“I should take you home, but I don’t think that will be any better than here.”
No. Home was worse. I shake my head but have little choice when I know he wants rid of me.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought. So, let’s get you working. If you’re here, you can pull your weight.” He stands, crosses to the locker against the wall and slams his fist against the lock. The door pops open. He pulls out a clean uniform and throws the sweatshirt at me. “Go get changed in the bathroom. Wash your hands and ditch your bloodied shirt and jacket in here. I want to see you behind the bar in ten minutes. You hear me?” His tone is as sharp as always, but his temper doesn’t reach his eyes. He’s still being nice to me. I’m not sure how that makes me feel, but it’s a chance I can’t afford to overlook. A chance of safety for a few more hours and a chance to keep my job.
I nod and paint on a resolute smile. The sweatshirt smells of plastic, but that’s okay. Anything is better than the smell of blood. I walk on legs that are not my own to the ladies’ restroom and lock the door.
Glaring at my torn shirt and wincing at my stained jeans, I run the tap and pump liquid soap into my palms.I start on the shirt, cleaning off the worst of the blood. Despite what Carlo said, I can’t take it off. There’s no way my dad will believe me if I go home without it. I shove the rolled-up jacket into the clear plastic bag the sweatshirt came in and look around for my backpack before remembering that I basically trashed it at the foot of the stairwell. My life was in there. At least if it couldn’t save me anymore, it’d saved him.
I rinse, lather and repeat, this time focussing on my fingernails.If only memories could be washed away as easily as skin.Hands scrubbed— even if they don’t feel it — I splash my face and stare at the girl in the mirror.
She’s too thin, her ribs are visible even through her tank top. Her sunken blue-green eyes are dull, surrounded by bruises and filled with shadows. Her sunshine blonde hair is lank and lifeless, and her mouth splits her face in a tight, fierce line. She presses her hands against the counter to hold herself up.
She is the sky after a year of rainy days. Worn, tired, and tormented.
She is what I’ve let myself become. I watch her weep for me, tears streaming down her face in silent rivers. She deserves a moment of self-indulgence, but only a moment. I need her to be strong, if not for herself, then for the kids.
A moment passes.
I splash my face again, drag the clean sweatshirt over my wet shirt and pull myself together.
I have work to do.
“Thought you’d ditched me, baby.” Gresh pouts, his lower lip curling all the way over his upper lip until it reaches the underside of his nose.
“How many times, Gresh?Not. Your. Baby.Not your anything.”
“You’ll change your mind.”
“Not likely. Are you ordering another or are you ready to go?” I nod to the bottle in his hand. The last dregs swirl as he lifts it to his bleary eyes and peers inside. I hope he’ll choose the latter option but know better than to believe it.
“Yeah, same again.” The fresh bottle gurgles and hisses as I pop the cap. Gresh snatches it up in his grubby paw and holds it out, neck tilted forward. “Might as well stay, now that my favourite girl is here.” He lifts it to his lips and takes a long swallow, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and smiles again. “Every day is lucky for seeing you.” He licks his lips as his eyes trail over my body.
“You creep me out, Gresh. When will you get it through your thick skull? I don’t care that you are friends with my dad, or that you’ve watched me grow up. Hell, that makes you even creepier.So, I am warning you, if you try to hit on me tonight or do what you did last week and follow me home, I will have Carlo kick you out—with his fists or that shotgun he has in the office. Do you understand?”
“Sure do, baby. I’m happy just to watch.”
I walk away, pulling my apron tighter around my waist and grabbing the empty glasses littering the bar, but I catch his added“for now,”and try not to stiffen. Gresh’s interest in me has increased over the last few weeks. My irritation is fast becoming concern because although he looks like a scrawny weasel, he can overpower me if he chooses to. I need to have a word with my father. Gresh needs to be put back in his place. And yet a small part of me is glad for this twisted sense of normalcy too.
“You okay?” Carlo asks, placing a few more dirty glasses onto the bar.
“Hm?”
“You look like your mind went somewhere else.”
“Oh, yeah, I’m fine.” I’m not. My hands itch, my head pounds to the beat of my heart, I keep seeing playbacks of Tom in my mind—like a horror movie I can’t shake—and Gresh’s heavy breathing makes my lip twitch with wanting to scream at him. I’m the furthest thing from fine, but I give Carlo a strained smile and fill the wire basket with dirty glassware.
I take my time loading the washer. At least in the back room, I enjoy a few minutes of calm instead of getting eye-fucked by a middle-aged gargoyle. I let the sounds of the bar fade out around me as the machine swooshes rhythmically. It’s the first moment of peace I’ve had all day.
“Jules!”
I ignore him, despite the edge of urgency in his tone. Carlo needs to worry less. Two minutes in the backroom is hardly shirking my duties. I could be working; slicing new lemons or refilling the ice buckets.
“Jules! Get your arse out here.”
My shoulders stiffen in readiness. I stick my head out from the back room and snap at him. “What—?” But he doesn’t need to answer. The second I see the bar, I see what—or ratherwho—puts him on edge.
A pair of austere faces follow me with their eyes. They wear identical black suits and hover six inches from the edge of the bar. After a quick scan, I spot a third man waiting at the entrance, blocking the doorway with his wide shoulders. They’re here for me, but how did they find me?
