Page 26 of Was I Ever Here

Sunny

It’sbeenoveraweek since Byzantine first drove me home. Surprisingly, Sammies has been running pretty smoothly ever since he took over. Even better than when Gary was running it, I must admit.

Connor and Bastian are becoming familiar faces too. They always sit in the same corner booth tucked into the shadows, drinking whiskey on the rocks while they speak in low tones away from prying eyes. Lenix has kept up the charade of playing the clueless waitress while Connor has taken a liking to her, requesting her service on any nights she’s working. Knowing her, she doesn’t care who they really are, she just likes the attention.

All three disappear into the office at least once a night for long stretches of time. But no one asks any questions. Especially Lenix and I.

Byzantine hasn’t let up his quest of being annoying about driving me home. No matter how often I try to weasel my way out of it, he manages to catch me before I can slip away, and I reluctantly—or somewhat petulantly—march to his car and let him drive me home.

He hasn't gotten any uglier either which is the one detail that somehow annoys me the most. He hasn’t missed any of my shifts since he took over, always sitting at the bar watching me work, if not busy with Connor and Bastian. My skin vibrates the entire time he’s near, painfully aware of his deliberate gaze on me as I flit from one side of the bar to the other, serving customers.

But it’s his other looks that rattle me most. The ones he thinks he’s hiding from me, the ones I see when he thinks I’m not looking. I often catch small glimpses of those looks in the mirror behind the cash register when I have my back to him. Haunted looks that leave me breathless. On rare occasions, it’s of a longing so intense, I have to avoid him entirely until I can shake myself out of how those fucking looks make me feel.

And then other times, his eyes on me trigger this indescribable pinch to my heart, usually quickly followed by a wave of nostalgia so fierce it feels like I'm drowning. Those are the moments I reach for the bottle of gin mid-shift just so the burn anchors me back into place—and the buzz is nice, too. I still can’t comprehend why I often feel like this around him, and I flatly refuse to investigate it more closely.

I’m busy closing someone’s tab when I notice Byzantine lead someone into his office. The man in tow is short and stocky, his head shaved to the scalp, showing off a tattoo of a symbol I vaguely recognise, his traps bulging high up his neck. He looks like a mean bulldog. His attention lands on me and I quickly look away, cold dread prickling at my nape. They disappear into the back and my gaze flits to Lenix near the service bar. She looks as frazzled as me. I walk over, resting my elbows on the surface separating us so our faces are as close as possible.

“Who the hell was that?” she hisses, while stuffing crumpled cash into her waitress pouch.

“I don’t know…but did you see that guy’s tattoo?” I ask, looking around to make sure no one is listening. “Isn’t that from somewhere?”

Lenix’s eyebrows scrunch together and then suddenly her eyes widen. She leans even closer to me before saying, “Holy shit, what if Connor, is actually Connor Maxwell?” she whispers, waiting for me to react but the name doesn’t ring any bell. “Right I forget you’ve only been here a year,” she adds, flipping her hair off her shoulder. “As in TheSin Eaters? They’re like the most powerful crime organization in Noxport. The West Coast even.”

My stomach sinks with this new information, but it all makes too much sense not to be true. With the way Byzantine and Connor carry themself—especiallyConnor—you’d think they own this whole damn city. And maybe they do. This realization only solidifies my suspicions. These guys are feared. As they should be. And one just so happens to have taken a liking to me.

The next day, I wake up from a nap drenched in sweat. I pinwheel, yanking my sheets off me with my legs. My chest heaves up and down as I try to regain my bearings.

“Fuck,” I rasp out loud. The same dream again. Naps always seem to trigger it, and it always feels disturbingly real, too…just too fucking much.

I can never decipher it. And it’s never those bizarre dreams either, where nothing makes any sense. No, this one is vivid, like being ripped out of a memory I can only revisit when I close my eyes and drift into sleep.

I lay a clammy palm over my heart and try to calm myself down. It’s just a dream. Just a terror inducing fucking dream.

I look around my room and sigh. I fell asleep mid-clean again—a habit I started in my teens. My childhood bedroom always felt like the only place in the house where I had any real control. And when I could feel myself unraveling—when the black void would hover just a little too close above my head—I would stomp up to my room, slam the door shut, andpurge.

I’d take everything out from my drawers, then the closet and pile it on the floor. Then, when I'd look around mid-clean, feeling like I had made everything worse, like I would never make it back to a clean and tidy space—I’d crawl into bed and curl myself amidst the mess.

Somehow, the chaos soothed me and I would drift into sleep, breathing just that tiny bit better. Then, I’d wake up rested, relaxed even, and tackle the mess until the chaos in my head no longer matched the chaos in my room. It’s now become somewhat of a ritual.

But today, the pile of books and clothes strewn everywhere doesn’t feel all that relaxing. It feels like an elephant sitting on my chest. I exhale loudly and fall back onto my pillows. My gaze lands on a random corner of my room while I curl in around myself, my mind eventually drifting to River. It’s never long before I think of her. Especially when I feel like this. The one person I didn’t have to pretend with. I took it for granted.

Here in Noxport, all I do is pretend. No one likes sad girls. And sometimes, it feels like that’s all I am. So I fake it, and slip into the fun persona people expect of me. Because what’s the other option? It’s been established—I’m not ready to deal.

So, I continue to stare at my bedroom wall while I let my heart fall back into a normal rhythm. It’s becoming harder and harder to ignore all these pestering emotions swirling inside of me. I much rather the general numbness I typically carry around in the chasm in my chest. I let out a heavy sigh, resigned to clean up the mess I’ve left around me.

Chapter 17

Byzantine

Mybootssinkinthe grainy sand as I walk towards the pile of clothes Sunny left on the beach. The sun is low on the horizon. It shimmers on the still water while Sunny bobs on the surface of the ocean, moving along with the gentle sway of the morning waves. I shouldn’t be here—shouldn’t have followed her like a lost pup looking for a treat.

Like a fucking lost case, alright.

I can tell Connor is on to me, with the way I can’t keep my eyes off her when at the bar. Truth be told, I’m not trying to be subtle. But I’m spending too much time at Sammies and I have no one to blame but me. I’m distracted and he can tell. So, I’ve started bringing in the business to the bar to try to rectify my absence. Anything, to keep an eye on what’s mine.

And Sunny hasbeenmine for centuries.

But I can’t tell her that without sounding unhinged, so I’m playing the long game. I’m not bothered. It feels like I’ve spent my whole life searching for her. What’s another couple of months?

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