks Cole, I’ll take these to the back and grab some new bottles.”
“Yeah no prob,” he runs one hand through his blonde hair and turns around, grabbing a broom from the corner, “I’ll get the glass, just watch your step.”
Making a beeline for the back room, I fling the office door open. Kicking the door shut behind me, I step backward, leaning against the wooden surface, clutching the bottles to my chest in my left arm. A sob threatens to make its way out into the open, but I quickly yank the pourer from the mouth of the tequila bottle and tremble as I press the glass edge to my lips. Tossing my head back, I swallow the contents with ease, drowning my emotions with the warm and cozy comfort the liquor brings me.
I don’t have a drinking problem per se. I don’t have to do any of it. I won’t get the shakes, I won’t get sick. I won’t go through withdrawal… but after nights like last night, alcohol is the only way I know how to cope and keep a straight face. It’s the only thing that numbs me enough to let me still smile and get through my interactions with the rest of the world.
